Rouge Under Work Boots

Bellamy pressed a gold-edged scorecard into Gordon’s hand as though it were a winning lottery ticket.

“Seven dares,” Bellamy said. Her silver astronaut helmet sat crooked over a spill of black curls. “Complete them before midnight. Points for courage. Bonus points for making your spouse laugh. Kisses count as currency, but only if both parties agree.”

Simone took the card from Gordon and studied it beneath the warehouse’s old department-store chandeliers. The converted loading floor glittered with costumes: pirates buying champagne, drag queens in feathers, a pair of adults dressed as matching saltshakers. Music bounced off the concrete and old display windows.

“Bellamy,” Simone said, “you made a marriage game with a scoring system.”

“I made a fundraiser with consequences.”

Gordon looked down at his own outfit: black trousers, black work boots, a charcoal button-up, and the flimsy cardboard badge Simone had pinned to his chest that read NIGHT-SHIFT VAMPIRE. It was not much of a costume, but Simone had arrived as a glamorous vampire bride in lace gloves and a crimson veil, so he figured the contrast made the joke.

“Read the first one,” he said.

Simone lifted the card. “Dare One: Get your spouse to dance for one full song.”

“That’s easy. I can dance.”

“You can sway near a dance floor and call it emotional restraint.”

“I have rhythm.”

“You have a facilities-management walk.”

“That walk keeps three buildings operational.”

She grinned and marked a tiny box at the top of the card. “Point for making me laugh.”

“You’re scoring already?”

“Gordon, I came prepared.”

He took the card back. “Dare Two: Accept a compliment without insulting yourself afterward.”

Simone put one hand to her chest. “Cruel.”

“You called your eyeliner ‘serviceable’ in the car.”

“It was serviceable.”

“It looks incredible.”

Her face changed in that small way he loved, pride arriving before she could swat it away. “Thank you.”

“No joke?”

“No joke.” She held out her palm. “One point.”

He slapped it, then kissed her cheek because Bellamy had made kissing currency and because Simone’s cheek was right there.

“Nine more like that,” she said.

“You planned that number suspiciously fast.”

“I keep score professionally.”

That was not true. Simone kept score of ridiculous things: kisses during long grocery trips, arguments interrupted before they became ugly, how many times Gordon made her laugh so hard she snorted. Their marriage had survived harder years because she treated delight like a resource worth protecting.

Five years earlier, on their first costume date, she had spent half the night calling him Gareth.

“Gareth, get me another drink.”

“Gareth, your fake mustache is peeling.”

“Gareth, you look terrified of that magician.”

He had been Gordon then, still had been Gordon by dessert, but Simone had looked so pleased with herself that he let it continue. When she finally realized, horrified, she had grabbed both his hands and said, “Oh God. I’ve been flirting with a man who doesn’t exist.”

He had answered, “Gareth had a wonderful evening.”

She laughed now as if she had heard the line for the first time.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. Dare Three.”

They completed it in twelve minutes. Simone convinced him to dance through a ridiculous disco song, and Gordon made her laugh hard enough that champagne nearly came out her nose when he attempted a dramatic spin. They collected points, two kisses, and a plastic ring from Bellamy’s volunteer table.

Then Simone turned the scorecard over.

Her eyes moved down the list.

Gordon saw the change in her face before she spoke.

“Dare Four,” she said. “Each spouse chooses the other’s costume.”

The music kept pounding. Someone nearby cheered at a raffle announcement. Gordon stared past Simone toward the costume racks arranged beneath a faded sign that still read LADIES’ EVENINGWEAR.

His hands went still at his sides.

Simone noticed. Of course she did.

“Well,” she said softly, folding the card once. “That one might be worth more than a point.”

Gordon should have made a joke. He had plenty. He could have pointed at the plastic Viking helmets or claimed his work boots were already a complete character study.

Instead, he walked toward the racks beneath the faded EVENINGWEAR sign.

Simone came with him, close enough that he knew she was there, not close enough to steer him.

