My alarm goes off early the next morning. I’d set it a little before normal to try and simulate a normal work day, which is what it sort of is, I’m just working from home. I want to be me all day today, though. Proper Toni me on a proper work day.
I shower and fix my hair, then get changed into a heavy, wool, knee length skirt, pantihose, my peach fabric ballet flats and a dressy top that’s not too dressy. Maybe work appropriate? I do my lip gloss, BB cream and mascara and try and size myself up, first via the bathroom mirror and then via my phone’s camera.
I send the photo to last night’s group chat with the simple message, “Work outfit?”
I’m sitting down with a coffee and some toast when I get a message back from Sally. “ARE YOU GOING INTO WORK AS TONI!?! THIS IS GREAT!!” With far too many emojis attached.
I message back, “No! Work from home for a few days... No video calls so no-one will see me. I just want to simulate a normal workday, if I can.”
“You’ll get there someday, babe,” comes back from Jess. Then the fashion expertise from her kicks in. “Maybe just a hint too casual. Simpler top. Plain, a white blouse maybe, or a simple dark colour, maybe some vertical flecks of colour or thin coloured stripes through it would work with that skirt — the horizontal weave wool on it. Need more business appropriate shoes and you’re good. What you have now for a more casual Friday, I think. Different shoes, though. Definitely. Do they demand you wear heels?”
“I don’t know. But thanks, Jess. It’s near enough and not bad for a first try, I guess,” I say, disappointed.
“Sorry, Toni. I’ve no real spare work clothes. They might be costly if you’re not picking things up in sales, you know?” Sally says.
“I have time.”
“Yeah, you say that...” Jess says. And my coffee is finished so it’s time to work, but first I figure I need to get one or two household chores out of the way. Thankfully the least most people here get washer/dryers in their apartments, unlike at home, so no need to be wasting hours waiting for anything to be done at a place in the city.
I load it with my clothes from the past few days and set it going after reading the instructions on all the labels; googling a few of the symbols. There’s nothing too fancy apart from Friday night’s dress.
Then I think how long ago was Friday? What day is today? So fucking much has happened. I drop my head and take in what I see, what I feel. I mean, I guess I’m a woman? I certainly feel like I want to be. Like it’s who I’m meant to be. Is it really that easy? I just decide and that’s it? I start living my life. Or as much of it as I can?
Without really thinking about it too deeply, just doing, I’m back on my work laptop and looking at the healthcare plan, and trans care. There’s provision for a lot of stuff. Psychiatrists, therapists, laser hair removal, endocrinologists, various other therapies. Surgery? Surgeries!!? I think... Could I? Should I? I did feel...
I shove that thought from my mind, although it definitely lurks, and make a list of the psychiatrists and therapists who specialise in gender and sexuality. That seems to be the first step in the work plan even though I think this is an Informed Consent area. I’ll have to talk to HR about that. Maybe Therese? See what further care in my plan demands. She was at the LGBTQ+ work group and manages the mailing list.
I begin to look at the complaints and suggestions I got from that group and I’m soon filling up a lot of notepaper with their ideas.
My phone goes off later in the morning after I’ve gotten a lot of work done. I quickly answer it. “How’s it going, Tony?” Greg says.
“Good, yeah,” I say.
“Just good?”
“Won’t Mr. Mayer judge that at the end?”
“About that...” Greg says, and I feel a little dread. “10am Friday morning, at the latest, I want an email from you. Just a quick outline, bullet points if you can, of what you’ll mostly be addressing in the final report. You can still add more after that but your main findings by that morning. Six-hundred words, maximum. I don’t want to be reading Tony’s What I Did On My School Vacation story.”
“Of course, yes. I already have pages and pages of notes.”
“Not pages and pages, Tony. Six-hundred words, max, for me. That’s already a lot. Getting your point across succinctly is important, even if some people don’t seem to listen and need things repeated. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Greg,” I say.
“Also, just to keep you in the loop, we’ve got legal looking at what you saw in the health coverage. International legal. They think there might be something to it. And if there is heads will be rolling. It’ll look like a Quentin Tarantino film — so much gore and blood — it’ll be great; corporate slaughter. I’ll have popcorn. I’ll get you a bootleg copy, screener if possible. So I’ll give you a tentative Well done and a less tentative, How the fuck did our galaxy brain legal team not spot this before?”
