Lisabeth had been Mr. Carsini's maid for nearly five years, a quiet, efficient woman in her mid-forties who kept his spacious Victorian home in impeccable order. This year, she had requested the entire period from Christmas Eve through New Year's Day off to visit family in the countryside. "I'll call the service for a replacement," she had said, her voice steady as she folded the last of the linens. But Mr. Carsini, a reclusive widower in his early fifties with a penchant for solitude, waved her off. "Nonsense, Lisabeth. I can manage a week on my own. I'll keep the place as neat as I can while you're gone." His smile was polite, but inside, a thrill coursed through him. This was the opportunity he'd been anticipating for months-a secret Christmas gift to himself.

As soon as Lisabeth's car pulled out of the driveway on Christmas Eve afternoon, Mr. Carsini locked the front door and made his way to her small but tidy room at the back of the house. He opened her closet with trembling hands, the faint scent of lavender from her sachets wafting out. He gathered her clothes carefully: the full-cut panty-girdle that hugged her curves, the full-cover bra with its sturdy underwire, a pair of opaque white tights, her crisp yellow housemaid's uniform with its knee-length skirt and button-up bodice, and the matching yellow heels she wore for formal occasions. He carried them to the en-suite bathroom, stripped off his own clothes, and stepped into the shower. The hot water cascaded over him as he lathered his legs with her floral-scented soap, then meticulously shaved them smooth, relishing the unfamiliar silkiness against his skin.

Drying off, he slipped into the panty-girdle first, the firm elastic compressing him in a way that felt both constraining and exhilarating. Next came the bra, which he adjusted to cradle his chest, stuffing it lightly with tissues for shape. He rolled the white tights up his newly shaved legs, savoring the sheer fabric's embrace. The yellow uniform followed, zipping up the back with a satisfying whir, its starched collar brushing his neck. He stepped into the heels, wobbling slightly at first but quickly finding his balance. Finally, he gathered his shoulder-length hair-grown out over the past year under the guise of a midlife whim-into a neat bun, securing it with pins from her vanity. Standing before the mirror, he hardly recognized himself: the transformation was complete, a vision of domestic femininity that made his heart race.

He would spend the week immersed in this role, performing all of Lisabeth's chores and sleeping in her room each night. It was his private indulgence, a escape from the monotony of his days as a retired accountant. He started immediately, turning to the bathroom he'd just used. He scrubbed the shower tiles with a sponge and cleanser, wiping away every droplet and streak until the porcelain gleamed. The sink came next, polished to a mirror shine, followed by the toilet, which he disinfected thoroughly. He mopped the floor with pine-scented cleaner, the heels clicking rhythmically against the tile as he worked. Satisfied, he moved to the living room, where he straightened the throw pillows on the velvet sofa, dusted the antique mantelpiece with a feather duster, and vacuumed the Persian rug, carefully navigating the furniture in his unfamiliar footwear. To ward off the winter chill, he knelt by the fireplace-mindful of the tights snagging-and arranged logs with kindling, striking a match to start a cozy fire that crackled to life, casting warm shadows across the room.

Christmas Day dawned crisp and snowy, and Mr. Carsini rose early from Lisabeth's bed, the sheets still carrying her faint perfume. He prepared a simple breakfast in the kitchen, washing and drying the dishes by hand afterward, then tackled the laundry room. He sorted whites from colors, loaded the washer with Lisabeth's own linens (including a spare uniform he'd borrowed), and hung them to dry on the indoor rack. While they aired, he dusted the bookshelves in the study, alphabetizing a few stray volumes, and polished the brass fixtures on the doors. In the afternoon, he baked gingerbread cookies from her recipe book, the uniform's skirt swishing as he mixed the dough, filling the house with spicy aromas. He cleaned up every crumb, sweeping the kitchen floor and wiping the counters until they sparkled.

The days blurred into a rhythmic routine. On Boxing Day, he focused on the upstairs bedrooms, changing the sheets on the guest beds, fluffing pillows, and vacuuming under the furniture. He cleaned the windows with vinegar solution, standing on a step stool in the heels to reach the high panes, the tights stretching taut over his calves. In the evening, he ironed his own shirts-pretending they were Lisabeth's-pressing each crease with precision. December 27th brought deep cleaning in the dining room: polishing the silverware, dusting the chandelier's crystals one by one, and buffing the mahogany table to a high gloss. He even rearranged the china cabinet, handling each piece delicately.

By the 28th, he ventured into the garden shed despite the cold, fetching tools to prune the indoor plants, then repotted a wilting fern in the sunroom. Back inside, he scrubbed the oven, kneeling on the kitchen floor in the uniform, the girdle reminding him of his adopted form with every movement. The 29th was for the basement: organizing storage boxes, sweeping away cobwebs, and laundering dusty curtains. He cooked elaborate meals each night-roasts, soups, casseroles-eating alone at the kitchen table, then washing up meticulously.

New Year's Eve arrived, and Mr. Carsini celebrated quietly. He dusted the entire hallway, polished the banister, and set out fresh flowers he'd arranged himself. As midnight approached, he sipped chamomile tea by the fire he'd rebuilt, reflecting on the bliss of these days. January 1st, a Saturday, he spent lounging in the role: reading magazines from Lisabeth's nightstand, tidying her vanity, and giving the bathrooms another thorough once-over. Expecting her return on Monday, he planned to restore everything to normal by Sunday evening.

But Lisabeth returned early, on Sunday afternoon. The kitchen door creaked open as she let herself in with her key, her suitcase thumping softly on the tile. There stood Mr. Carsini, mid-chore, wearing her yellow uniform, heels, and tights, a duster in hand as he straightened the spice rack. Their eyes met, and shock rippled through the room like a thunderclap. Lisabeth's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide, while Mr. Carsini froze, his face flushing crimson beneath the bun.