Monday morning before the sun rose, Cordy and Willow dropped me off at the
  bus station. Cordy was supportive but bewildered. Once she had gotten over
  the initial shock of our body swap, Cordelia had rebounded with her usual
  bluntness and aplomb.

  Cordelia could not understand why we were going through with this charade
  when, obviously, "Messes like this just don't get fixed. You two are
  dreaming." Still, she hugged me goodbye with enough moisture in her eyes
  that my heartstrings tugged.

  Willow's goodbye was quiet. Her mood had been subdued over the weekend and
  I was worried about her. I hugged Willow next. "Are you gonna be OK?" I
  asked, stepping back. I am starting to get used to the differences in our
  sizes.

  "Sure," Willow replied. "I'm great!" Her lower lip quivered bravely and
  her forced smile could not have convinced a country boob.

  I wanted to console her again but my bus was leaving. I could not delay any
  long. "Be brave," I directed, stepping up into the bus. I spoke to Willow
  but my words were meant for both of them. Cordy has already lost one good
  friend recently. We both have. I am not sure that she was ready for my
  departure, however temporary.

  I took a seat in the back of the bus, one that let me see my friends as the
  Greyhound pulled out. I waved goodbye for as long as they were in sight,
  and they waved back. Once I could not longer see them, I curled up on the
  seat and tried not to cry.

  I was numb, alone, and afraid. None of those feelings are strangers to me.
  I have felt them many times in the last two and a half centuries. This
  time, though, everything has changed. My sense of identity is shattered. I
  no longer know who I am. Even my body is no longer my own; it is a loaner.

  And so, off I go to begin my new life as Willow Anne Rosenberg. Oh, what a
  shining, bold adventure!

  #

  Before I had left LA, I had packed a few antiques in case of an emergency.
  Cordelia complains that she does not understand how anyone my age can be
  dirt poor. Having seen more than one economy rise and fall, more than one
  currency devaluate overnight, I actually prefer to keep my assets tied up in
  antiques and objects d'art.

  I have not told her my real value because I am scared she would spend it.
  Guilt over my deception has cost me the price of a gourmet coffee maker and
  new--previously mentioned--hardwood floors.

  My first real emergency manifested itself in the way of Willow's wardrobe.
  I had not the heart to tell her that I found her taste in clothes wanting.
  I had agreed to live her life, but I refused to dress like her. It is a
  vanity but one I can live with.

  I pawned a couple Seth Thomas Sonora chime clocks to a less than reputable
  dealer near the bus depot. I got only a thousand, half of what the two
  timepieces were worth, but enough to meet my needs.

  Then, I called my "mom". The phone to her office rang twice. "Hello?" Mrs.
  Rosenberg greeted.

  "Mom?" I squeaked. It was not intentional but I ran over a mental
  mom-stumble. Ironically, I came out sounding just like Willow.

  "Willow, honey! How was your tour of the UCLA campus?"

  A campus tour was Willow's--my--cover story. "Great!" I replied and cut to
  the chase before she could grill me for details. "Mom, I'm down at the bus
  terminal. I need a ride. Could you pick me up?"

  I must get a driver's license and a car, ASAP.

  Willow's mother exhaled. I sensed annoyance and detachment. "I'm sorry,
  dear, but you *know* that I'm in conferences all morning long. Why don't
  you use your ATM card to take out some cash and catch a taxi home?"

  "OK," I agreed readily enough. I would have done anything to delay my first
  mother/daughter 'conference' as long as possible. I patted myself down and
  located the bankcard. It had a VISA/MasterCard logo on it and barely looked
  used. "What's my PIN?"

  She spat out the number and scolded me for being absent-minded. I
  apologized and quickly memorized the number. One more test, I decided. "Is
  it OK if I buy a car?"

  No hesitation. "Yes, dear, but make sure you keep your withdrawal to under
  ten thousand. And make sure it has solid tires."

  I attentively promised to kick them hard and hung up. Willow had warned me
  that her mother would never have time for me and would never hear anything I
  said. I had thought she was exaggerating until now.