“It’s a complex document,” I say. “I just got lucky.”
“Don’t say that, Tony. Modesty can have its place but when you’ve been as useless as you were you need to take credit when you can. This report is another chance for that. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” I say.
“No, Tony. You take credit for this. You get it in writing. Do you understand, now?”
“Yes, I do, Greg.”
“Good,” he says. “Do you plan on any other emergencies coming up, dog’s funeral, favourite niece’s sweet sixteen, unplanned pregnancies?”
“I was thinking of finishing up a little early on Friday but I’ll be putting in the hours between now and then to make up for it.”
“OK, Tony, that’s fine; arse communication with pigeons and all that. It’s not all about hours though. If the report is good it doesn’t matter how many hours you put in and if the report is bad it doesn’t make a difference if you worked your little fingies off while typing.”
“Yes, Greg,” I say.
“OK, I’ll leave you to it. Be sure to get some fresh air too. Go for a walk or something. I don’t want an employee of mine turning into a recluse with disgusting, foot long fingernails and mushrooms growing under them after a week of work-from-home or they’d never get such a privilege again.”
“OK, Greg,” I say.
“Am I boring you?” he asks.
“I have a lot of work to do,” I say.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says and hangs up.
I open up a Word document and begin to write up six hundred words of bullet points from what I’ve found so far in my research. I make sure the first thing I write is about the gap in healthcare coverage, then I put it in bold text, but that seems a little too extreme so I change it back.
After another few hours I feel like I’ve addressed everything from the group, and a few words about trans healthcare, especially the need for electrolysis as well as laser therapy, as an example; thinking of my own blonde hair and how laser probably won’t work on it. I do a bit of a double take when I’ve written that one down as it’s another example of how much has come to me — how much I’ve learned — in just a few days.
I then think back to my first meeting with Mr. Mayer and Therese and what they actually wanted. They said they were looking for things applicable to people in the lowest wage bracket.
With my situation and the LGBTQ+ group I’m not certain that’s what they fully intended for me but they did say it so I begin to think of what would actually apply to people typically on my wages.
I know it would mostly be young people. And people new here.
I message Jess and Sally again, asking them what they found when they first started working and needed to set up doctors and the like, especially when it came to women’s healthcare. Then they’re having a conversation back and forth between them, a lot of complaints, and some extremely descriptive, rather disgusting scenarios involving the female body I have never and hope I never have to encounter. But it does give me ideas.
I start to mull over what it was like for me when I first came to the job, when I first moved here, but I realise I’ve not actually paid much attention to my health.
Unless something acute came up I mostly ignored it, which was foolish. So I write that down. Maybe something tailored to new adult healthcare, what’s needed, routine check-ups, annual bloodwork, etc. A standard practice package for the average person who’s just started working.
I also think to what the talk in the office is. A lot of the guys there seem to play sports, there’s even a few weightlifters, male and female. Sports injuries must surely be a thing, along with the occasional strapped up wrist or limb that I’ve seen. I dig into the documents looking at things like physios and emergency care for what could be seen as voluntary, or somewhat self-inflicted injuries, maybe. Getting your head caved in in a pick-up game could be seen as self-inflicted, I’d imagine.
Before I know it it’s getting late. I’ve been working almost non-stop, all day long. I didn’t really break for anything apart from a cup of coffee and the few messages between Jess and Sally.
I do up my own, separate bullet point list for the final document, and change around some of the main points to put into the six-hundred word document for Greg.
Then I’m sitting, absolutely exhausted, thinking again about how I’ve done no shopping, probably have no food in the apartment, and the dryer is still filled with clothes. I know exactly what I need and it’s a fucking huge burger.
I rescue some of the clothes from the dryer and lay them across the back of the chair in my bedroom. I should really think about putting them away, then I think of what is put away. My dress from last Friday night is most definitely not sorted and is probably starting to fester. My date night dress! With its stains. I’d better get it cleaned before they become permanent.
Before they become my permanent shame.
And the dress is too fancy to go to waste. To be locked away. I wonder if I’ll ever wear it again? Where I could wear it to? Who I could wear it for?
