“Now that you have a girlfriend, you need clothes that aren’t cloaks or made of yarn.”

  I flipped through a rack of shirts, my hood hiding a grimace.

  “Cloaks are comfortable. And timeless. I’ve worn them exclusively for centuries. You’re the first to complain.”

  “They weren’t stylish centuries ago, and they’re not stylish now, Gray.”

  The other reapers wouldn’t put up with this. Then again, they don’t have girlfriends. Maybe Dawn was right, I looked at my awesome Adidas kicks.

  She usually was.

  “Fine, I’ll get new clothes.”

  I found a stylish shirt covered in corgi butts.

  “How about this one?”

  Dawn slapped my hand. “Put that down. Nobody wants to see dog butts—regardless of what Clamstagram tells you.”

  I kept flipping through.

  “Why’re you here and not Alexia? She’s a lot nicer. And stylish.”

  “She’s at work, dear. And I wouldn’t place this burden on that sweet woman. Besides, it's a grandmother’s job to make sure her grandkids are stylish.”

  “This one is pretty awesome.”

  “Gray, that’s a Phish shirt—with a ‘ph.’ No one likes Phish. Not even Phish fans.”

  She pulled out a boring striped button-up.

  “Try this on.”

  “There’s no picture on it. That doesn’t seem stylish.”

  “Try it on. I’ll go look for pants and skirts. What size are you?”

  “Skeleton or human?”

  “Human. Obviously.”

  “I have no idea.”

  She rolled her eyes and walked away.

  I took the striped shirt—checked to make sure Dawn was out of sight—and grabbed the corgi shirt anyway. According to bumper stickers, corgi butts drive people nuts. I liked it when Alexia went nuts.

  In the dressing room, I removed my cloak and slipped into the striped shirt. The mirror told me I looked pretty handsome, but I wanted to know what other people thought.

  I stepped out and the attendant put her phone down, pointing.

  “Ser, you need to wear underpants out here… no matter how many genitals you have,”

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  I looked down at my bits, then slowly backed into the dressing room.

  I removed the striped shirt, tied it around my waist, put on the corgi shirt, and walked back out.

  “C’mon,” the attendant groaned. “You have to buy that shirt now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s touching your junk.”

  “And that is not permitted?”

  She gave me a bemused look. “Not until you pay for it.”

  “I see. What should I use to cover my junk?”

  Phone halfway up, she rolled her eyes. “Usually underwear: boxers, briefs, panties, and such.”

  I sighed. So many rules for clothes shopping. Why would anyone willingly do this?

  “I’ll look for underwear while Dawn retrieves pants for me.”

  “Our men’s wear has a section.”

  “I’m not a man.”

  “Women’s wear also has a section.”

  “I’m not a woman.”

  “Look in both sections and pick what you like. For your own good, take off that corgi shirt.”

  I backed into the dressing room, returned the corgi shirt to its hanger, untied the striped shirt, replaced it, then threw my cloak on.

  As I left, the attendant stopped me, never looking up from her phone.

  “Don’t forget,” she said, fingers dancing on her screen, “you have to buy the striped one.”

  “Of course. I would not break the rules… again.”

  I handed her the corgi shirt, disappointed. “Stickers say corgi butts drive people nuts—they’re obviously mistaken.”

  I sulked off towards the undergarments. Why had neither Dawn nor Alexia mentioned them?

  The dizzying options swirled in my head. Each choice felt heavier than the last.

  Ten minutes later, I sat defeated, buried in a pile of underwear.

  “Why are there so many?”

  Boyshorts and boxer briefs were exactly the same. Panties looked insanely comfortable. Briefs seemed like some sort of trap. Boxers were just shorts with a hole. Thongs seemed impractical.

  I rested my head in my hands, exasperated, and tried to regulate my breathing.

  My head was cloudy.

  Sweat soaked through my cloak.

  My entire body shook.

  “Gray? Dear, what’s wrong?”

  I heard Dawn’s voice in the distance, like seeing a bird on a lost boat.

  “Gray, honey.”

  A little closer.

  “Gray!”

  A hand touched my shoulder, and I looked up. Dawn’s concerned eyes met mine.

  “There are too many, Dawn! Panties, thongs, boxers, briefs, and some that make no sense! I don’t know what to get, but I have to wear them—or buy everything that touches my junk! And corgi butts do not drive people nuts!”

  Dawn sat down and draped her arm around my shoulders.

  “Gray, breathe with me. In—1234—out—1234.”

  After a minute or two, I calmed.

  “Dawn, maybe this is all too much. Perhaps I’m nothing but a hassle to Alexia. Maybe I don’t belong in the human world—”

  Dawn lovingly smacked the back of my head, birds and stars clouding my vision for a moment.

  “Oh hush, you idiot. Grab some boyshorts, boxer briefs, and whatever else—in medium—and come with me to the dressing room.”

  “If the garments touch my genitals, we must buy them.”

  She smirked. “Not if they don’t know about it.”

  Dawn accompanied me to the dressing room. The attendant didn’t look up from her phone. I tried on various pants and skirts. None had corgi butts or superheroes. Fashion obviously had no taste.

  At checkout, I managed to sneak in a Captain California and a cat-butt shirt.

  I wasn’t sure if cat butts drove people nuts, but I would soon find out. Alexia and I had a date that night—she really liked my new underwear.

  boxers, boyshorts, and corgi shirts are not.