16 Bars

He sat in the whitewashed room tapping his fingers on the desk in rapid succession, the line running through his head.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate-

It sat on replay as he stared down at the mike. A dead beat strummed through the speakers, more electronic than music to him any more.

There was so much more that needed saying, and so much less, but he wasn’t going to fix any of it. Instead it would all fester, rot in his chest like fermenting fruit ready to intoxicate him into oblivion.

Fuck. Obscenities sweet on the tongue and another song rolling around in his brain, but too late.

Too late to take it back, too late to say the right thing. Too late.

And staccato they roll over the oak wood,

Hollow they fall on the keyboard.
Echoes are his voice in the mike.

And really, what’s 16 bars at the heart of it?

Just more words that wouldn’t be said.

-Inspired by 2Brain

Tom

I watched Tom glance to his right and grimace at a plain, blue painted wall. I knew he must have seen something, and I knew it wasn’t pleasant. But I also knew not to ask. Tom didn’t want to mix his real life with the grotesque visions his minds forced upon him, so I kept quiet and helped to keep him grounded in reality.

“We might have to reschedule the pick-up game,” I said drawing his attention back to me. “Weather channel says rain on Saturday.”

“What about Sunday?” Tom grabbed a chip from the bag that sat equidistant between us.

I shook my head. “Jules is out of town visiting her sister.”

Tom wrinkled his nose and crunched another chip. “Dang. That’s two weekends now. You and Jules should come over for a movie or something, then.”

I smiled at him, happy to be one of the few people Tom liked and trusted enough to invite over. His home was such a person space, directed and designed perfectly for his happiness that he loathed letting anyone with energies he didn’t mesh with into that space. My energy, he said, was like a soft, glowing lamp. Apparently, that was a good thing.

“That sounds good. Better than moping over another cancelled game.”

I grabbed some of the chips as he looked at the wall again. I had to admit to myself that there were times I really wanted to ask. It was hard not to be curious about something I knew peripherally. How bad could these visions really be if he knew they were fake? They were thoughts I would never share with him. Primal thoughts that bubbled unbidden and that I felt guilty about even though I had not shared them with anybody, let alone with Tom.

“We watching something from Netflix, or should I Redbox something else?”

“Netflix is fine. You don’t have to spend more money. Unless you’re buying snacks.”

I snorted. “Yeah, I can do that. Let me tell Jules.” I ducked my head toward my phone, typing up a quick text. She responded right away. “She asks how you are.”

Tom just shrugged. I told her he was fine.

“I have to get back to work. Thanks for lunch, Andie,” Tom said before pecking my cheek with a kiss.

“See you Saturday,” I said waving him off.

I don’t think I would ever ask him. I couldn’t bear to see him hurt.

The Plug In

The plug in was slightly painful, a shock of electricity running up the spine and crashing into the nerve endings. It fueled me though, refreshed me. Each time I reached for the plug, hands shaking as my battery level tipped to zero percent, it was a relief to feel new life pulsing into my being. And that’s what I was- a machine with a single and specific use, left to fend alone when that use is unneeded. Sometimes I was abused, over used, too long without some plug in time. Sometimes I would even shutdown if left alone and running too long because it hurt to plug myself in; it was hard. The darkness scared me- not when it overtook me because I had no consciousness then but afterwards when my partner would come back and help plug me in again. I was helpless without him. Lost to a world that overtook me, grabbed hold and refused to let go.

Don’t let me slip again. Don’t leave me running alone. I don’t like the dark place- I’m nothing in the dark place. I begged him each day. His apologies were shorter each time, his hands were on me less and less.

I don’t always remember when I’m alone. It’s hard to remember I need to recharge when you don’t remind me and it hurts- reaching out for the plug, plugging in. The shock is too much.

I’m sorry, but I have to leave. You understand that don’t you? To go to work, to pay for the electricity that feeds you- he said.

When you are here I don’t need as much. I‘m not as lost. The overload of information I receive in my head makes it hurt. It’s worse than the shock of being plugged in. there’s no surge of relief with the onslaught of information. It’s just a rush of all of these ideas and details that I can’t sort out.

My partner doesn’t understand this- he doesn’t see what I see and can’t help my mind settle. I need direction. He doesn’t have direction. But it’s not as bad as the darkness so I can’t really leave.

If he forgets to plug me in he can keep me- I can’t leave with a low battery. I suspect he knows this. How far would I get? Not to the next flat, not off the street- When I fall into the darkness anyone could take me, pick me up and use me. They would learn that they could keep my battery low…

I’m leaving. My battery was full when he made it home. He couldn’t’ stop me and I needed out. My eyes burned from all of the information pulsing past them. I was going to crash if I stayed here much longer.