I take it out of the wardrobe and furl it up, placing it into one of the plastic bags from Sally, now empty of the clothes she gave me. Which is what I’ll do. I’ll bring it to the place that usually does my work clothes, they’ll definitely be able to dry clean it then I’ll go the fast food place nearby for a burger. That’ll be my night filled. Simple, easy, no big dramas. I can work all day again tomorrow and take an early afternoon on Friday. Maybe pick up some sandals Jess suggested for my pedicure. Maybe a few other things.
As I walk down the street I pull my coat in tight. It’s a bit cold today and I can feel a chill on my legs despite the pantihose. Which makes sense, I guess. They’re really thin material; barely there. I think of the women I see dressed like this even in the middle of winter. It’s not all fun and games trying to look pretty. I do feel nice, though.
I come up to the cleaners and there’s nothing to it, really. They’re going to know it’s me. They’re going to know what I’m up to but then more and more people will if I keep all this going.
I walk in and hear an electronic buzzer go off.
The woman — always the same woman — looks up at me from behind a well worn but clean counter, and I smile a little sheepishly. “What can I do for... OH! It’s you!” she says. “No shirts for ironing today I’m guessing?” She laughs. It’s a kind of wild laugh but there’s nothing malicious in it. “Show me what you have, honey.”
I look around and thankfully it’s just us two in here, with lots of clothes in plastic sheets on racks.
I lay the plastic bag up on the counter and take out the dress, stretching it out on the counter-top.
“Oh, that’s very nice. Very expensive. You did the right thing bringing it here. We’ll take good care of it.”
“There’s a few stains on it,” I say.
She picks the dress up and turns it around and back a few times. “No stains I can see but it’ll feel better with a clean. It’ll wear better.”
“On the inside,” I say, feeling heat coming to my face.
“The inside?” she says. She rolls up the hem and sees where I’ve had fun. “Oh! I hope you’re not pregnant now. Always use protection. I say that to all my kids. Use protection. I’m too young to be a grandmother. Have fun but no babies!”
“No...” I say, but she’s already making her way to the back.
“GRAHAM!” she yells.
“WHAT!?!” I hear yelled back.
“You know the boring boy?”
“There’s so many boring boys,” he roars.
“The boring boy! Three weeks of boring shirts and pants. Well she’s a fun girl now. And pretty.”
“Let me see her!” he says.
And they both walk out and I hear the woman say, “We’re going to make so much money from her.”
“Stand back, young girl,” he says to me. And I feel an involuntary force somehow move me back to be inspected.
“You’ll be fine! You know women’s clothes need to be dry cleaned a lot more than men’s clothes!”
“No they don’t. Not really,” I say.
“Not really? You know clothes?” the woman says.
Then the man says. “They’ll last longer and hold their shape better. I’m telling you, dry clean by preference, even if they say they don’t need it. Much better for the clothes. A lot cheaper in the long run not replacing them. Do we have your email address?”
I think about how I don’t have an email address with my Toni with an i name. “I need a new one,” I say.
He writes out a docket and pins a label to the dress before handing the docket to me. “Email is on there, get on to us when you have yours ready. Include that number. We’ll email you when the dress is done. Shouldn’t be too long. You know the rules?”
“The rules?” I ask, not sure what he’s referring to.
“We hold your pretty, expensive dress for a week, here, once we contact you. After that it goes to a warehouse and there’s a charge to get it out. Three months later it’s ours. And we sell it. If you don’t pick it up!
“I don’t understand some of these women. A fortune on clothes, a fortune on cleaning and they leave things behind. What are they thinking?” the woman says.
“They got fat.”
“Or pregnant. Like this girl in that pretty dress.”
“Are you pregnant now?” the man asks me.
“What?” I stammer.
“I told her, use protection. Us parents raised kids already. We don’t want to be raising grandbabies too. It’s our time now.”
“I can’t get...” I begin, but they know this. They know I can’t have babies.
“God can do many things,” the woman says. “We’ll pray for you to have babies some day like all good Christian women want. And if you keep trying then someday you’ll be in here with huge maternity leggings, a giant baby belly and fancy baby clothes. So much money from you. Lots of clothes. Make him buy you all the clothes you want! And a house!”