The red jumpsuit waited on a mannequin near the end of the row. It covered the body in sequins from its deep V-neck to its flared legs. Long red gloves draped over one arm. Black heels sat beneath the platform, glossy and narrow. Someone had arranged a black lingerie set beside them: satin bralette, high-waisted briefs, a garter belt that made Gordon’s face go hot before he could stop it.

He looked away.

Then he looked back.

Simone said nothing for several seconds. Her eyes moved over the display, then returned to him.

“We can pick anything,” she said. “You want me to put you in a tuxedo with a fake mayoral sash? Done. Giant banana? I will defend that choice until I die.”

He let out one short laugh.

“But if you want this,” she went on, “we can pick this.”

His throat worked. “You’re not going to make it a joke?”

“Not unless you ask me to.” She opened her little black clutch and showed him the compact makeup kit inside: brushes, lipstick tubes, a slim palette of shadows. “And for the record, I think that jumpsuit is going to look fucking fantastic on you.”

Gordon stared at the red sequins again. His private clothes lived behind a locked wardrobe door at home, folded with care and touched only when the house was quiet. This was different. This was bright lights, strangers, Simone standing beside him with no demand hidden behind her smile.

“What if it looks stupid?” he asked.

“Then we take it off and call Bellamy a menace.” She tipped her head. “What if it doesn’t?”

He reached for one of the gloves. The fabric slid over his knuckles, cool and sleek.

“I want to try it,” he said.

Simone’s face softened, but she did not clap or squeal or turn it into a victory for herself. “Okay. Do you want help, or do you want the fitting room to yourself?”

“Help.”

“Okay.”

The old department-store fitting rooms had been reopened for the party, their scratched mirrors covered in strings of battery lights. Gordon changed with his back partly turned while Simone waited by the door, handing him each piece only when he asked.

The black satin sat snug against him. The bralette felt strange at first, then simply present, a deliberate line across his chest. Simone fastened it when he held the straps in place, her movements practical and careful.

“Too tight?” she asked.

“No.”

“Too loose?”

“No.”

“Good.”

The jumpsuit took more work. He stepped into it, pulled it up, and let Simone draw the zipper closed. The sequins rasped softly under her palms. When he finally faced the mirror, the man looking back had changed shape without becoming someone else.

The heels added height and danger. His first step wobbled.

Simone caught his elbow. “You’re fine.”

“I walk around construction sites for a living.”

“And now you’re conquering a six-inch heel beside a charity raffle table. Different battlefield.”

She opened her kit and began with foundation, evening his skin without hiding it. Rouge followed, then dark liner that made his eyes look sharper. She painted his mouth a deep red that matched the jumpsuit.

“Look up,” she said.

He did.

“Now look at yourself.”

The mirror had always felt like a place where Gordon measured flaws. Tonight it offered him a question instead.

Could this be him too?

Simone stood behind him, her hands resting at his waist. “You look beautiful,” she said.

He met her eyes in the glass. “Thank you.”

Her grin broke wide. “Dare Two, again. You’re learning.”

When they returned to the party floor, the music had shifted into something brassy and fast. Gordon expected every person in the warehouse to turn and point. A few people looked, certainly. Most simply smiled, raised their cups, or kept dancing.

Simone took his gloved hand.

He followed her into the lights.

At first, he moved carefully, protecting the heels, protecting the outfit, protecting whatever part of himself had stepped out from behind that locked wardrobe door. Then Simone spun beneath his arm, laughing, and he laughed with her. The red sequins flashed each time he turned. His hips found the beat. His shoulders loosened.

He was not hiding in a costume.

And Simone was watching him shine.

Simone was watching him shine.

That proved more dangerous than the heels.

She led him through another song, one hand in his gloved one, the other firm at his waist. Gordon stopped counting his steps. He let the brass and drums carry him. When he turned, red sequins threw quick fire across the concrete floor.

“Dare One,” Simone said when the song ended. “Again, because that was a real dance.”