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I study the women for a moment. One smiles, and another one waves. I give the obligatory “hello” nod and then turn my attention back to Dr. Everling. “What does it say about me that I’m not interested in being a consolation prize because my brother is no longer available?”
“I think that’s a normal response. No one likes to be second best.”
Something about her comment makes me wonder if she’s been second-best at some point.
“What did you mean by saying you’ve been questioning your skills?” It’s probably too personal of a question to ask, considering we hardly know each other, and I’m still unsure if we like each other.
She shrugs and looks down into her almost-empty drink. “Oh, you know, sometimes life throws you curveballs just when you think you’re cruising at a great altitude. Although, to be honest, I feel perfectly competent in my work, it’s in my personal life that I’m not so sure I’m a very good judge of character.”
Intrigued, I say, “You didn’t seem to have trouble judging me.”
She lets out a small self-deprecating laugh. “I still believe what I told you about plastic surgery. Too often, people think it will fix all their life problems if they look a certain way.”
“I agree with you. And many plastic surgeons I know also agree with you. In fact, many include a recommendation for counseling before or after surgery. With that said, I could argue that you are being judgmental of people who make the decision of wanting to make those changes. However, it’s also true that sometimes those changes can be a catalyst for improving self-esteem and other issues in people’s lives.”
She looks up at me, studying me for a moment. “Maybe. But I find too often that people want an easy fix for hard things in their life. They feel bad, want a drink or a pill or a new nose, and suddenly, their life will be perfect. But the reality is the good life comes from the inside.”
I ponder what she’s saying. It reminds me of my thoughts in the bathroom about how easy my life had been up until this moment, attributing part of that to my looks. However, the reality is that society tends to be kinder, more accommodating, and more giving to attractive people.
But she is right that having all those attributes doesn’t necessarily mean people are happy or have their shit together. I’m definitely proof of that.
Not wanting to get bogged down in a philosophical debate on the good, bad, and the ugly of plastic surgery, I look out over the sea of people in their costumes and ask her, “Do you suppose that there is a psychological meaning to what people decide to wear for Halloween?”
Her brow arches in intrigue. “I’ve never considered that, but it is an interesting idea.” She scans the room of people. “Well, those ladies over there, the ones who are ogling you, are clearly dressed to let you know that one or all of them would be available tonight if you wanted them.”
I laugh. She is right. Every one of their costume categories could start with the preface, “sexy,” such as “sexy witch” or “sexy doctor.”
“What about Theo and Madeline dressed as a gangster and a flapper girl?” I ask. I want them to be happy but worry about the odds against them, especially because they’re both actors.
Dr. Everling turns to look at them. They are standing in a corner, hovering close together, Theo gently tugging on a tendril of Madeline’s red hair. The brother in me wants to yell out, “get a room,” but that would be immature.
“Well, that era was one in which society pushed against the boundaries of repression. There were changes in music, and women began asserting more rights, as that was around the time they got the vote. So I suppose I would say that their costumes attempt to push against gossip and fan ideas about their relationship. They’re young and want to live in the moment, without caring about what others think.”
I nod, surprised by her insight. But unfortunately, the truth is Theo and Madeline do endure some salacious and negative gossip about them.
“Or it could just be that they both look outstanding together dressed like that,” Dr. Everling finishes.
I laugh.
She looks up at me. “Do you want to know what I think about your outfit here, Zorro?”
I do, and I don’t. I’m unsure how I will handle it if my costume choice reveals my feelings of inadequacy and failure. But not being a coward, I say, “Sure, what does my costume say about me?”
“On the one hand, Zorro was a man who fought for the freedom and justice of his people, so it could be that. Perhaps you have some sort of hero complex.”
That sounds like something an arrogant asshole would have. But then again, surgeons are often depicted as arrogant assholes. Still, Zorro wasn’t that.
“Is that it?”
She shakes her head. “No. You’re dressed in all black, which is often a color associated with grief or depression. You’re wearing a mask, which could suggest that maybe you’re trying to hide or maybe suppress some part of you. Am I close?”
Close enough that I’m shifting on my feet uncomfortably. Not wanting to answer, I ask, “What does your outfit say about you?”
Her mouth widens into a bright smile, and holy moly, it’s so beautiful that I can only stare at her for a minute.
“It says I am a powerful, fierce woman who can do it on her own.”
It isn’t the outfit that’s showcasing her strong will. Instead, the fierceness of conviction in her eyes tells me she’s a force to be reckoned with. It’s sexy as hell.