The man seems to have his hands clutched together and his eyes raised in prayer; for me to get pregnant or for me to make them rich I don’t know. Probably both. These people are crazy.
“Now go. Find your husband to make an honest woman of you. Never work again. Stay at home and be a Mother and drink wine all day.”
“And bring your clothes here to get cleaned. We have never destroyed anything, unlike some places.”
“You look pretty,” the woman says to me. “Natural.”
“Thanks,” I say, backing out the door and hearing the buzzer go off again, and as it closes I hear them again say, “So much money...”
I walk down the street in almost complete confusion. The burger place is nearby but so is the bar Steve wants to meet at on Saturday morning for the early English soccer game.
I still haven’t decided on whether I’m going but if I am to go I want to make sure they’ll be OK with me. They’re probably quiet right now so I guess I can check them out, and I suppose they can check me out. We can check each other out.
I come to bar and there’s a few seats and tables laid out outside with a notice board on the pavement advertising live sports, and soccer, on tens of TVs. This is a real dude bar, I guess. I never really thought of it but it actually is. Although they like to call it a pub.
I have no clue how they’ll take me.
I walk in taking small steps and stand at the top of the bar, a little reluctantly. And extremely aware of myself; what I’m wearing, my newness at all this, and how much I look like a man in my skirt with my legs sticking down into peach ballet flats.
My muscles go tight.
The bar is quiet at the front, though, and even quieter from what I can make out in the back.
The front is mostly just the bar counter with a space set in from the entrance where it curves around to allow a little seated area, storage room off it.
There’s a load of seats at the bar, a few medium sized TVs on the walls above the spirits showing football, and one big TV angled towards the bar in the corner of the area by the storage room.
The back is where we’d normally watch the morning games. It’s dark but not so you can’t see, just the walls painted in dark colours, the TVs distant enough from the windows so the sun doesn’t make their picture unviewable with sunshine.
Me and Steve, and sometimes Alan, very occasionally Big-G would be early enough to be sitting at a table against the wall. There’s loads of tables there, small round, wooden tables and lots of low, round, wooden stools you can take and place as you please; as many people as you want, or can fit at one table with not enough space for food.
The only other seating is the bench seating built up to the walls. The TVs are superb, though, really clear quality and perfect reception given where we are, and where England and Europe is relative to us. There’s no breakdown in satellite communications getting the signal here, ever. The only breakdown there ever really is is people arguing over which match goes on the big screen and then if that goes over the speakers, too.
I’m almost zoned out, thinking of Premiership tables, when I hear something being called out, in my general direction, and realise the words, “Give me another minute, Toni, I’ll be right with you,” were said.
I think the man’s name is Peter, he’s the manager? Or owner? I’m not quite sure.
I watch him carrying a few beers to people I can now make out in the back, then he’s behind the bar, standing in front of me. “Well?” he says.
“Well what?” I ask.
“What do you want to drink?”
“I just have a few questions, really,” I say.
“OK. We have a few questions for you. Sit yourself down and get a drink.”
“OK...” I say, not quite sure what’s happening.
I sit myself up on the seat, still highly aware that I have legs in here. I’m a guy wearing a skirt, with legs. And these are all dudes and bros around me. And Peter is kind of a dude and a bro. And I have legs, female looking, shaved legs in pantihose in a dude bar with dudes.
“Right, drink?” he says.
“Do you have something low alcohol?” I ask, crossing my female legs as I sit on the stool looking kinda female with legs.
“No, the low alcohol beer gathered dust. Gimme a second though,” he says. “AARON!” he yells, catching someone’s attention. “Do we have that zero alcohol beer?”
“Sold out and never re-ordered,” he yells back. “Who for?”
“Toni says she wants something low alcohol.”
“I was just going nearby for a burger,” I say.
“Beer?” Aaron shouts back.
“Beer?” Peter asks me.
“Yeah, a low alcohol beer, but a Coke would be fine, really.”
“A low alcohol beer, Aaron. Do we have anything?”
Aaron walks up to Peter and as he does he gives me a quick look but doesn’t seem to let anything on. “Will you drink something with sugar?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“A Sprite?”
“Yeah, a Sprite is fine, really,” I say.
“Shandy,” Aaron says.
“Shandy?” Peter questions.
