By the end of the week, I’ve spoken to all the business owners on the street. Tessa at the coffee shop and Mabel from Weirdaker Games at the other end of Duke Street have both agreed to write a letter of support for my street party zoning application.

When I’m across the street at Tessa’s getting her signature, she runs over her plans for a stall.

“It may be basic,” she warns me. “I don’t want to do a ton of baking for the end of the day if we don’t have a clear idea for turnout numbers.”

“Basic is fine.” It’s what I usually serve at the bar. Pretzels, bowls of nuts, cheese plates.

“We could do candy. Trick or treat at each stall. It technically contributes to the requirements of having food on hand to go with the alcohol.”

I laugh out loud, grab my phone, and text Meadow to get her thoughts.

I repeat that line to Tessa, and she agrees. While I was texting, she picked up her Tarot deck. She notices that I noticed, and holds it out. “Do you want a reading?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Another time, I’ve still got a lot of planning to do and a bar to run.”

Something about Meadow’s text continues to whirl around in my mind as I walk back to the bar.

Grown-up trick or treaters.

Grown-up.

I rub my hand over my jaw.

One way to get a good minimum number of people to turn out, people who would buy food from the coffee shop and keep me in good standing with a business neighbour, would be to invite a bunch of community groups with large volunteer pools. I happen to know a few of those circles.

Free tables for any non-profit group. I rap my knuckles on my desk and open a new email window.

The response is overwhelming. And through the grapevine come requests for paying tables, too, from vendors in the city who are tired of fighting for overpriced event opportunities there.

I set up an application form on Saturday. By Sunday, I have thirty interested vendors and there’s only enough space for twenty in the requested licensed area.

“That’s a good problem to have,” Meadow says as she slowly picks at a muffin in the doorway to my office Monday afternoon. “Isn’t it?”

I tug on my short-cropped beard. Not short-cropped enough right now. I’ve been distracted by the street party planning and haven’t trimmed it in a few weeks. “I don’t want to burn any bridges. But on the other hand, I want the event to seem like an in-demand booking. Right now, I’ve confirmed ten vendors and put the rest on a waiting list. I’ll pull most off the list in the end, I think. We can have a second row of vendors outside the licensed area, around the corner.”

She nods slowly. “Cool. What else do you have planned?”

I flip through my notes. “Outdoor heaters, because some of the costumes will be…risqué, I bet.”

“Like, how risqué are we talking?” Her foot thunks against the door frame as she stands more at attention. “Because right now, my costume plan is pretty pedestrian, and if I need to step up my game, I need time to get organized.”

“It’s not a contest.” Definitely not a contest. One of the vendors asked that, because they wanted to sponsor a prize. Nuh. Not my style to judge people as better or hotter than others. I want this to be as inclusive as possible. “Be your adorable self and don’t worry about how dirty other costumes get.”

“I’m not worried,” she says frostily. “But good to know you think I’m adorable.”

The way she says it pricks at me, and I lift my head to look at her.

Oh yeah, that’s a familiar glare. No woman wants to be told she’s not sexy. I give her a grin. “Sorry. You’re sexy as hell, Meadow. It’s all good. Wear whatever you want.”

Her nose is still out of joint, though. She drops her hands, her muffin forgotten now. “I feel like this party has changed significantly from the funtimes beer garden of last week.”

“I guess it has.” I shrug. I don’t care if things are sliding around. That’s life. Great ideas emerge from chaos. “Maybe hold off until we finalize the theme and announce the list of vendors. But because you’re my friend, I’ll give you a heads up—there will be some fetish wear in the mix. Lots of role-play type costumes.”

“Kinky stuff?” She doesn’t blink.

Meadow—the good doctor, the sweet tenant—doesn’t blink at kinky costumes.

I guess one sees everything at the hospital, but I was expecting her to squirm a little.

Deep down, I’m a little disappointed she didn’t, which is fucked up. It’s good that she’s cool with whatever. “Yep.”

“Huh.” She looks at me, eyes narrowed. “That is a change.”

“Kind of developed over the weekend while you were working.”

“Interesting.” Then she smiles, her eyes twinkling, and leans in. “Can you imagine me as a Domme, Bas?”

My mouth runs dry. No, I can’t. Not even a little bit. I can see her in a collar, naked except for a small strip of leather stamped Property of Absalom. I can see her in a 1950’s pin-up girl costume, walking funny because I make her put a plug in her sweet, round ass before she goes out to play.

I can see her in any number of submissive costumes.

None of them are appropriate for me to suggest, so it’s good that she giggles and shakes her head. “Oh, man, the look on your face.” She goes back to nibbling on her muffin, frostiness gone, and I choose discretion over trying to explain anything.

I don’t have a good explanation.

I do, however, have a semi-hard dick. And it’s interfering with my ability to think clearly, so when she finishes her snack, and says she’s heading upstairs to nap, I forget to tell her that I know a lot of the people who will come to the party.

I’ve played with a fair number of them. In dungeons and at sex parties.

Hey, so, your landlord is a dirty dog, and you might want to re-think joking about sexy costumes with him. Also, he’d totally understand if you’re re-thinking the entire friendship.

Except that would be a lie. I’d fucking hate that.

I should tell her sooner than later. Ease her into the idea that I have a darker side, but it’s no big deal.

And my fantasies—of the collar, of a rosy pink ass, or a cute little bunny tail wiggling at me as she hops away—will stay safely locked up.

What Meadow wears to the street party is entirely up to Meadow—and none of my business.