  I caught a taxi to the mall.

  #

  To be a woman, I had to think like a woman.

  Think Pink.

  No matter how hard I tried, I could not bring myself to do it. From the
  looks of Willow's bright and myriad colored clothing, she had already
  thought pink, along with every other loud and noisy primary under the sun.

  Screw Pink.

  This was not working for me, so I reinvented my thinking. To be a woman, I
  had to dress like a woman, act like a woman, and think like a woman. Women
  do not wear pink, girls do.

  Think She.

  New mantra in mind, I methodically inventoried what I would need for a
  complete wardrobe and set out to buy one like a man, quickly and
  efficiently. I started with underwear and Victoria's Secret.

  What should have taken ten minutes took an hour. Bras are the twisted
  invention of a tortured mind. Those that fit comfortably are uglier than
  sin and the real cock-teasers hurt like a bitch. I settled for maximum sex
  appeal per square inch possible. Screw comfort. No pain; no gain.

  I cannot blame the whole time delay on the bras. To my delight, I
  discovered that women's dressing rooms are sided with mirrors on all sides.

  And I reflected!

  My tongue was practically hanging out of my mouth as I pealed off Willow's
  clothing to reveal pale, beautiful flesh. Bare naked flesh that reflected!
  Suffice it to say that there had not been any mirrors at my place so this
  was the first good look I had gotten at myself undressed.

  Way distracting to a sex-starved vampire. As previously stated, Willow has
  great tits. I paused more than once to admire them in the mirror in between
  bras. One thing led to another and before I knew it, I had decided to
  examine them more carefully.

  Her left breast is microscopically smaller than the right but that is quite
  common. They are as soft as feather down, pert and perky in personality,
  and her nipples are pink, almost coral colored. Fabulous.

  They felt as wonderful as they looked.

  I was soaked through to my panties by the time my hands were done wandering.
  Willow would have slapped me silly if she could have seen. My only regret
  was that I could not reach them with my mouth.

  Luckily, women have a much easier time concealing arousal than men do. I
  was a walking orgasm in women's underwear when I left the store and set out
  for a clothing boutique.

  I dressed myself with a critical eye. My detachment from Willow's body
  allowed me to assess her strengths and weaknesses with an unbiased eye.
  Overall, she has a killer body. I was amazed what she managed to hide under
  baggy, obnoxiously bright clothes. She downplays her assets.

  Willow's hair is by far her best feature. I have always liked the bold
  color, and her new, shorter cut is chic enough to satisfy even my demanding
  tastes. I am pleased to report that I could locate no evidence of dying.
  Everything appears natural.

  My style choices involved clean, classy lines and darker, dramatic colors
  that invoked a touch of mystery. As I experimented with trying stuff on, I
  found that I liked short and revealing for skirts, sheer and revealing for
  blouses.

  I especially liked revealing.

  Willow looks fabulous in jade, burgundy, brown, and black. The less
  material the better is a tried and true formula when it comes to playing up
  a woman's assets, and it was one I stuck to.

  Shoes came next. High heels, boots, high heeled boots...you get the
  picture. I have no idea how to walk in heels but Buffy and Faith manage to
  fight in them. I can learn.

  Accessories, makeup... I went through over seven hundred dollars within
  three hours and I only bought the basics of a new wardrobe. It is a good
  thing that stores deliver because I never could have carried all of the
  packages by myself. It would have been nice to have my body along to carry
  stuff.

  I stopped at a knife store also and purchased a couple fighting knives with
  six-inch blades. They were honed to razor-sharpness, easily concealed even
  under scant clothing, and perfectly balanced for throwing.

  I mastered knife fighting in France during the Revolution. It was a hobby,
  one that amused me at the time, but I have had little use for since.
  Considering Willow's lack of physical prowess, it was a compromise in
  self-defense until I could train her body into shape.

  Laden down with packages, I headed for a phone to call another cab when I
  walked by a leather store. The heavenly smell of fresh leather was too
  much. It led me in by my nose.

  next