GRAY RAINBOW
I’m more uncomfortable when Jake strides past the server and secures a table for two—the best seats. Late, the rooftop is nearly empty. Downtown yawns before us. The St. Louis Arch frowns.
“This is the view I wanted,” he says.
I order a drink in short words. “I’ll have the sex change,” says my pitch.
“I could eat,” he says. “You?”
I’m okay if he eats me. I’m starving for relief from dysphoria, or I hate my body. I believe the difference matters. What does a trachea weigh, testicles, a few millimeters of bone?
Jake asks about my other partners. Might he run into us at Pride? “My wife is bisexual, and my kid recently came out. She’s trans.”
“Congrats.” What else to say—him fucking trans women will be great for his daughter’s self-esteem?
Except we didn’t.
Jake spots an industry friend at the bar and excuses himself to say hi while I relive tonight’s disappointments. “Sixty-dollar entry,” warned the first concierge. “Guests only,” policed the second—so Jake asked when the policy changed, he was here last week, and insisted they let us upstairs to save our date. Maybe he sensed they’d clocked me and deemed us trouble. Maybe he sweated to prove he’s not a bigot or to stand up for his kid.
Still, it’s plausible the friend is an excuse to dodge being seen with me in public. How to explain me? I can’t always—and can’t turn around to read their conversation, too afraid he won’t be there.
The server returns with my prosecco in a plastic cup and Jake’s cheese fries. It’s not an especially attractive appetizer but fits the expectations of a plate of cheese fries: yellow sticks, evenly distributed goo. It’s desirable because it’s typical.
The server gestures at her own blond, bio girl face to give herself permission to talk about mine. “You’re so beautiful and so brave,” she says, confirming how unreal I am. Few women doll like I do, which draws attention but conjures the intended mirage—me. I want to scream. If the game is realness, trying is failure. I smile until she leaves me on the windy balcony, alone. Pre-HRT, I would consider jumping. Being alive hurts plenty. What’s worse than despair? An open wound—hope.
Can I schedule two-hour sessions? I email counselor Kathryn.
Jake yanks me into his bristly arms for a photo. I see us reflected in the camera: him round, robust, handsome, and me … To be seen in public with this person who believes she’s a woman—I feel ashamed for him, like his mother, or mine.
I desert to the bathroom and message my guy friend: Should I be self-conscious Jake couldn’t stay hard?
My mouth reeks like seawater. Bull rushing my doorstep, already a few drinks in, Jake initiated sex with me within minutes of his gallant act of picking me up from my apartment. My first time with a cis guy as a woman, I can’t decide if the fifteen-minutes on my knees was empowering. Bangs windblown, my receded hairline glares like a scar. Jagged in the mirror, I reapply my face. If Jake isn’t at the table when I return, I’ll be devastated and relieved.
Nah, if he wasn’t into you, he wouldn’t have made it physical or keep trying, my guy friend says.
I’m the type of woman guys fuck when they’re horny-curious or horny-kind, I don’t reply. The line cuts, is self-harm. Deleting doesn’t heal but consoles. I’m a type of woman.
Across the table, almost proud, Jake’s brown eyes mean their warmth. We’re less friends than strangers, yet I suspect he loves me more than I do. It’s easier for him, I know, being here, alive. Does existing count as self-love? My limp bangs flop. I look away from him. Maybe tomorrow the Arch will gleam.
“Let’s go big.” Jake orders dessert—lemon pound cake soaked in strawberry sauce, a cascade of whipped cream. I puncture three bloody berries, surrender my fork. “Don’t make me eat all this myself.” Jake takes my hand. I try to determine if mine feels like a man’s hand or a woman’s until he squeezes. He’s halfway through the cake. Whipped cream crusts his beard. He’s enjoying himself. I want to be.
Crystal Odelle (they/she) (@crystal_ography) is a queer trans writer, chapbooks editor at Newfound, and author of the novel Goodnight. Their flash stories have appeared in Gulf Coast, bedfellows, beestung, Passages North, Strange Horizons, and elsewhere. Crystal was a Tin House Scholar and has been nominated for Best of the Net. She writes RPGs at Feverdream Games and serves as academic & administrative coordinator for the Department of Women, Gender, & Sexuality Studies at Washington University in St. Louis.