“It’s also known as a Radler, in some places. I know it as a shandy in England. People drink it on hot days. Half Sprite, half beer. You’d get a lot of older guys drinking it during the afternoon if they weren’t usually ones to start early. Or wanted a quiet Sunday.”
“She’ll have one of those,” Peter says. “And will you make me one up too?”
Aaron turns around and begins to prepare the drinks.
“I really just wanted a burger,” I say.
Peter pulls a menu from a holder and hands it me. “Burgers galore.” So I guess my question of whether it’d be weird for them to have me in here is kind of answered. They’re acting like nothing is different about anything in any way at all, not even me having legs. They’re almost bossing me around, or just not paying attention to me being, well... Leggy.
Aaron places the shandy in front of me, and one in front of Peter. I take a taste, a big gulp which I didn’t intend. It’s sweet and refreshing, and goes down easily. “What do you think?” Peter asks.
“It’s great!” I say, almost too excitedly.
“You’d drink another?” he asks, and takes a drink himself, before wiping his mouth with his thumb and index finger.
“Definitely!” I say.
“What beer did you use, Aaron?” Aaron tells him the beer and Peter says to use a different one next time, the cheap one I usually go for. “What price do you think?”
“The cost of a Sprite, the cost of a beer, I think you’d get away with $6.50 to get it to sell; dispenser Sprite, the generic; not bottled or branded.”
“OK, make it a special for the next few weeks. On one of the boards out front. Shandy Special $5. You know the usual marketing stuff. Refreshing...” Peter looks at me and I nod. “Easy to drink. Low in alcohol for when you have to work or it’s early in the day. English...”
“Right now?” Aaron asks.
“Yeah, if you’re not too busy. You coming in Saturday morning, Toni?” Peter asks me.
“That’s why I’m here,” I say. “Toilets?”
“We have them,” Peter says. “No need to worry about that. I think there’s laws about having to have them.”
“I mean which ones should I use?”
“Use whichever you want,” Peter says.
“The women’s?” I ask.
“I think you’d look a little strange standing at a urinal with a dress up around you. It might draw some attention, too.”
“I just—”
“No-one cares what toilets people use, Toni. No-one working here at least. And if anyone does make a care known they find another place to drink. It’ll be a shittier place if they’re bothered about something like that. The knuckle draggers can all pretend they’re football hooligans while never going to a game in their lives.”
“OK...”
“Yep, OK. Have you decided what burger you want?” I point to one on the menu wondering what the hell is happening. This is more than any of the staff have ever said to me, ever.
“Fries, sweet potato fries, curly fries, English style chunky chips? Mashed spuds? We have gravy, English style gravy.”
“Just regular fries,” I say. “Please.”
“No problem,” he says and taps something into the till. Then he fiddles around with the remotes and the TVs bringing up a recording of a soccer game. “Champion’s League. We already had it on but we won’t tell anyone the scores. It was a pretty good game.” He points towards a TV in a corner. “I’m guessing you haven’t seen it?”
“I haven’t seen a game in a few weeks,” I say.
“You’ll be in on Saturday won’t you now we’ve answered all your questions?”
“I’m worried about Steve. You know Steve, my—”
“Yeah! Steve... Your burger will be ready soon. Eat that, watch the match, enjoy your drink, then I’ll talk to you about Steve. And don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” he says, seeing the look on my face. “Just enjoy your burger.”
When the burger arrives and I bite in I realise it’s a good burger. A really good burger! I’ve only ever had fries or wings in here before. I never realised how good their food could be.
The meat is juicy but the bun doesn’t get soggy. All the ingredients work well together and the sauce cuts through the savoury richness — and oiliness — of the meat and melted cheese.
“That was really good,” I say as Peter clears away my plate. “Like, really fucking good.”
“Those who know, know. Now you know. You can try a proper breakfast for the Saturday game.” Then he yells for Aaron again, who rests down a noticeboard he’s writing on with chalk and moves a few steps towards Peter, already close by and not needing to be yelled for. “For the weekend games... One free shandy with every Full English Breakfast, or tea or coffee, you know, the usual. Let’s see if we can get this going with a bit of a push.”
“On the menu noticeboards as well?”
“Yeah, maybe a drawing or something? If you can manage.”
