My twenty-third birthday - our official second anniversary - is coming up in a few days. A nearby symphony is performing Tristan und Isolde in its entirety as an orchestral piece with chorale and vocal soloists on that weekend, so this year, we're celebrating by traveling up north to hear it from the good seats in the front of the lower balcony in the concert hall. Since neither of us likes to go through money as if it's water, we're hearing it as a matinee.

That will also leave us plenty of time later that evening to find other, more private ways to celebrate the occasion.

I don't have anything particularly nice to wear to the symphony, having by now outgrown the vintage granny gown I wore to my sorority formal years ago, and decided, after adding an extra tier of lace to the bottom of the gown so that it would cover my ankles again, that the result just looked weird. This is why I'm browsing the racks at the thrift store that's within walking distance of our apartment, searching for any kind of clothing that might be useful for occasions requiring fancy dress. (The thrift store, fortunately, is not a Salvation Army store; after the Salvation Army turned me away from a shelter on one of the coldest nights of the year for being "sinful" and "unnatural," I have no desire to give them any of my money. Yes, it was years ago, and it was probably my fault for answering truthfully when the captain who ran the shelter asked me why I had nowhere to sleep that night, but there are some things I just can't let go of).

One of the nice things about not seeing my bank account in a constant state of hemorrhage due to household bills is that I actually have some money left over from my job after paying tuition for my college courses and contributing somewhat to my upkeep. Magister objected to my helping with non-rent household expenses at first, on the grounds that I should be saving for any present and future college-related expenses, but my argument for a while has been that as long as I can afford to help out a little, I will; I refuse to be a burden or, worse yet, something of a cross between a dependent and a household pet. This month I have enough disposable income that I can splurge some of it.

Usually going shopping would involve browsing for books, but today I'm looking for clothing. It doesn't take long for me to remember that I find shopping for clothing to be a purgatorial experience.

Almost nothing ever fits me well. I like to borrow Magister's shirts, because they cover my arms down to the wrists rather than halfway past my elbows, which means I can make up my own mind about whether I want to roll them up or down; they don't seem fancy enough on their own for a symphony outing, though, which means I'm looking through racks of women's apparel for something that's pretty, but that also has sleeves long enough to cover a gorilla's arms, and preferably is long enough in the trunk that I don't wind up displaying my navel when I wear it.

Eventually, an unusual black velvet blouse appears, peeking out from a hidden spot on the plus-size shirt rack. It's long enough that I guess it must have been a tunic or a short minidress on anyone of a more normal height than mine, and the lace accents and black faceted buttons (surely, they aren't made of real jet) make it look vaguely Victorian. The velvet is soft and reminds me of nights spent between the sheets and of the things Magister and I do between those sheets. It wants to be touched.

I grab it before someone else can find it and look for a coordinating skirt. All I own for bottoms are leggings, sweatpants, some jeans and slacks sized for adolescent boys, and a hand-sewn drawstring skirt I made from a massive tube of calico fabric on one of my more creative days. None of these are appropriate formalwear.

It takes some poking around, but I find something suitable, a filmy number made of silky black gauze that flares in a full circle when I twirl in it, and manages to at least go down to my calves, which is more than I was expecting from a maxi skirt that was designed for a normal person, rather than someone built along the lines of a flagpole the way I am. It has a built-in slip for modesty, too, thank goodness. I don't think I'd have much luck finding a long slip here. I'm not sure where I'd find a long slip anywhere. A bridal shop, maybe.

I head for the cash register with my findings. The counter near the cash register has a bin of used records and cassettes sitting on it, unsorted; on a whim, I grab the Jefferson Starship cassette that sits at the top of the pile and offer the person tending the cash register fifty cents for it. She adds it to my pile of clothing, and I walk out into the light of day, squinting at the afternoon glare. April here is chilly, but as bright as summer.

A bus pulls up to the stop just as I'm walking past the stop, and I have change in my pocket left over from my thrift store expedition, so I decide to ride downtown for one more shopping trip. There's a mall near the university that used to be a cereal factory before it got converted into retail stores and office space as part of a halfhearted attempt on the part of the city council to revitalize the downtown area. In it is a little perfumery that sells essential oils and perfume oils, and toiletries that a customer can add personalized scents to. It's where Magister gets his sandalwood products. I sometimes browse here on less busy days just because everything smells so good.

After going inside and spending time sniffing various tester vials, including one with the white musk the shop is locally legendary for, I purchase a couple of bottles of essential oils: frankincense and spikenard. I like the way they smell on me, and the frankincense in particular reminds me of when Magister and I cast circle. I also have the oils added to shampoo and conditioner. I like the idea of my hair smelling like magickal work.

I decide to go home before I spend any more. I don't mind being decadent, but I don't want to cross the line into profligacy. It isn't a good habit to get into.

"What is that you're wearing? There's definitely some frankincense in there, but there's something else blended in that I can't identify. It's not myrrh. Is it vetiver, maybe?"

"Spikenard."

He pauses for a few minutes. "It smells like consecrated savagery... It's very you," he says at last. "I like it."

"Want to see what else I picked up to wear to the concert? It's really snazzy."

"I've never seen you in formal clothing before. This should be interesting. Yes, please."

I make a hasty exit to the bedroom, where I shed my street clothes and don my new apparel. It occurs to me as I do so that I don't have any shoes that would go with it - all I have are a pair of sneakers and a pair of penny loafers, neither of which are appropriate for coordinating with formal wear - and I will have to go out again sometime in the next few days to purchase a cheap pair of black ballet flats or sandals or something, and coordinating hose, if I can find pantyhose that fit me. Terrific. More shopping. The last time I wore pantyhose was when I was a freshman in college and was only about five-eleven. Do they even make pantyhose in my size?

"You can look now," I say at last, once I have on the velvet blouse and the skirt. It took a long time to button up the blouse; there were a lot of buttons to push through loops.

The expression that appears on his face is extremely gratifying.

"Well, well," he breathes. "Very striking indeed. Black is certainly a good color for you. I'm surprised you don't wear it more often. It makes your red hair stand out." A corner of his mouth begins to twitch into a smile. "The effect is rather intimidating. You might want to make note of that; it could come in handy later. That blouse, in particular. I'm not sure what I want to do more, run my hands over it, or congratulate you on your instinctual good taste in dominatrix couture..."

"Run your hands all over it, of course, and then devour me. That's my suggestion," I offer helpfully.

He grins. "Certainly. Your wish is my command."

"Oh, stop," I reply, giggling, and fall into his arms.