Wet Dreams
The August night seemed perfect: cool, still fragrant with the scents of late summer. Peter could smell the flowers in the front yards, the tomatoes and cucumbers in the backyard gardens. He could hear and smell the prowling of cats in search of midnight mice, and the occasional bark of a dog fulfilling a social contract to defend territory. A racoon scurried across the street on its was to knock over the next available garbage can. The full moon washed the quiet street, the pretty wood frame...