Peter pulls a bottle out from beneath the counter along with two shot glasses. He places one in front of me and one in front of himself. He pours himself a shot, knocks it back, then looks at me. “You’ve eaten enough you can manage one shot, right?”
“Yeah, I think so...” I say.
He pours a shot for me and for him and holds his glass in the air. “Cheers,” he says. I raise my glass, say cheers, too, and we each knock our drinks back. It is decidedly not smooth at all.
“OK, Steve...” Peter says.
“This can’t be good if you’re giving me a shot of whatever that was before bringing him up.”
“It’s not bad,” Peter says. “You’re fine, I mean. When he first started talking about you I didn’t really know who you were.”
“Talking about me?” I ask.
“Yeah, well, the new you. You were just a quiet dude drinking in the bar, watching football. I couldn’t really place you for a while. But I remembered. Like I said, quiet guy, never caused trouble, never got messy. Drank slowly and kept the peace. Standard good customer so no real reason to remember you. It was always Steve coming to the bar; we know him.”
“No reason to notice me,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s a good thing,” Peter says. “Like I said, we know Steve. He’s in here often enough, not just the weekend games. He’s been in more than usual the past few days. Talking about you.”
“Talking about me?” I say again.
“You look great, by the way. I didn’t quite believe what Steve was saying. He’s too panicked to notice anything much but you? Yeah, you look happy, and normal. If this was your first time in here I’d remember you for good reasons.”
“Steve’s panicked about me?” I ask.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Steve is a little upset.”
“Steve’s upset? About me? Why the fuck would he be upset about me?” I ask, finally trying to put my own mark on this conversation.
“Because he’s an idiot who’s been drinking too much and working himself up over nothing. He thinks he’s ruined your life.”
“How has he ruined my life!?” I ask, my voice getting louder.
“That’s what we’ve been telling him. You’re not going to do anything you don’t want to do. The guy is acting like an idiot so don’t take it personally. He thinks he’s fucked your brain up in some way with whatever bet you had and now your life is going to be more difficult and people are going to judge you, and it’s all his fault.”
“It sounds like he thinks I’m his little brother,” I say, waving one hand the air in exasperation.
“We’ve told him to think of you as his little sister. I think you’d be OK with that. It’s fine to look out for the people in your life but you’re not broken, you’ve not been forced into anything. Looking at you it’s obvious you’re happy.”
“I am happy!”
“Yeah, just let him see that. He’s worried about some other stuff as well. We’ve told him not to be but the guy’s not thinking.”
“What other stuff?” I ask, wondering if I need to call him now and tell him to stop being the biggest idiot-baby in the country.
“Oh, whether you’re going to change, if you’ll stop watching football with him, if you don’t want him for a friend?”
I pick up the bottle, pour myself a shot and place it back down. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t think,” I say, realising what I’ve done.
“No, you didn’t think because you didn’t pour me one too,” Peter says, filling his glass.
We hold both our shot glasses in the air, say cheers again and throw them back.
Gulping, I say, “He won’t be my friend much longer if he keeps acting like a moron.”
“That’s what we’ve told him. And it’s why we would really like you to see him on Saturday morning, if you don’t see him sooner. As you, the new you. The happy looking woman I see before me. If he sees you’re OK then maybe he’ll stop crying in his beer.”
I cringe a little, not from embarrassment but worry. “He wasn’t really crying?” I ask.
“Very, very nearly,” Peter says. “But he was pretty drunk. And he refuses to talk to you.”
“I just got some shitty texts from him,” I say.
“He showed us... How old are you two?”
“I’m twenty six, he’s about a year older than me. Give or take.”
“He’s never had a serious relationship with a woman?”
“A few months,” I say. “Nothing serious-serious.”
“Yeah, he’s a child. He has absolutely no fucking clue how to handle this.”
“I’m getting that now,” I say.
“I know it’s tough to ask you to bear the burden of this while you’re going through so much but just try and tolerate him for a bit longer. Show him you’re happier. He’ll come around.”
I try not to think of that, or at least the fullness of what I’m going through, and turn to look at the game on TV. It goes quiet for a bit with Peter seemingly watching the match, too.
“Good goal in a few minutes,” he says. Then he continues, “Making new friends with all this?”
