The ritual was complete. Richard stood before the full-length mirror, a stranger in his wife's form. The transformation had been Irene's idea, of course. "It'll be a hoot," she'd said, her eyes gleaming with that particular mischief that usually preceded one of her elaborate schemes. "The theme is 'Nostalgia Night.' We'll go as a typical 1950s couple. You as me, me as you. It's perfect!"

He had spent the last three hours navigating the unfamiliar landscape of Irene's body. The light blue, sleeveless cocktail dress was a masterpiece of 1950s fashion, but a nightmare to put on alone. The thin spaghetti straps threatened to snap, the fitted scoop-neck bodice required careful maneuvering over curves he was only just becoming acquainted with, and the full, pleated A-line skirt seemed to possess a life of its own, rustling indignantly every time he moved. He'd fumbled with the single-strand white pearl necklace, his new, slender fingers feeling clumsy as he worked the tiny clasp. The silver chain bracelet on his left wrist jangled softly, a constant, delicate reminder of his temporary femininity.

The hair had been the worst part. He'd followed the online tutorial for a "voluminous, curled platinum blonde short pixie cut" with the grim determination of a bomb disposal expert. The hairspray alone had nearly asphyxiated him. Now, the styled coiffure felt like a helmet, a glorious, glamorous helmet, but a helmet nonetheless. The makeup was the final touch. Bold matte red lipstick made his lips feel thick and alien. Defined dark eyebrows arched over his eyes in a way that felt perpetually surprised. The light eye makeup and pale polish on his fingernails completed the illusion.

He turned from side to side. He looked, he had to admit, exactly like Irene would look if she were attending a 1950s-themed costume party. He looked good. He felt exhausted.

He found her in the living room, pacing in his body. She wore his best suit, the dark grey pinstripe, a crisp white shirt, and a plain black tie. Her hair-his hair-was slicked back with a bit too much product, making it look wet and severe. She had his larger frame, his broader shoulders, his stronger jawline. She looked like a man. A slightly nervous, uncomfortable man, but a man nonetheless.

"Well?" she said, her voice a perfect, jarring imitation of his own baritone. "How do I look?"

"You look like me," Richard said, his voice coming out in Irene's familiar, slightly higher-pitched soprano. It was still disorienting. "Like a man going to a costume party. How do I look?"

She stopped pacing and looked him over, her gaze-his gaze-sweeping from the platinum pixie cut down to the delicate heels he'd managed to strap onto his new feet. A frown creased her borrowed features.

"I don't know," she said, her voice losing some of its masculine confidence and taking on a whiny, indecisive tone that was purely Irene. "I'm just not sure about this."

Richard stared at her. The hairspray fumes must have addled his brain. "Not sure about what? The party? It was your idea. You bought the tickets."

"No, not the party," she said, gesturing vaguely at him, and then at herself. "This. The whole... body swap thing."

He felt a knot of cold fury tighten in his stomach, a sensation that felt oddly different in someone else's gut. "What are you talking about, Irene? We've already done it. The spell, or the potion, or whatever that crazy gypsy woman sold you, it's done. We're stuck. We've been stuck for six hours."

"I know, but..." she trailed off, looking down at his large hands as if they were strange gloves she couldn't quite get off. "I'm standing here in your body. And you're standing there in mine. And I just... I don't know if I want to be seen in a male body."

Richard's carefully applied red lips parted in disbelief. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of it. He had spent hours. Hours. He had wrestled with undergarments, contorted himself into the dress, nearly blinded himself with mascara, and inhaled half a can of ozone-depleting hairspray, all for her. For her idea. And now, forty-five minutes before they were supposed to leave, she was having second thoughts.

He threw his hands-her hands-up in the air. The silver bracelet jangled furiously. "You made us swap bodies," he said, his voice shrill with exasperation. "You spent a week convincing me this was the most clever, original costume idea in the history of costume parties. You dragged me to that shop in the village to buy some 'authentic body-swapping elixir' from a woman who smelled like cabbage and regret. And now, after I've spent hours getting dressed in your body, you don't know if you want to be seen as a man?"

"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds so..." she started, but he cut her off.

"It sounds like what it is, Irene! It's fickle! It's you being fickle!" He paced now, the full skirt of the dress swishing around his new, shapely legs. "Do you have any idea what it's like trying to walk in these shoes? Or sit down in this dress without flashing everyone? Or how much this bra pinches?"