Chapter 58

She put her hand on my shoulder. “No, a perfect disguise is dressing like a man. She’ll never expect it.”

This time my own sigh came easier. “Or recognize me.”

She gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Ta da!”

Her face lit up. Mine sunk in on itself. In three hundred years, I hadn’t worn guy drag. Life—what there was of it—was drab enough. Still, she had a point. In fact, she was pointing to the store, her squeezing hand pushing me toward it. “You don’t have to shove.”

She chuckled. “Don’t I?”

Stupid theater folk, I thought; bitch knew her gay men all too well. And so in I trudged, shooing off the two undead store clerks before we perused the musty, dusty, beige and navy and gray men’s clothes. “Blech,” I wretched.

“It’s not that bad,” she cooed, her hands pushing through the racks of clothes when I no longer had the heart (figuratively speaking) to. “How about this outfit?” she asked a short while later, slacks and a button down and loafers held out for me.