Steampunk Barbie and Gentleman Jack

“Aw, don’t make the lemon-face, Angelica. You look fine.” Beat. “By which, I mean you look fine.”

I blushed, turning right, then left in front of our full-length mirror, dissatisfied and slightly horrified by what I saw. “I look ridiculous, Jess.”

“Nah, nah,” Jess said, sliding her arms around my waist and hugging me tight. Unlike me, she looked good in her costume of Steampunk gentleman (she called herself Gentleman Jack), from boots to ray-gun to brass goggles and bowler.

I, however, in my corset, with its low décolletage, strained waist, and dance hall-girl short skirt (as well as a ladies’ bowler and my own brass goggles perched atop it) looked so. . . .

“I look so silly,” I said, one hand clenching on the handle of the parasol that completed the outfit. “Like an overdone toy. Steampunk Barbie.”

Jess chuckled and pressed a tender kiss to my shoulder. “You’re my Steampunk Barbie, baby. And you look fabulous. All the other people at Anton’s party will either wish they were with you, or wish they were you.”

“I dunno,” I murmur, sticking out first my left leg, then my right. The Victorian era stockings looked okay—I mean, I knew I had nice legs—but the skirt was so short. Barely down to mid-thigh.

And I guess that was a big part of what Jess liked about it. Any excuse to see me half-or underdressed. Indeed, her reflection’s eyes were traveling all up and down my reflection appreciatively.

“Trust me,” she said finally, grinning. “You look good, babe.”

Sighing, I turned to face her. She was four inches shorter than me and bounced up on her toes to kiss the tip of my nose.

“You really think so?” I asked hesitantly, and Jess nodded, waggling her eyebrows ridiculously.

“Good enough to eat, pretty lady.”

I laughed, and in that moment decided that no matter how silly I felt, if Jess thought I looked good, then I did. “Okay, I’m gorgeous. And you ain’t too bad yourself, handsome sir.”

Jess stepped back and bowed, doffing her bowler gallantly. Then she straightened, jamming it back down over her gelled-down dark hair, and smartly offered me her arm. Grinning, now, myself, I took it and she covered my hand with her free one.

“Shall we adjourn to Anton’s, my dear?” she asked in a passable English accent. I batted my eyes at her—my real lashes, but loads of mascara—and replied in kind.”

“We shall.”

And—Jess with her ray-gun firmly holstered, me with my parasol in hand—we did.

END