As soon as she entered the room, she smelled the faintest trace of lilacs. Violet closed her eyes instantly, feeling for where she knew the edge of the bed would be. Blindly, she crawled across it, fumbling for the nightstand drawer, and the blindfold safely and discreetly tucked in its corner. It didn't take long to get it in place, but her heart pounded in her chest the entire time, screaming within her, revealing to the world her state of panicked excitement.
She slipped too hastily back to the center of the bed, where she forced herself to lie back and relax. Her breathing was too fast. Her excitement was too obvious.
As slowly and as teasingly as she could, she undid the top three buttons of her blouse, letting her fingers peel the folds of fabric away from her breasts like a shy, hesitant child timorously peeling the wrapping away from an unexpected and so unpredictable gift.
She heard the door open for his entrance.
* * *
It was a small, nondescript house, almost completely hidden from view, so that it stood out from all the rest. The others were nondescript, too, all the same, and all different, but in all the same, few, tired ways, with the same subtle variations on just a few ideas. They were all low, one story affairs, each tucked neatly onto the center of a tiny square parcel, and each and every one with gray, weather stained cedar shingle siding, except for four or five that were brown. They all had shutters and trim in assorted, bright colors, like makeup on an old woman, turquoise, or lavender, or maroon or teal, except for six for seven that were plain white, or stark black. The paint on them all was pealing and faded, except for two or five that been allowed to go for far too long, but now were finally very freshly painted.
Each and every house had a plain yard of sandy dirt mixed with sparse grass, except for five or six with perfectly green, freshly cut, lush carpets for lawns. Most of the lawns were otherwise bare, with only a gravel drive and a hastily and sparsely laid straight, red brick walkway leading up to a plain front door, except for one or two with a gray wooden post fence or a tree or two or a large, blue flowering hydrangea bush or a pristine, proper, winding walk leading up to yet another plain front door.
The one, eccentric, nondescript house in question had butter yellow shutters and trim, not freshly painted, but not faded either. It wore plain gray cedar shingle siding. It had a dirty, white picket fence. It had a gravel drive. One couldn't tell what sort of walkway it had, because it was too obscured by the foliage.
The front yard was a riot of plants, some low and green, some tall and sparse, some flowering in blue or pink or orange or purple, hydrangeas and roses and tiger lilies and lilacs. And violets. But most were not. Most were green and lush, but flowerless. There were a few trees, shading the yard and house both, but letting splatters of sunlight strike here and there and here.
Amidst all of the greenery, if you looked for a while, you could find an old wagon wheel, several bird houses, three giant stone mushrooms, a bird bath, a ceramic frog, a garden trellis, and more.
The plants continued, unbroken, from the edge of the fence at the street all the way in to the sides of the house, except for the gap where the mostly hidden path snaked its way up the middle, with one sharp turn, presumably followed by many others after it all was lost from view. The forest of plants wound around the house, left and right, without interruption except for the gravel driveway and the hidden walkway. The small forest ringed the house like a moat, or perhaps more appropriately like a besieging army.
It was a nondescript house, almost completely hidden from view, so that it stood out from all of the rest, just like its owner.
* * *
Violet was plain. Nondescript. She wore plain clothing, but always with a splash of subtle color, nothing too bright, but enough that she wouldn't stand out as the only one dressed in drab gray or brown or beige. She wasn't ugly enough for anyone to notice her. She might even have been considered pretty, if she weren't so plain.
Her eyes were small, but not too much so. They were brown, but a medium brown, not a striking, dark, twinkling brown, or an unusual, intriguing amber. The light in them was dim, as if she were afraid to turn it up too brightly.
Her mouth was small, but not too small. Her smile was bright, when she bothered to show it, which wasn't often. Her hair was straight, and sandy brown, falling on thin, but not skinny, shoulders, topping a frame that was thin, but not skinny, with a small bust, and a narrow waist, but narrow hips, too, so that she looked almost like a boy, with barely any figure at all. What figure she might have had was masked by the loose sundresses she tended to wear.
She was Violet, the one that no one noticed, simply because there was nothing to notice, which just perhaps was why someone had noticed her.
She received a note one day, a romantic, secretive, enticing, anonymous note.
The next day she received another.
And another.