“A few I say. Is that one of Steve’s worries?”
“A little, yeah. Abandonment, and that. Really I was just hoping you could bring some more women in here. Any of them into football?”
“Not that I know of,” I say. “Me?”
“And you don’t seem to mind the smell of dude B.O.”
“Some guys smell good,” I admit, without thinking. I’ve admitted that a few times these past few days. Have I always liked how guys smelled? Have I been going around sniffing men without thinking?
“They really don’t,” he says. “But if you think so I’m not going to argue.”
I stand. “OK, I’ll use your facilities,” I say. He nods and I make my way to the back of the bar where the women’s is. I’ve been in this bar loads of time but never the women’s, obviously.
This is me being the new me, all on my own, I realise. Going somewhere sort of new on my own. And things being OK while I’m on my own. A woman by herself. And It feels alright. Like, Peter is just chatting away to me as though I’m normal.
I’m really just a woman eating a burger after work, watching the football and chatting with the friendly owner of the bar I sometimes go to.
And once I get into the women’s I know Peter is right about the dude stink, at least in the toilets; the women’s is a lot less smelly. Although that could be because it’s less used. And not at all used by drunk guys spraying everywhere.
I pee, go to wash my hands and notice the soap isn’t on a giant dispenser on the wall. It’s a little bottle of what appears to be fancy stuff sitting next to the sink. Strawberry smelling. I bring my hands to my face as I walk out and it’s nice.
“What’s your number?” Peter asks as I sit myself back down in my seat.
“My number?”
“If you don’t mind. It’s up to you. I’ll add you to a group chat of some of the more mature football fans from in here now we know who you actually are. Like I said, you were a peaceful customer. Now you’re a smiley one. There’s a few links exchanged as well... If you don’t already have certain subscriptions to certain sports sites, that is. Then you can message Steve.”
“Steve’s in the group chat?” I ask, a little hesitant.
“Oh, god no! Mature football fans is what I said. Well... Let’s just let it rest at a the group is little more mature; Steve’s yet to prove himself. I was just saying message him so you can pull the band-aid off. Get it done with and actually enjoy the football Saturday morning.
“You will have the English breakfast, won’t you? You know our food is good, now.”
I nod. “What should I say to Steve?”
“Tell him you’re here and to just walk in.” So I do, knowing Peter has my back and Steve is just being an imbecile and not completely hateful. Then I exchange numbers with Peter “The goal’s coming up,” he says.
And it’s a great goal. Not a fancy shot or anything, no thumping it in with a curler from thirty yards out. It’s a quick counter-attack, fast moving from the back, with some great passing; a tightly slotted finish.
“Tony...” I hear someone say. It’s Steve. I don’t feel anything, certainly nothing bad. I want to see the striker’s finish, again.
“Good goal, watch,” I say, staring at the TV.
“Yeah?” he asks, hovering over me.
“Just sit down and watch it.”
“Fine,” he says, while making a lot of noise sitting himself up on a stool.
“How did you get here so fast?”
“I... Well...”
“Oh fuck off, Steve! You saw me in here earlier and turned around. Fucking hell, dude, you’re supposed to be my friend.”
He whines a puppy that’s been whacked on the nose with a newspaper when he says, “Sorry... I am your friend? Still..?”
“Oh, come on Steve. Of course you’re my friend. You’re my oldest friend. If you’re willing to act fucking normal!” I turn around in my chair, fully intending to ask him how I look — if how I am isn’t who I am — but I can’t, not with the state of Steve. “Jesus Christ, man, you look like shit!”
“I’ve had a few late nights,” he says.
“Yeah, obviously. When did you last eat?”
“I didn’t really—”
I look up at Peter who’s standing a little way back, leaning against the fridges but he’s quick on noticing me; almost instantly. “Would you get Steve a burger, the same as I had. No onion?”
“I will,” Peter says.
“I don’t need a burger,” Steve says.
“You need a burger and you’re getting an early night tonight. You can walk me home after you’ve eaten and then we’ll call a taxi to take you home. Have you been sleeping?”
“A bit...” Steve says.
I nod, not believing him. “Fucking hell, Steve. I’m fine. You didn’t do anything to me. This is who I am. Who I want to be. I’m still your friend, I just look a little different. Let’s get that out of the way.”
