JAMES MAKES LOVE WEARING a Kim Kardashian outfit—black wig, lace bodice, sequined shorts with a flap that releases his dick. Our first time I was surprised in a good way, since my ex accused me of being white bread in bed. The silky black strands of the Kardashian wig feel quite pleasant cascading across my face. Actually, I like all of it—the juxtaposition of leather and lace, the sequins, the role play. Juxtaposition, I can hear my ex say. You can’t stop being an academic even when someone is rubbing your clit. He was my Renaissance Studies professor, until I switched my PhD focus to Victorian Literature. We did it in his office, his Subaru, his bed, next to a picture of him and his wife, who traveled a lot for work. Prude, he whispered. You’re such a silly schoolgirl. Though he wanted me to dress as one in a plaid skirt and white cotton blouse, penny loafers with no socks. I couldn’t do it. I already felt so young and foolish. The outfit was gilding the lily. You might be asking yourself why I slept with him for seven months, why I wasn’t the one to break things off, why his voice keeps percolating in my head. I know I do.

James adjusts his wig, which is slightly askew from the bouncing. Why Kim? We’re sipping macchiatos he’s made from coffee, ice and lavender tonic. Didn’t she get butt implants? He takes a sip, says, because she’s so fierce. Who do you want to be? I get a discount at the Halloween pop up store next to Target. Anyone other than me. But that sounds bad. I tell him I’ll be a Care Bear next time. I’ve been anticipating his question, which is how I know there’s a purple Share Bear that comes in plus size. A hooded jumpsuit, with attached mitts and shoe covers so only your face is visible. Cool, James says. I envy his utter lack of self-consciousness, his ability to get what he needs without shame or games.

One time with my ex, I agreed to dress up as Ophelia. Remember her? From Hamlet? I wore something I found at Goodwill that looked like a cross between a wedding dress and a nightgown. Made tiny flowers out of tissue paper, pinned them to my hair. Powdered my face bone white. Then I lay in bed, next to the photo of his friendly looking wife, and kept myself perfectly still. Because in every picture of Ophelia you can’t tell if she’s sleeping or dead. My body is a costume, actually. Folds, flab, creases, scars. It keeps expanding until it swallows the real me whole. That’s why I put my phone on top of a book called Sixteenth Century Fantasies and recorded a video of us. My ex in a cheesy doublet and breeches. Me in my Ophelia dress. I thought his wife might like to know who she’s married to though I couldn’t bring myself to press send.

The problem with Cosplay is it doesn’t really work. I’m still me under the costume and I’m not a good enough actress to pretend otherwise. In High School, I tried out for all the plays and ended up painting scenery. On the other hand, I’m sick of being white bread in bed. Sick of Ophelia’s passivity, her maybe-I’m-mad-maybe-I’m-not sad girl vibe.

James finishes his drink, strokes my thigh. You wanna do it again, he asks. I grab the corset from where he threw it on the carpet. Tie it tight, tighter, tightest. Pluck the wig from James’ head. It feels like an animal that’s missing a tail. Part of me, for a little while. Okay, this time I’ll be Kim. •



Beth Sherman is the author of the novella-in-flash, HOW TO GET THERE FROM HERE (Ad Hoc Fiction). She has had more than 250 stories published in literary journals, including Ghost Parachute, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly, where she’s a Submissions Editor. Her work appears in Best Microfiction 2024 and 2026 and Best Small Fictions 2025.

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