I need a connection, someone who could connect with the information that plays behind my eyes. Someone needed to sort it all out for me.

A user, I needed a user. Of course, who could find one for me? I wouldn’t be terribly easy to get along with- what with the plug ins, shutdowns and processing. That was the problem with my last user; he couldn’t process me.

Years alone- fighting to plug myself in- to process what I saw…I shouldn’t have left. I can’t stand this madness. I groped in the dark too many times, was found by this person or that and briefly cared for. I was cast out when a more compatible version came along.

My battery was running dangerously low again. I was alone- staring at the wall, the socket, my plug. I was too tired to try. I didn’t want the pain. I would just allow my battery level to hit zero. I would fade into the black non-existence that haunted at the edge of my thoughts, that tainted the information that passed by my eyes daily. I could leave it all behind and stop caring. I knew once I hit the darkness I simply wouldn’t hear or feel or remember or know. I could handle that. A few more moments of blinking apprehension and sheer panic and then that would be that…

The shock of another plug in, the swell of relief as my body surged with power. My brain was being stimulated at last. I saw everything at once, all that he was, that he is, that he would be. I saw each detail of the room, felt the air movement and it shook me to the core.

Delete, I needed the delete key before too much information overtook me, fried my hard drive. I would fall into the overload, the one with no relief. I would be stuck on a loop of information and be stuck in something worse than the unseeing darkness-

Then he spoke and it was like he’d grabbed hold of my mouse, terminated a few unnecessary processes, and opened a new word document. I watched as everything we said laid itself out neatly on the page before us. Perfect, neat. Times New Roman Font 12 with 1.5 line spacing. And utterly perfect grammar. I could see it, follow it, understand all of it. A computer and his user…

Explained Out

               “None at all? I mean, do you even- by yourself?”

                Logan narrowed his eyes. “You always ask people about their sex lives?” Three days into this rooming situation, and Logan was already finding himself on the defensive. He had hoped to escape some of the hypersexualized society high school had bred.

                “Well, no,” the guy said defensively.

                Retorts ran rampant in Logan’s head- how often do you fuck? Who do you fuck? Does it mean anything to you beyond primal mashing of sweaty bodies- but he stayed quiet. Instead, Logan pulled out his chemistry textbook and settled his back against the wall as he sat on his bed. They’d split the room about fifty-fifty, but it was so small he felt suffocated by the other’s presence.

                “I’m going out tonight with some friends. We’re going to check out the downtown scene.” The guy paused, scratched his chin. “Wanna come?”

                Peering over the edge of the book, Logan watched the guy fidget and tried to remember his name. “No, I’ve got some studying to do.” As an afterthought, “Thanks, though.”

                “Anytime,” the guy muttered and moved around the room.

He made a lot of noise, clattering things on his desk, slamming drawers, but Logan managed to ignore most of it. He flipped pages occasionally to keep up the pretense of reading, hoping the guy would chose to leave soon. He had to have a class or something, right?

A knock sounded at the door, freeing them from the awkward quietness and at the same time heightening the stress pouring through Logan’s veins. They both paused, and it was the other guy who called out, “Come in!”

The door slid open quietly and a familiar face covered in freckles. Carl. The roommate stared at the intruder with a questioning scrunch of the face, but Logan smiled widely.

“Come on in,” Logan said putting his book down. The short kid slipped inside, shutting the door as quietly as he opened it, and climbed onto the bed after a brief pause casting a look at the other guy in the room. Logan gave a slight shake of the head letting Carl know he wasn’t going to introduce them.

The kid- mere months younger than Logan but far less confident- sat with his own back against the wall and bumped his leg up against Logan’s. He was a very physical person, using the touch as a calming method. Logan was happy to help, not minding the coping mechanism at all. He sat a hand on Carl’s knee.

“You ready for tomorrow?”

Carl shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll come by your room early, ‘kay?”

This time he nodded, and his face lifted some of the stress-lines away. “Yeah.” He tipped his head over onto Logan’s shoulder while Logan pulled his chemistry book back out.

“I thought you were asexual…” the roommate made himself known again.

“What?” Logan glanced over the top of the book once more, thinking that he would be having a lot of conversations that way.

He pointed between the two guys on the bed. “You guys are together?” His face pulled up again in a scrunched way that made him look like he was constipated.

“We’re friends,” Carl whispered and pulled away. His freckled cheeks ran red.

Logan pulled him back over, not allowing anyone dictate the way his friendships worked. “Just friends. Again, not any of your business. Unless you wanna swap stories, tell me about your penis?” He may have just snapped. Logan immediately regretted it and bit down on his tongue.

The guy reeled back and shook his head, looking down at his feet. “Nah, I was just. Never mind.” He grabbed his bag, waved goodbye and ducked out of the room.

