9
She dragged me out shopping.
I didn’t exactly understand why she was so determined to have me tag along, considering I shot down every single piece of clothing she showed me—and she, inevitably, bought it anyway.
Then I realized the truth: she didn’t need my opinion. She needed a witness. A sidekick. Someone to use as a talking mirror while she processed out loud the sacred teachings of la Contessa’s manual.
I wasn’t there to contribute. I was there to absorb. To nod occasionally. To hum “mmm.”
She could have brought a life-sized mannequin with my face taped onto it. Same effect.
And no, we didn’t end up in Manhattan, browsing chic stores along Fifth Avenue.
Of course not. Tess hauled me to Williamsburg—her personal kingdom of eccentric gothic style—where the boutiques had names like Moonlight & Silk , The Gothic Drape , or Belle époque Redux .
Which, honestly, was enough to make me roll my eyes.
In the shop windows, the mannequins wore black corsets, veils over their faces, and clutched old books to their chests.
The moment we stepped through the first doorway, I was hit with a wave of incense, patchouli, and the dusty scent of books abandoned in an attic.
The lights were low, filtered through brass lanterns, and the walls were draped in plum and antique gold fabric—threadbare in spots, but clinging to theatrical ambition.
In the background, ethereal harps played music that sounded like it belonged to a druidic ritual.
Tess was hunting for a very specific style: femme fatale meets Victorian witch. A nineteenth-century dark look with decadent enchantress vibes.
Me, in my unrequested role as the voice of reason, tried to bring her back down to earth.
“You do realize the Countess lived in France in the late 1800s, right? She didn’t even know what jeans were. She probably thought a zipper was some kind of torture device. You don’t have to take her literally on everything. You’ve got a hundred and fifty years of fashion to choose from.”
But Tess, of course, wasn’t listening to me. Not even by accident.
I watched her step out of the dressing room in blood-red corsets, sheer high-neck blouses with puffed sleeves, and long layered black skirts. She always looked halfway between a Victorian fortune-teller and the heroine of a three-act gothic drama.
“All you’re missing is a skull in your hand,” I told her once as she admired herself in the mirror. “And we can start Hamlet right away.”
She turned to the sales clerk, dead serious. “Excuse me, do you have a skull?”
Her variations drifted gracefully—if unsettlingly—between gothic widow and sexy urban vampire . Elbow-length lace gloves, a filigree gothic choker, chandelier earrings with blood-red stones.
She had her eye on a black damask handbag and a clutch stamped with esoteric symbols that looked like magical seals. Patent leather ankle boots, medium heel, determination sky-high. Vintage-patterned sheer stockings. And a dark silk scarf, embroidered by hand.
I watched her strut out of the fitting room, one hand on her hip, gaze dramatic, as if she were about to deliver the closing monologue of a tragedy.
“Looks like you’re about to seduce Dracula.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Or stab him. With style.”
Of course, while she tried on outfit after outfit, she never missed a chance to quote the Sacred Manual of la Contessa with the gusto of an actress on tour:
“Don’t dress to please. Dress to leave an echo in someone’s thoughts.”
“Don’t reveal everything. Always leave one fold unresolved, one button undone, one visual enigma. Mystery is more seductive than nudity.”
“A wide-brimmed hat says: ‘Look at me.’ A black glove says: ‘You can’t touch me.’ Learn the language of accessories.”
When I asked if she’d called in sick again today—and whether she wasn’t worried about bumping into a coworker while parading around Williamsburg like Morticia Addams’s glam cousin—she replied with imperial frost: “I have plenty of unused vacation days. And starting today, I plan to use them all.” Then, eyes locked on a pair of black lace gloves, she added, “And who says I’m even going back to work? ”
I stared at her. “Excuse me, what does that mean?”
“Can you imagine?” she said, turning to me with the gravity of someone discussing an irreversible fate. “Me, projecting this elusive, mysterious aura… only to be found shelving dusty books at the public library from ten to six? I’d lose all my mystique.”
“Okay… but what about rent?”
Tess turned slowly, placed a wide-brimmed hat on her head, and looked at me the way you’d look at a child who just asked if Santa Claus was real.
“My dear… true seductresses don’t work. Did Cleopatra work? Did Casanova punch a time card?”
She also bought a vintage perfume with a name that was anything but humble: Regina Obscura – 1912 Edition. It smelled like incense, vodka, and scorched wallpaper. The kind of scent that could easily evoke either a secret mistress of the last tsar or a Russian noblewoman’s parlor going up in flames.
I was exhausted. We went home on the subway, overloaded with bags like two fashion victims who’d just survived a Victorian orgy of velvet and lace.
At one point, Tess pulled out her phone, opened the voice recorder app, and began speaking in a low, velvety tone, as if reciting erotic poetry by candlelight: “You are desire. You are the void that devours them. You are desire and damnation. The vice they never confess. You are the repressed fantasy. The forbidden dream.”
I let her finish, then gave her a long, slow look. “Sorry… what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m creating an audio track,” she explained matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ll listen to it every night with headphones. Self-hypnosis. Because, you see, la Contessa always said: the mind is a seductress’s only true ally.”
“So you’re brainwashing yourself in your sleep?”
“Exactly! It’s an upgraded version of the method. She, poor thing, used to whisper her mantras in the dark until she fell asleep. I, on the other hand, have evolved. My subconscious will receive subliminal messages through every REM cycle.”
I watched her in silence as she went back to recording, with the solemnity of a medium in a trance.
I figured her brain was about to go through a pretty radical phase. Like, from a cosmic void in matters of seduction to a direct injection of concentrated flirting steroids. Forget brainwashing—this was a centrifuge on full blast.
When we finally got home, I stretched my arms and yawned so hard my eyes watered. All I could think about was a long, scalding shower, oversized pajamas, couch, and a dumb movie with no plot and plenty of chocolate.
But of course, Tess had other plans.
“You’re not planning to put on pajamas already, are you, darling?” she asked, slipping off her coat like it was a stage cape. “The day is far from over.”
I shot her a sideways glance, already half-buried in a pillow. “You’ve got to be kidding. Go out? Again? Where exactly?”
She marched toward me with the proud, theatrical stride of someone about to announce a top-secret mission.
“Tonight,” she said, enunciating each word, “we practice.”
“Practice…?”
“Practice with a few warm-up men .”
I looked at her the way you look at a blender running without a lid.
“Excuse me, what?”
“Yes, you heard me. Field test subjects. Human drills. Moving targets. Before we reach the big prize, we warm up with the B-league.”