Back to drudgery and the grind.
‘In the meantime, maybe you could use my gift to help you blow away those lady cavity cobwebs.’ Amber’s words are heavy with meaning.
‘You think I have cobwebs?’
‘Oh, honey, and dust bunnies.’
‘Sounds like you should’ve sent me a feather duster.’
‘What you need is a little fun. And a man. A man who knows his way around a woman. A man with a great big—’
‘And I think we can stop right there. I’m home now, anyway.’
We say our goodbyes as the car pulls to a stop outside of the reason I find myself waitressing in a strip club right now; 228 S Albany Ave, described as a charmingly bright and airy two-bedroom, one-bathroom garden unit in the vibrant and culturally diverse Little Village area of San Francisco. At least, according to the sales particulars on the internet. I suppose it is bright and airy, but only between the months of June and October. It’s frigid, dark, and draughty the rest of the year. And what isn’t so charming is that I had to sublet the spare bedroom to a stranger after being laid off.
As the car pulls away, I breathe out heavily, my exhalation a puff of white in the night air. At least I have the place to myself this weekend. Sarah, my roommate, has herself a new boyfriend.
With my door keys in hand, I hitch my purse higher over my shoulder as a sudden gust of cold wind blows the sides of my coat open. The cold air reminds me of my tiny uniform, a sudden prickling sensation crawling up my spine from the base. With a shiver, I push the sense of foreboding away, my heels clacking rapidly on the sidewalk on the way to the stairs leading to my second-floor walk-up apartment.
Not tonight, Satan, I silently intone. Bogeyman be gone!
I will not be murdered outside my own home.
Not dressed like this. What would the neighbours say?
‘I’ll tell you what they’d say,’ I mumble as I lift my foot onto the wooden tread. ‘Serves her right, getting herself killed, being out on the street at this hour dressed like a ten-dollar hooker.’
I might be too old to believe in the bogeyman and trolls who live under bridges, but I’m not too old to believe in other monsters; the kind who lurk in dark corners just waiting for a damsel to pass. But right now, I’m more concerned about this damsel as a hand suddenly clamps around my elbow, bringing me to a grinding halt. My heart is suddenly in my throat, my thought processes lagging as they struggle to compute this reality.
Things like this don’t happen to me.
I am not that girl.
Only I am that girl, the kind of girl who whimpers as her legs turn to jelly. The girl who tries not to choke out a sob as panic wells under her diaphragm. But I also happen to be the kind of girl who is practical, who slips her hand into her purse as she turns, bringing out, not the can of pepper spray she was reaching for, but a twelve-inch purple dildo.
A dildo her friend sent to her in the mail this morning as a joke. She hopes.
A dildo called the Pussy Pounder 2000 with the kind of girth to make even the gamest of girls wince.
‘Hi-ya!’
I’m too terrified to wonder when I turned into Miss Piggy as I whip around and whack my would-be attacker across the side of his head. I take nothing else in, other than he’s male and big, but that doesn’t mean I’m not stunned as the figure immediately crumples to the ground. But I’m not so stunned that I don’t remember I need to make a run for it.
I’m pretty sure my heart is about to break through my ribcage as I struggle with the marriage of key and lock. But sweet mother of Jesus, the door falls open an instant later, and my body with it. Scrambling and scrabbling, I trip over the handle of my purse, scattering my belongings across the floor as I kick the door closed.
‘Ohmygod. Ohmygod.’ My throat constricts, my whole body trembling as I stand, slamming the bolt into place. ‘I’m fine,’ I whisper, pressing my back against the door. ‘I’m just fine. And I’m safe. I’m . . . fuck. Oh, fuck.’
‘Rose! Rose! What’s happening? For the love of God answer me!’
‘Amber?’ I swipe my phone from the floor; it must’ve dialled her number as it bounced from my purse. ‘Oh my God, Amber. There was a man, he tried to grab me—on the stairs. I was so frightened. But I’m okay. I-I’m okay.’ My words fall in a jumble as I seek to reassure myself as much as her.
‘Oh, my Lord! How did you get away?’
My gaze falls to the purple monstrosity in my hand as though unsure what it’s doing there.