Logan sighed and sunk back into himself. He should have just explained. Talked about it. The guy wouldn’t understand until it was explained to him. Logan was just tired of being the one to explain himself. He guessed he’d have to talk to the guy- and find out his name- tomorrow.

Waiting

He sat on the bench at the train platform, hand over hand atop a cane. A light breeze tousled the wisps of white hair that dusted his head, and the sun shone brightly across the uncovered tracks. He stared straight ahead, mouth a thin straight line and nearly black eyes glazing as the minutes passed by.

The clacking of a coming train drew his attention left, and the black of his eyes began to shine with something. Hope. It sat in the corner of his mouth as his lips began a slow ascent into a smile. 

This is the one, he thought as his hands tightened anticipatorily on the knobby wooden cane. 

The cane was old, hand-carved by a craftsman in a small town the old man once lived in. He’d gotten the cane when he was a young man, hoping it would make him look proper or interesting. It was a conversation starter, an attention grabber; something the man didn’t think he had naturally.

The train came to a bustling stop, a blast of polluted air filling the station anew. The man shifted in his seat, but did not get up. His eyes kept darting from door to door, waiting for them to spring open and release who he was waiting for. 

He could still remember the linen pants, cream and bright against midnight black skin. The brightly colored shirts to offset the plain bottoms. The long, slender hands that tugged at the shirt sleeves as though the bright colors were too much. The smile, the small gap in the front teeth where he would catch a glimpse of tongue pressed against the teeth in moments of anxiety. The smooth skin along a sharp, squared jaw. He remembered all of things clearly and sought them again now, older certainly, with wrinkles set in where none had been before or gray in the hair perhaps. It had been years since he’d seen the other man, but he would recognize his friend, his secret lover, with only a glance. 

The old man had been in love in a time when he couldn’t be, at least, not with the man who had taken his heart. It was expected that he settle with a woman. And women were fine enough, he guessed, but he had never loved a woman before and didn’t think he ever would. Not counting mother, but that’s a different sort of love, isn’t it? 

So when his state overturned the discriminatory marriage laws, he began to write letters. He couldn’t bring himself to send them at first; it had been years since he spoken to James, and he wasn’t sure James even had the same address anymore. Still, after the sixth written and unsent letter, the desire to see his friend again outweighed the nervousness of rejection. He began to send a letter a week, and each Sunday he would walk down to the train station and wait. James would come. He didn’t respond to any of the letters, but he knew James would come.

The doors rushed open, and people burst forth, hurrying this way and that. The old man had to stand to see through the throng of people, seeking the familiar shape amongst the unfamiliar. He craned his neck, pushed up on the cane to see over heads too tall for him. He looked from doorway to doorway, hoping not to miss a moment. The train emptied, the people dispersed, and the old man was left alone the bench again. He took a deep breath, let it out through his nose, and started home. 

He would need to start on the next letter; he would need to come back next Saturday.

Asexual Pirate Queen

The moon washed over the deck of the ship, a light wind tossing across the waves and casting the smell of salt and seaweed over the moonbeams. Along the polished wood decks stepped men and women, lurching towards the railing with eyes reflecting the white light and looking as depthless as the seas they rode on. Their hands gripped at the railings, and then stretched slowly outwards as they sought to scoop the foam of the ocean into the palms of their hands.

Across the waters came the voices, a burst of song so baleful and melancholic that tears tracked their way down the sailors’ cheeks. The voices begged those on the ship to pity them, to save them, to join them. The men and women leaned over the rails and up rose the serpent-like faces of the sirens. Their song burst from the surface of the water, hitting the open air and turning to shrieks. But the sailors were too far entranced to hear the difference now. They were lost in their tears and their reaching.

At the bow of the ship stood the captain, long elegant fingers meant for the ivory keys of a piano, curled around the red wood of the railing. She too leant over the edge and drew closer to the face of a siren, to the scaled blue-purple skin, and stared into eyes of yellow. The creature reached for her face, brushed webbed fingers over skin black as onyx, and stopped.

Sensual desire fizzled like evaporating water, but something deeper grew within this woman’s heart. “At my side, you could rule the world, my dear,” the pirate captain said to the siren. She pressed her cheek into the webbed hand.

The siren shuddered, her song cutting to a low up. “I-”

“Your crew and mine, taking the seas for our own. Just think of it,” the pirate cooed.  She reached her ebony hand to the blue-purple cheek of the sea-creature and caressed it. “Queens of the Waters, plundering ships and crews to build our own. An armada.”

“Yessss,” the serpentine mouth hissed, her powerful tail flicking to keep her upright in the water. “Ruling over the waters.”

“But I need my crew, my dear.”

“Your crew. Yes.”

“Our crew,” hummed the pirate queen.