She came to look forward to every day, never knowing when or where she would find it. She still didn't smile, much, except for that moment in her day when she found the note, and then three or four or five times afterward, the first of the many times she would reread and reread and reread it for her pleasure.
The notes became intimate.
"Good Lord, it said what?" That reaction was from Sandee, her very best friend since first grade. Sandee's boyfriend, Scott, draped on her like a hastily grabbed and lazily placed scarf. He was always there, always close, always touching her, sometimes kissing her affectionately, but more often just closely there, as if he and Sandee were a two headed beast.
The radio crackled in the background with a news report. The Germans had launched a surprise offensive in France, trying to drive the Allied armies back into the sea. The brave troops were holding fast, but they were taking heavy casualties. The two waitresses and the cook were gathered around it, as were three patrons at the long chrome and formica counter, sipping coffee, eating bacon and egg sandwiches, and intently listening to the report.
They didn't care about Violet, but she looked around anyway, before answering, to be sure that no one anywhere in the diner was listening.
"It said that he wants to touch my naked flesh."
Sandee broke into a grin. As usual, it lit the room like an exploding pyrotechnic rocket. If there were any new guys around, and if Scott didn't already cover her like a mother swaddling a baby, they would certainly come to talk to her, or offer her gifts, or just flat out give her a stuttering, impromptu marriage proposal.
Where Violet was plain, Sandee was a superstar, a beautiful and vivacious blond that radiated pure sexuality with every simple breath or dainty tip of her head. She could have any man she wanted, but she already had the one she wanted, Scott, the dashing, darkly handsome sort that worshiped the rays of the sun that warmed her skin, and the darkness formed by her shadow, and whatever breeze of air whispered through her clothing.
"Are you going to do it?" Sandee asked.
Violet tried to glare at her from under a shocked brow, but she knew that every thought was written on her face like the pulsing neon sign in the diner window. Open for business. So instead of answering, she blushed, looking down at the note in her lap, hidden beneath the edge of the table, kept secret from a prying world.
* * *
I have to touch you soon.
That was all the note said. The words, the thought of it, sent a shiver through Violet each and every time she read it. She had no idea who or what he was, but she wanted him to touch her more than anything in the world.
* * *
You must trust me.
Nothing more. No explanation of how, or why, or when. The note was a simple command, or a plea, or a hope. Violet didn't know how to take it, and didn't care. Trust she would.
* * *
You can never know who I am. If you know, it will all be broken.
Violet squeezed the note in her hand, crumpling it just a bit, not to ruin it, but to possess it even more, to establish a firm hold on it, and to keep it from prying eyes. She looked out the diner window, past the pulsing neon sign, into the black recesses of the night. Sandee giggled beside her as Scott nuzzled her ear.
Violet didn't want to know. She did, but she didn't. She didn't want it to break. And she liked the fact that her lover was perfect. As long as she didn't know who he was, he was perfect, and in his eyes, this way, she was perfect to him, too.
She liked it this way.
* * *
She lay on her belly, blindfold firmly in place exactly as instructed, as he entered the room. In spite of herself, she looked for clues in the sounds that he made, but she found none. She could barely hear him over the thundering thumps of her own blood pulsing in her ears.
Violet tried to relax as a strong, warm hand caressed her naked back, starting at the nape of her neck, then gliding slowly down, along her spine, to the small of her back, and then beyond, following the slight rise of her ass, up, and over.
She clenched her eyes tightly shut as the hand touched sensitive flesh that had never been touched before. A broad expanse of thick, calloused fingers cupped her ass cheeks, gently at first, then kneading them gently. After a while his hands relaxed, becoming wisps of air, floating delicately over the globes of her ass, before one finger moved toward her thigh, and invasively down.
Her sharp intake of breath signaled something new for Violet.
* * *
"What if it's Jake?" Sandee offered.
In spite of herself, Violet's head automatically twisted toward Jake, the young negro cook behind the counter, behind the service window. He was bustling around, as he always did, sweating like an animal over the heat of the stove, working frantically to fill the orders and avoid Mr. Ashton's wrath for being too slow, or making too many mistakes.
Violet's only answer was an angry glare at the countertop.
"No way, it couldn't be. No way."
"But what if it is?"
"It's not. So just drop it."
"What if it is?" Scott added.
Violet glared at him. She rarely got angry. She didn't have the nerve. But this upset her.
