Rouge Under Work Boots

“Put it on the card.”

“Already did.” She produced the scorecard from her clutch. “You also owe me a compliment acceptance.”

Gordon looked at her vampire-bride dress: the fitted black lace, the crimson veil, the boots she had chosen instead of heels because she liked being prepared for chaos. “You look incredible.”

“I know. Your turn.”

He knew the trap, and still his face heated.

Simone held up one finger. “No deflecting. No joke about looking like a lounge singer who lost a fight with a Christmas tree.”

“That was a very specific joke.”

“I know you.”

A woman dressed as a queen swept past them and called, “That jumpsuit is fabulous!”

Gordon started to say something automatic. The old response lined itself up: It’s only a costume. It belongs to the fundraiser. I’m just doing a dare.

Instead, he lifted his chin. “Thank you.”

Simone made a pleased sound and marked another box. “Two points. God, you’re good at this.”

“I’m apparently competitive.”

“You married the right woman, then.”

Bellamy’s volunteer had set up a photo wall beside the raffle table, all gold curtains and fake moon props. Simone dragged Gordon there before he could protest. She handed her phone to a stranger in a rhinestone suit, then wrapped an arm around Gordon’s middle.

“Ready?” Simone asked.

“No.”

“Perfect.”

The flash went off while he laughed.

When Simone checked the picture, Gordon expected to find his usual catalog of failures. A crooked posture. A strange face. Too much red. Too much of everything.

Instead, he saw himself beside his wife, tall in heels, mouth open in laughter, eyes bright beneath dark liner. He looked happy. Not performing happy. Happy.

“Send it to me,” he said.

Simone studied him. “Really?”

“Really.”

She sent it before he could change his mind.

Years earlier, Simone had found a black satin glove tangled in a laundry load. Gordon remembered seeing it in her hand from the bedroom doorway, one glove against her practical yellow dish towel. He had waited for questions. A joke. A look that would turn his skin inside out.

She had folded the glove carefully and placed it on his dresser.

Nothing else.

At the time, he had been grateful and terrified in equal measure. Tonight, he understood what she had given him: time.

A new song began. Simone tucked the scorecard away.

“Dare Six,” she said. “Introduce yourself to someone with complete confidence.”

Gordon glanced toward Bellamy, who was arguing cheerfully with a man in a papier-mâché planet costume.

He walked over before fear could bargain him backward.

“Bellamy,” he said.

She turned. “Oh, hello, dazzling stranger.”

“My name is Gordon Hale.” He held out his red-gloved hand. “And I’m having a very good night.”

Bellamy shook it with ceremony. “Gordon Hale, welcome to the game.”

Simone kissed him when he returned, slow and certain, lipstick pressing red against red. “That’s one kiss,” she said. “Earned fair and square.”

Gordon touched the corner of his mouth. “Simone.”

“What?”

“This isn’t only a costume.”

Her face went still, attentive.

“The clothes. The way I feel in them.” He glanced down at the jumpsuit. “It’s been part of me longer than tonight.”

She took his hand again. “Okay.”

“I have things at home.”

“I figured you might.” Her thumb rested over his glove. “When we get there, I want the whole truth. Not because you owe me a performance. Because I want to know you.”

Gordon let that settle inside him.

Then Simone pulled the scorecard free and said, “But first, we are absolutely winning this thing.”

Simone did not fill the drive home with helpful questions. Her hand rested on the console, palm up, and Gordon put his red-gloved hand in it whenever traffic slowed.

At their apartment door, he missed the keyhole twice. Sequins flashed under the hall lamp.

“Want a minute?” Simone asked.

“I want to be scared and do it anyway.”

“That sounds like a point-scoring rule.”

“It is.”

She kissed his knuckles. “Then let’s go earn it.”

The spare-room wardrobe had a brass lock Gordon had installed himself. He kept the key on a ring behind old tool manuals, a ridiculous hiding place that had once felt clever.

Tonight, he took it from his pocket.

The lock clicked.

