Unshod Quills

“I want to see you dressed like David Bowie,” you said.

“For Halloween?” I asked.

“No,” you said. “For the bedroom.”

“Keep going,” I said.

“I want to see you with 70s space shoulder pads and gold tights with leather platform boots.”

“What about my hair?”

“Big and poofed up, like a lion!”

“Like in Labyrinth?”

I tried to remember if I liked that movie.

“Who do you want me to dress up like?” you asked.

I had to pretend like I was thinking about it, but the truth is I had the answer to this question in my head for most of my life. Still, I tried to play it a little vague.

“Um, I can’t remember her name,” I started, “but she’s on an album cover from the 70s and she’s wearing roller skates, striped athletic socks up to her knees, short shorts, a white t-shirt, and a satin letterman style jacket.”

“You want me to dress up like Linda Ronstadt on the cover of her album, Living in the U.S.A.?”

You seemed weirdly happy and excited about this. “And she had knee pads too,” I said.

You squinted your eyes at the ceiling fan, like its spinning above us was your brain working it out. “This might get complicated,” you said.