Page 27 of Violet

Violet

The next morning, I help Violet get settled on the couch and head to work. I get as far as the elevator, then stop short when I see the out-of-order sign. Not again!

Hopefully it’s wrong this time. Or it went out of order last night and the landlord had it fixed. A chameleon can dream.

I cross my fingers for luck and push the elevator button. Nothing happens. I push it again. No light. No creaking. No clanking. Definitely no elevator.

Now what?

And why does stuff like this always happen on weekday mornings? Why not in the afternoon or on a weekend, when it’s less inconvenient? And am I really this upset over a broken elevator, or am I still hurt because Violet wouldn’t let Bert turn her—and refused to talk about it after he left?

It’s so frustrating I almost take a page out of my sister’s book and shift into a troll. My troll. Liam.

The mere thought of his strong, muscular arm wrapped around me makes me feel warm all over. Butterflies flutter in my stomach. A wave of excitement courses through me. And I can’t stop thinking about how safe I felt in his arms... even if it was just for a few brief minutes.

The tension seeps out of me, but I still have the elevator problem to deal with.

“Hello?” I shout, my voice echoing down the stairs.

I’m greeted by utter and complete silence.

Should I just head home? Bang on apartment 4A, where Calluna lives, and hope she’s around?

I definitely can’t stay here until someone fixes the elevator. It could take days! And I can’t carry my walker down the stairs, either. Not as eighty-year-old Violet. Should I just half-shift and pray to every chameleon god imaginable that no one notices? Nope, not worth the risk.

“Could someone help me down?” I shout instead.

“You could just walk. It’s good exercise!” a familiar voice calls back up.

“April June?” I ask, just to be sure.

“Violet?” Her footsteps echo up the stairs, and she comes into view. She’s dressed for work with her dark hair tied back and a beige blazer over a shirt the color of juniper berries. I’m always surprised that, although she runs a sex toy shop, she dresses like she works in an office. Guess a business is a business.

“April June, dear. Thank goodness!” Ten points. Plus a surge of relief, because my downstairs neighbor is a witch. An odd witch, but one who’s helped me out when the elevator broke in the past.

“Are you stuck again?”

“I am. Do you think you could be a dear and use those magic massage sticks of yours to carry me downstairs?” Of course I know they’re dildos, but I’m not ruining my sweet old lady image by saying so. Plus, that’s twenty points right there! That and beggars can’t be choosers, as Violet likes to say—definitely another ten points, assuming my thoughts count. I need to get downstairs somehow.

“Coming right up: one fleet of long, hard sticks for you to ride.” April June grins. She snaps her fingers, and a slew of colorful dildos race up the stairs, flying on gossamer wings like fairies.

A pink, ribbed dildo swoops under me, and two purple rabbits—the kind with g spot vibrators—dive head-first under my armpits. I really hope they’re not used dildos or, at least, that she cleans them properly each time. Except I’m not supposed to know they’re sex toys, so I can’t actually ask.

The dildos lift me into the air, their wings fluttering against my armpits and behind. I feel a moment of vertigo—and hope it’s the good kind, like riding a roller coaster. Not the bad kind, where an old lady has a heart attack and dies while riding three dildos. Which I’m sure would make some reporter really happy.

I squeal when three more dildos swoop up the stairs and settle under my butt and thighs to lift me higher off the floor. One starts vibrating, and I yelp.

“Sorry,” April June says. “They get excited sometimes when they’re close to a woman.”

Her words make me want to buy one for myself, but it won’t look good if someone sees me entering a sex shop. Eighty-year-old women don’t do that, do they? Even if they do, where would I even use a dildo? I don’t mean on my body—I know where they go—I’m talking location. Do I use one at home with Violet in the other room? Do I store it in my purse? The bathroom? And what if it suddenly vibrates or grows wings?

April June snaps her fingers, and the vibrating dildo stills. I’m disappointed, but also a whole lot more comfortable.

I float down the rest of the stairs, and the dildos set me down on the first floor landing. Still alive, still breathing, and still in one piece.

“Dildo Daggins, Doctor Screw, and The Bob are bringing your walker. Just hold tight,” April June calls down, but I’m no longer paying attention. Because I have this distinct feeling that I’m being watched.

Is it just a curious neighbor who saw an old lady floating down on a bunch of extra large sex toys?