“Yeah, you’re wearing a skirt,” he says. “And growing boobs.”
“I am not growing boobs. I wish I was but I’m not. Not yet. It doesn’t happen that quickly,” I say, pushing my arms together to make my fake boobs stick out that little more with me looking down at them.
“You want to grow boobs?” Steve asks.
“Yes. I think so. I’m trans, Steve. That’s all it is. Lots of people are.”
“You were always..?”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “I don’t know. This is new to me but it’s not bad. I’m happy. It feels good. I’ve made new friends, but I still have my old friends. I met with Alan Sunday evening and we just chatted.”
Steve nods. “I was talking to him.”
“And what did he say?” I ask.
“That you were glowing. He said that, Glowing. Like you were pregnant.”
“A couple today said they’d pray for me to get pregnant...”
Steve almost recoils at that, but not in horror, more shock. “Is that possible?” he asks.
“No! It’s not possible you dummy!”
“Even if a man...”
“No matter what I do with a man. It’s not possible! How much have you been drinking?”
“Have you? You know..? With a guy?” Steve asks.
“I kissed a guy last night. It was nice. I’d do it again. And with more guys when I get the chance.”
“Jesus, dude,” Steve says.
Peter places another shandy in front of me, a knife, fork, napkin and some condiments in front of Steve, and most importantly a pint glass of water in front of him, too. “I like guys, Steve. You have fun and interesting parts.”
“But you’re so innocent,” Steve says.
Peter shakes his head. “She’s basically your mother now, man.”
“What?” Steve asks.
“Yeah, sorry dude. She’s been asking after your health, she’s finally getting you to eat something; we’ve been trying for days. You’ve been told you have an early bedtime tonight. You haven’t asked for a beer. And most of all you look a toddler who’s been caught misbehaving.”
I laugh at Peter’s summary of all this. “Am I a Mom now?”
“Sorry, Toni. You had your whole life ahead of you,” Peter says. We both laugh while Steve just looks perplexed.
“Do you want me to tuck a napkin into your collar, Stevie?”
“Just watch the game,” he says, like a tired toddler.
So we do watch the game. And soon the food arrives.
Steve’s a little hesitant at first but after a few bites he really digs into it. Taking huge chunks out of the burger and stuffing fries into his face. He was obviously famished.
Eventually he sits back, stuffed, and rests his hands at either side of his plate curled up into little fists.
I reach my hand out and rest it over his and ask him, “Are we OK now?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess...”
“And you’re OK with me?”
“I guess. It’ll take some getting used to. I mean—”
“Well get used to it, bub, I’m here to stay.” He looks at me, finally with a small smile on his face. “And I’m sticking around you, too.” He closes his eyes in a long, slow blink. “Come on, you need sleep. Let’s get you into a taxi.”
“No, I need to walk you home,” he says.
“I’ve walked home from here loads of times.”
“Not looking hot, you haven’t.”
“I’m hot?” I ask.
“A little, yeah,” Steve says. “If I didn’t know you all my life...”
“Come on, try your best chat up line on me.”
“Fuck off!” Steve says, blushing a little, but also laughing.
“No, that’s not a line that ever really works... Can I settle up, Peter?”
“Sure,” Peter says. And I do, and he’s soon saying, “Good night, Stevie. Good night, Mom. Be sure to tuck him in and read him a bedtime story.” And it’s obvious Steve really is exhausted because he’s not objecting to any of that, or Peter’s laughing.
We walk back to my apartment block, mostly talking about football. When we arrive I make sure he gets in a taxi before I see myself up to my place.
I take off my shoes and wiggle out my toes as I flop back on my couch, sighing a relieved sigh.
I take out my phone as I told Steve to message me when he arrived to his place and I notice I’m in a new group chat. There’s a message from Peter welcoming me to it. And a few people saying hello to me, so I say Hi back. Then someone asks if anyone is watching a game at the moment and there’s a link to a stream, probably from pirates in Russia or something, to some South American soccer, I think.
I grab my laptop, get the last beer from the ones Steph brought on Saturday night and tune into the dodgy link.
There’s a bit of back and forth in the group chat about the game, and I say one or two comments about players I thought were doing well, and it all feels normal.
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