the costumed afternoon

I was conscious of the wig, I was conscious of the costume but they weren’t an encumbrance. They felt as natural as my own winter coat or my own headband. Being someone or something else for a while, it felt far more natural than being myself. It was her idea and I loved it immediately. She asked me to wear the costume and I agreed. I panicked a little, worried that I wouldn’t do it justice but I agreed. The soft, pale, brown-haired girl took pictures of us. She seemed so bored and yet she took many. I wanted to stare at her, the one who asked me. Her costume was a sight. Her hair was down and her skin was pink tinted cheeks on smooth caramel. Her eyes hid much and her mouth was a wicked giggle. I wouldn’t notice until later how close to me she had stood. The way her tiny frame relaxed itself on my knee, my shoulder, my arm. But now, as I stare at the photographs, her floral breath whispering in my ear as she narrates each one, I notice.