“How much of literature is predicated by women falling for a paper-thin disguise?” Arnold asked Alison as he moved a box of photographs out of the closet. “Are women traditionally bad at facial recognition?” He set the box next to her on the bed.
“Why do you ask, Tom?” Alison stiffly questioned before immediately slouching to ask, “You see what I did there?”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Arnold replied, returning to the closet.
“It’s a bit.”
“Yeah.”
“Lois Lane disease is a real phenomenon, though,” Alison added. “People can easily be thrown off by little things.” She laid on the bed, staring at the phone held at the end of her fully extended left arm. “I heard that when Ted Bundy was on all the wanted posters that he was able to walk around everywhere just by painting a dot on his face.”
“A dot?”
“Well, like a fake mole.”
“Oh,” Arnold replied, understanding.
“But, you know, men and women both fall for disguises in Shakespeare,” she stated, “and I can’t imagine that their crossdressing techniques were all that sophisticated. RuPaul was still hundreds of years away.”
“I guess. But it is Countess Olivia who falls in love with Cesario who is really Viola. And, like, the other way though too. Little Red Riding Hood thinks that a wolf is her grandma just because he wears a bonnet.”
“Well, she’s just a dumb bitch.”
“Yeah, probably,” Arnold said. He moved a heavy box, revealing a human head; its face matched Arnold’s.