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1
IVY
It’s9 p.m on Halloween and I’m seriously reconsidering my choices in life.
Not because I’m dolled up in a sleek wig and head-to-toe black catsuit that makes my SKIMS feel like sweatpants and is slowly cutting off the circulation to, well,everything, but because I’ve gotten more male attention in the last ten minutes than the last ten months of my life.
Gawking. Whistles. Even a double take or two. It’s flattering for sure, but there’s also nothing like having a dozen drunk superheroes drool at your cleavage to make you realize how invisible you are the rest of the year. It’s almost enough to make a (divorced, thirty-two year-old) girl consider dressing as an international super spy year-round…
I snort a laugh, imagining the faces back in in Milford Falls if I strolled into work at the local history museum in thigh-high boots and bright red lipstick. Our Blue Ridge Mountain town is on the rugged, outdoorsy side. When my friend Mary-Alice moved there from New York, people spent months calling her “polished" and “put together” because the woman wore a plain wool coat instead of L.L.Bean.
Black spandex in the grocery aisles of the Quick-E-Stop? I’d probably cause a riot.
Speaking of the queen of questionable ideas… I pull out my phone, and send Mary-Alice a “WHERE R U???”text, before glancing around the packed, noisy bar. Everyone’s out tonight in their costume-party finest, and the mystery Goblin Punch on tap is making everyone boisterous. I accidentally make eye contact with a guy nearby and that’s all it takes.
He zooms closer, drawn by the gravitational force of my cleavage.
“Buy you a drink?” he asks my chest. He’s wearing some kind of Revolutionary War outfit: bouffant grey wig and a bright blue velvet jacket. And sure, the jacket is open over a tanned bare chest and those tight breeches leave nothing to the imagination, but the costume warms my history buff heart.
“Sure,” I agree. “Rum and Diet Coke, thanks. So which one are you?” I ask, as he tries to flag down the bartender. “Jefferson? Hamilton? Aaron Burr, sir?”
I grin at my bad joke. Cleavage Guy just looks confused.
“Your costume,” I prompt him gently.
“Oh, shit, yeah.” He grins again. “It’s Captain Al. Our college mascot.”
Our college …
His words sink in. “You wouldn’t happen to be a grad student, would you?” I ask hopefully. “Laboring over your PhD? Returning after a long break from education. A long,longbreak …”
“Naw, man. I’m a sophomore at Drake,” he announces proudly. “Class of 2025, pirates in the house!”
An answering whoop comes from a table nearby. “Aye aye, captain!”
“And … that’s my cue!” I exclaim brightly, sliding off my barstool in a hurry.
“Hey, where are you going?” he tries to block my path, undeterred. “I dig older chicks,” he grins. “Allof them,” he adds, reaching to slide his smooth, young, born-in-a-decade-with-a-20-at-the-start-of-it hands over my spandex-clad ass.
I slip out from under his embrace. One advantage of being barely 5’5 in heels: we’re nimble like that. “Sorry, kid,” I say brightly. “But in the words of the great Angelica Schuyler, I’m looking for a mind at work. Or at least one born afterDawson’s Creekstarted airing on the WB.”
“The W-what?” He stares at me blankly.
“Oh boy.” I shake my head, laughing, and turn to leave, but I can’t resist a final snap of my fingers, and a melodic, “Work!” before I go.
Dorky? Yes. Satisfying? Also yes.
Outside,I try Mary-Alice again. It was her idea to come out tonight, instead of eating cider apple donuts, braiding her daughter’s hair, and watchingHocus Pocusfor the hundredth time. Which, if you ask me, counts as the perfect way to spend Halloween, no candy-floss thong underwear or mild sexual harassment required.
Mary-Alice had other plans.
“I’m running out of time,” she swore, cupping her five-month pregnancy bump and fixing me with a determined look. “One kid, you can just about pretend to be a functioning human, but two? Forget about it. Once this one arrives, I’m not leaving the house after seven for a decade. I want to look slutty, and dance my pregnant ass off, and let my husband deal with the post-trick or treat sugar tornado all alone. I’m having a last Halloween hurrah!”
I’m nothing if not a supportive friend, so here I am, spandex catsuit and all, searching the streets of Asheville for a sign of my partner in international super spy-dom. It’s a party out here, too: the bars all spilling music and laughter into the cool fall night, breath fogging the crisp air as groups of costume-clad people roam around, searching for their drunken Halloween hookup.
Finally, Mary-Alice answers. “At last!” I cheer, relaxing. “Are you parking?”
“Um,” she replies weakly, “not quite.”
