When the glove finally slips past the second knuckle of my fingers, I sigh, glad that it is the final piece of my disguise. A glance at the mirror shows the fruits of my labor. One thin man clad head to toe in clothing with nary a sliver of skin in sight, which is excellent since I have none. I’m lucky it’s February and freezing outside because a man in a parka, scarf, hat, and mittens is liable to appear out of place in May. The sunglasses are a tad odd, but this is the 21st century. Who doesn’t look eccentric on the streets nowadays? No, no. In the city, I blend in as long as I act natural. Taking another peek at my face, I make out the ridge of my zygomatic bone poking out from the top of my scarf. 

“Bollocks,” I mutter. I do not wish to go to this extreme, but it seems I must. Anything for dear Kiki. 

Picking up the pancake, I powder the cream pigment onto the ivory area and watch it darken. Another inspection of myself, and I deem it convincing enough. After all, nobody is going to perform a microscopic examination on me. It only needs to fool a handful of clerks. Rifling through my pocketbook, I count the bills of money and go over the prices for each item I put on my shopping list. Satisfaction fills me when I note an excess of funds. It’s been so hard to tell the amount for goods with how much inflation has risen in the past one hundred and fifty years. As a skeleton, I can’t work per se, but I do have a family vault in the house that no one knows about except me. Pawning a few trivial items from there has proven a worthy investment. There are several pieces that may prove harder to sell in the future without assistance, like that Winslow Homer painting, or that pump organ. But that’s a worry for another day.

I lock the house up behind me and start down the street towards the market. The crinkled map I pull out of my pocket shows that I need to cross at this upcoming intersection. At the corner, I wait for the traffic light to change colors. Kiki’s warning to never cross against a red has stuck with me. How can it not when she rants about the idiots who jaywalk in front of cars at least once a week to me? When it’s my turn, I trot down the striped lane, only to feel my hat lift off my skull. Without thinking, I snatch the stupid hamburg and hold it to the top of my head as I dash from the area. Each meter I jog, I check back to see if anyone’s following me and relax when it’s clear no one is. Another turn, and I’m standing outside of the florist. Wait. I inspect the shop’s name and its address, noting the incredible coincidence of the situation. 

“You know what? That’s fine.” I shove the map into a nearby trash can. Luck got me this far, so I’m letting it take me all the way.

Upon entering the store, my nose is blown away by the sheer aroma engulfing my senses. For someone who no longer has a nose, I cannot imagine what normal mortals are going through. I peruse the selection of flora, scanning for the type that means a specific message when given to a person: eternal love. Examining each flower specimen, I consider what colors Kiki prefers, and my mind strays. Thoughts of my beloved lying in a field full of blooming plants, her body scantily hidden by the petals, flash through my mind. I daydream, passing a good twenty minutes in front of a display, and wonder if Kiki is willing to roll on a bed of petals with me later. 

Perhaps I linger too long because an elderly woman buying a potted plant glares at me for blocking the path to the counter. Not wanting the police to show up on account of a “suspicious individual,” I pay for a bouquet of heliotropes and baby’s breath before fleeing the establishment. 

My stroll home is less eventful, but I do not dawdle. Kiki’s shift ends at 5 p.m., so I need to hurry if I want time to set up my surprise. When I arrive, I hang up my disguise and change into my apron. Have to stay tidy because no person likes a messy skeleton. Lord knows Kiki makes a mess for the both of us and doesn’t require me to add to it. I move to the kitchen and begin my preparations. Trimming the blooms, watering them, and setting them up in a vase is my first course of action. When that’s done, I remove the chocolates I made earlier from the fridge. They’re sufficiently hard, and I start decorating them. Only, it’s a harder endeavor than the baking vloggers made it out to be. I try piping out little bits of frosting, but it clumps, going everywhere it isn’t supposed to. Attempt two, with sprinkles, isn’t any better. In fact, visually, I think it looks worse. When it’s all done, and I run out of clean chocolates, there are a couple somewhat presentable specimens. 

“How did I go from twenty to a pair?” The other eighteen ugly chocolates sit there, mocking me. Kiki doesn’t care about tiny decorating mistakes…does she? 

Women of my era most assuredly care, but thank heavens they’re all dead. Shoving insecurities aside, I box up the sweets, hideous morsels and all. There. Now both gifts are ready for Kiki. 

Just in time, since the doorbell rings right after I straighten up the kitchen. Peeping through the spyhole, I make out the curvy figure of my girlfriend. Ever since her key got stuck in the lock last Halloween, she refuses to carry it, and waits for me to open the door. My key is the original to the house and unlocks the house with no issue, but the copies always jam the locks. Besides, Kiki says she prefers me waiting to welcome her home. After a hard day at work, her morale needs a boost and the solution to that is me pampering her. 

“Come on, Reginald! It’s cold out here.” She knocks on the wood.

I swing the door open, and Kiki slips in along with the chilly winter wind.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Kiki,” I whisper. My hands twist in apprehension at her reaction. Please like the presents.

“Aw, Happy Valentine’s, babe.” She leans over and kisses my jaw. “What’s that on your face?”

Kiki pats my cheeks and shows me the powder on her fingers. 

“Uh, well. I had to run an errand, so I used a little…”

“You borrowed my foundation? Come on, Reginald. You’re several shades lighter than me. At least use an ivory tone next time, eh?” She laughs. 

I release a sigh, happy she’s not upset at my pilfering of her pancake.  

“By the way, I got you a little something.” Digging into her bag, she pulls out a small box and hands it to me. Opening it reveals a man’s ring with a singular stone set in the silver band. 

“I know it’s not what you were used to when you were living here as a fancy socialite, but when I get a better job, you’ll get an upgrade.” Kiki plays with the necklace around her neck. She avoids looking at me until I lift her chin, forcing eye contact. 

“I love it. I love you. Please put it on me.” 

“Yes, sir!” She smiles. The ring slides on without resistance. I rub the side of my face against hers, and Kiki embraces me, holding tight. 

We stand in the foyer hugging, with our arms around each other, but all I think about are the two gifts waiting for her in the next room. 

Damn. I knew I should have gone to a jeweler. 

Editor: Michelle Naragon