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Apparently, telling the contractor that her boyfriend will be available to discuss the plumbing is easier than explaining that the house is inhabited by a cursed grotesque who occasionally becomes a naked man.

I can appreciate the practicality. I do not appreciate how much I enjoy hearing her say it.

We’ve fallen into something resembling a routine over the last two weeks.

April wakes early, makes coffee, and sings atrociously.

I complain.

She insults me. Then she touches me, and I become a man again.

We’ve discovered that the longer she remains near me, the longer I can maintain my human form. Sometimes I can go an hour without touching her. Other times, the granite returns within minutes.

There appears to be no discernible pattern. Case in point, I am currently in my Rocky form, as she likes to call it. And she’s in the same room as me, but she’s standing on a ladder. She tried to convince me to climb the ladder and she’d climb behind me or vice versa so that we’d be constantly touching. But that seemed far too dangerous.

For her, because there’s no guarantee when I’d change, and therefore she could be injured. And for me, because being that close to her voluptuous body would become very awkward in these infernal sweatpants.

April has theories as to why my curse is seemingly inconsistent and unpredictable. She always has theories. Most of them involve searching the internet.

I have developed a healthy suspicion of the internet, though I’m still not certain how it all came to be there. It contains a remarkable amount of information and an equally remarkable number of people who should not be permitted to share their opinions.

Nevertheless, it has proved useful.

April has found a reputable dealer willing to examine some of my gold. She’s also begun the tedious process of locating the trust that once held the majority of my fortune. In the meantime, she’s arranged for the most pressing repairs to be completed.

Which brings me to the other reason I believe she is trying to kill me. She insists upon doing much of the minor work herself. Yesterday, she attempted to repair a loose cabinet door. The cabinet door is now on the floor. So is part of the cabinet.

April maintains that this is progress.

I remain unconvinced.

April.

“Busy.”

I can see that.

“Then why are you interrupting?”

Because the ladder is wobbling.

“It’s fine.”

It is most assuredly not fine.

She looks down at me.

Or rather, at the hideous stone creature currently positioned near the top of the staircase.

“Rocky, I love you, but you’re being a helicopter parent.”

I would very much like to know what a helicopter parent is. I would also like to revisit the first part of that sentence.

Unfortunately, April has already turned her attention back to the curtain rod she’s attempting to remove.

I stare at her. Get down.

“No.”