Inside, everything was arranged with the orderliness of a maintenance supply cabinet. A navy wrap dress. A black knit dress with a square neckline. A green velvet number he had bought during a sale and never worn outside this room. Clear boxes held heels, ankle boots, low sandals. In the bottom drawer, lingerie lay folded beneath tissue paper: bralettes, briefs, slips, stockings.

Simone stayed by the door until he looked back at her.

“Can I come closer?”

“Yes.”

She moved to his side. Not touching. Just there.

Gordon pulled a small notebook from behind a row of shoe boxes. Its cover was bent at the corners. He had written entries in neat block letters, each one dated like a repair log.

“Black slip: calmer after ten minutes.”

“Red lipstick: makes speaking easier.”

“Boots with dress: feels like mine.”

Simone read only the page he had opened. Then she closed the notebook and held it out.

“You kept a field guide.”

“I thought if I wrote it down, I could make sense of it.”

“Did it work?”

“Sometimes.”

The first entry came from their second year of marriage. He had ordered a dress online, tried it on in the bathroom, and heard Simone’s keys at the front door. Panic had sent him scrambling out of it so fast that he tore a seam. Later, after she fell asleep, he had written: “Not ridiculous. Only new.”

Simone touched the notebook’s cover. “Thank you for showing me.”

Gordon set it on the dresser. “Before anything else, I need rules.”

“Good. Tell me.”

“My name is Gordon. Still Gordon.”

“Okay.”

“You can call me beautiful.” His face heated, but he made himself continue. “Pretty sometimes. Handsome too. Ask if you think of something else.”

“I will.”

“I don’t want this turned into a joke unless I start it.”

“Never without permission.”

“Photographs stay private. Ask before taking one. Ask before keeping one. Ask before showing anyone.”

“You control every picture.”

“And don’t come in here by yourself looking through things.”

Simone gave him a quick salute. “Your wardrobe is not a museum exhibit.”

He laughed. It loosened something in him.

“I want help sometimes,” he said. “With makeup. Clothes. Figuring things out. But I want to invite you in.”

“I can do that.”

“If I say pause or stop, it stops. No convincing. No asking me to push through.”

“Immediately.”

He looked down at the notebook. “And you have to tell me the truth too. Don’t pretend you’re excited just because you love me.”

Simone stepped close enough to take both his hands. “I love you. I am excited. I may have questions later, and I’ll ask them honestly. But Gordon, I want you. I want this part of you too.”

His shoulders dropped.

“Do you want sex tonight?” she asked.

He met her eyes. “Yes. But not as a prize for telling you.”

“It isn’t.” Her thumb moved over the red glove at his wrist. “I desire you. Can I keep checking in?”

“Please.”

“Bedroom or here?”

“Bedroom.” He looked down at the jumpsuit. “I want to keep this on.”

Simone smiled, soft and certain. “Then keep it on.”

In their bedroom, Gordon sat at the edge of the bed while Simone removed her crimson veil. He took it from her hands and laid it over a chair.

“Can I kiss you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Her mouth met his slowly. Gordon answered at once, pulling her close by the waist. Her lace dress scratched lightly against the sequins. The contrast made him laugh into the kiss.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. I just thought I’d never get to do this.”

“You are doing it now.”

She lifted his left hand. “Can I take off this glove?”

“One at a time.”

“Perfect.”

She eased the glove free and pressed a kiss to his bare palm. The other glove stayed on, red and dramatic against Simone’s black lace.

“Can I touch you here?” Her hand hovered at his hip.

“Yes.”

“And here?”

Her palm moved higher, over sequins and then beneath the low neckline of the jumpsuit. Gordon answered yes again. The black satin beneath her hand made him feel dressed, not hidden.

“Tell me what you want,” she said.

“I want you to look at me.”

“I am.”

“No. Really look.”

Simone did. Her attention traveled over his shoulders, the red line of the jumpsuit, the dark makeup around his eyes, the lipstick that had survived the ride home.

“You are beautiful,” she said. “You look strong. You look elegant. You look like someone who finally let himself take up room.”

Gordon shut his eyes for one second.

“Say it again.”

“You are beautiful.”

He kissed her harder this time. His free hand found the zipper at her back, then stopped.