It was sweltering. Grasshoppers bounced off my leg, and I itched to get out of this grassy field serving as a parking lot. I bit my lip in concentration as I laced up my borrowed corset; a wardrobe choice I was already regretting as I felt beads of sweat drip down the small of my back. Holding the laces, I inhaled. It was harder to breathe, but I probably wasn't going to pass out. Good enough.

I laced a bow behind my back and looked at myself in my car's side-view mirror. The outfit was passable. A pillowy peasant's blouse, a canvas corset, a long flowing skirt, bright blue hair and New Balance tennis shoes. It seemed fitting for the never-quite-accurate renaissance festival.

I tromped through the grass, making my way towards my newfound friends. One of them had lent me the costume I was wearing. I'd only met her the week before, and already I was wearing her clothes. I smirked at the thought; this wasn't the first time that had happened.

I spotted the girl who'd let me borrow her clothes, as well as her girlfriend and girlfriend's kid. She immediately set about fixing the corset. It never works quite right to put them on yourself, I suppose.

A fourth and fifth joined us and we milled around, waiting for one other person. Of everyone who had been at the get-together the past week, only six of us (plus the kiddo) could be bothered to make it out to the fair. I watched the blend of elaborately-costumed faire-goers and regular folks in t-shirts and jeans stream by, making smalltalk with my new friends.

The situation was absurdly nerdy. I was at a renaissance festival, hanging out with people I'd sought out for the sheer fact that we all shared an interest in anthropomorphic animals. A furry meetup at Scarborough Faire. I was riding a gleeful, dorky sort of high at that realization.

A figure dressed like a post-apocalyptic bird-man appeared, waving and speaking muffled greetings. He pulled off his mask, sweaty under the leather. He was dressed as a plague doctor, something I'd apparently managed to never see before.

I'd seen him in passing at the last meetup; he'd paid for the meeting space but wasn't able to stay for the party he'd arranged. Nice fellow, though I questioned his judgment as he stood there in a full black cloak, under the Texas summer sun.

I strained against the corset, already wishing it were looser. I really wasn't in a position to be judging people's costume choices.

We set off to see the sights and enjoy some anachronistic turkey legs. The acts were fine, but I enjoyed the company far more than anything else. After years of outright denying my weird furry hobby, here I was in the company of people who shared it and discussed it freely. I didn't feel shy about discussing my favorite things to draw. My nervous meowing tic wasn't quite so out of place, though to this day I can't explain where it came from.

The plague doctor bought us all mead. The first sip was confusing and unpleasant, the second was delicious. I felt a slight, pleasant warm buzz rattling around my head. I sat, beaming, pleased to be among the beautiful trees with people I enjoyed the company of. It's rare to find friends you fall into step with almost without a pause, and I had.

The day came to a close on a damp wooden bench, trying to ignore the rain. The plague doctor and I sat next to each other, barely paying attention to a fake joust. We must have talked the whole time, because that's all I remember. I didn't really want to stop, either. The conversation came so easy.

But the sun would be setting soon, and none of us wanted to play "Connect the Mosquito Bites" later. We all hugged, we new friends, and the plague doctor and I traded phone numbers. I wanted to keep talking to him.

I did. And I have. It's been nearly a year now, and I'm the happiest I've ever been.