Bunny Business [2]

Marcelo arrived home stumbling in his heels, with glitter still on his eyelashes and the white pompom swinging between his legs. The costume clung to his new body as if it had been custom-made — which, in a way, it was. Magic made sure to keep everything perfectly tight. And permanently embarrassing.

He faced the front door with the basket of eggs still on his arm, sighed deeply and rang the doorbell.

His wife opened the door. She arched an eyebrow. She closed the door.

Five minutes later, she opened it again, this time with her arms crossed.

“Explain.”

Marcelo tried. He said it had happened out of nowhere, that he didn’t know why, that it was some kind of mystical prank. He talked about the party, about the new employee, about a snap of his fingers — and all while trying to pull up his cleavage and pull down his tight shorts.

His wife listened to everything in silence.

— “And what exactly did you do before you became... this?”

He hesitated.

She didn’t.

— “Okay then. Good luck with your new life. I didn’t marry a woman.”

And so, with a kiss in the air and a suitcase on the floor, Marcelo — now Marcela, according to the new company nametag — began to live his new reality.

The company, to everyone’s surprise, kept the contract. HR made a statement about “respecting diversity and alternative realities.” But the real hell began in the kitchen.

Her colleagues — especially the men — didn’t miss a chance. They whistled. They made jokes. Exactly like Marcelo used to do before.

And the worst part: the curse of the scandalous costume remained firm. It didn’t matter what she tried to wear — everything turned into a miniskirt, a plunging neckline, or some variation of “sexy bunny from a cheap boutique.”

She tried to wear sweatpants one day. She arrived at work and was magically wearing a hot pink vinyl suit and thigh-high boots.

Each step was a test of balance and patience.

Marcela started walking with her arms crossed over her chest, looking around suspiciously. She began to understand what it was like to feel like a “walking target.”

And so, between forced flirting and involuntary costumes, she learned a painful, daily and very hard lesson.