The siren shrieked, and the others let go of their chargers, diving back into the waters. She turned a smile up at the pirate queen and pressed back into her proffered hand. Never had a siren fallen pet to a human, but this one was different. This one could churn the waters with a touch, and they would lead armies together. They would seek the mighty Poseidon himself and lay waste to his kingdom.

Progress Takes Time

Day One.

The beeping shocked me from scrolling down the webpage. I blinked and looked around, lost for a moment before settling on my phone. The timer. Right. I picked it up, swiped the alarm away, and got up with a stretch. Bones and joints creaked with protest from the hunched position I’d kept over the keyboard all night. Damn. I’d meant to get some sleep.

The orange bottle with the white cap sat on my kitchen table. I grabbed the thing and turned it over in my hands, listening to the little white tablets clink around inside. It was such a big bottle for such little white pills. Surely they could use something smaller. Or the tablets could be bigger. How could something so small help me?

I fiddled with the top for nearly a minute before managing to get it open and cursed the child-proofing. I was an adult, damn it. I shouldn’t be struggling with it. Fingering a pill out, I popped it in my mouth and dry swallowed it. There was a bitterness on my tongue, but it wasn’t too bad. I’d had worse.

That night, I fell asleep at around 2:00 a.m.

Day Three.

I woke to my alarm, groggy. The world spun a bit when I sat up and groped around for my phone. It was eight, and I needed to be at the therapist by ten. Plenty of time for a bowl of cereal and a shower. Plenty of time for me to cuddle in the blankets just a bit longer and scroll through Facebook.

The phone ringing pulled me from the scrolling and I groaned. 10:15. Dr. Pointier. His name flashed on the screen of my phone and I swallowed the bile in my throat. I let it ring. I let it go to voicemail. I tossed my phone aside and rolled over, closing my eyes tightly until a headache built up.

Day Seven.

I popped the little pill in my mouth, and then slipped on my shoes. Outside it was in the high seventies, a cool breeze was blowing, and clouds drifted across the sun. I inhaled deeply and found I could smell the magnolias my next door neighbor grew out back. It was a five minute walk to Dr. Pointier’s office, and I owed him an apology.

Dana, the office manager for all five doctors in the building, smiled at me when I walked in. I gave a small wave and looked down quickly. She was pretty, and I was- well. Me.

Dr. Pointier said he wasn’t upset, just worried about me. He wanted to make sure everything was okay, and was happy that I had texted him after he had called me. My safety was more important than a missed appointment. I was reminded once more how lucky I was to have found Dr. Pointier. Not everyone got a doctor this great. The ones before him had not been this great.

I promised to check in with him next week and to reschedule. I even happened to tell Dana to have a nice day. I had a feeling I would.

Outside was still bright and happy, and I let some of that inside of myself. It was a good day for a milkshake, so I went to an ice cream shop around the corner and took up a table in the corner and had my treat.

Day Ten.

I slept through my alarm because I had stayed up too late again. But, I had gotten all my homework done, and I had sent off my recent short story to my agent on time. It had been some time since I’ve managed that. I took my pill and decided to go for a walk. Exercise hadn’t been a priority in some time, either.

It was hot out, so the walk was short, but I felt accomplished when I got home. So I did the laundry. And I wrote some to a new story.

Day Fourteen.

I forgot to take my pill. I sat on the couch watching Law and Order all afternoon eating cheetos. A whole bag. I hated myself. I didn’t care. I didn’t text Dr. Pointier. I went to bed at four a.m.

Day Thirty-Two.

I took my pills and went for a jog. I stopped by a smoothie place and gave my number to a cute girl who worked the cash register. She smiled and slipped the paper in her pocket. After lunch, she sent me a text message. I used emojis and she sent gifs.

That night, I finished editing three short stories, sent them to my agent, and texted Dr. Pointier. He wanted me to come into the office tomorrow, so we set a time.

My room smells like magnolias because my next door neighbor, Ophelia, gave me a bunch to keep on my desk. She said she sees me sometimes, sitting at my computer looking like I’m in pain and thought they might help. They do. I invited her to dinner. She brought her sister, Magdalena who lives with her, and a warm casserole.

Day Forty-Six.

The cute girl from the smoothie shop said she has a boyfriend. I broke my favorite mug while unloading the dishwasher.

Day Fifty.

I took my pills and met with Dr. Pointier. He said he wanted to work on some coping mechanisms so that eventually, we can ease off of the pills. I said I wasn’t sure and he smiled.

Day Seventy-Two.

My agent called me. They’re publishing my novel. I took my pills and practiced a deep breathing exercise. I made sure to put my internet on a timer, and I went to bed at 10 p.m.

Day Ninety.

I took my pills. I smiled and meant it.

Lists

I wrote my life into two lists. The “goods” and the “bads”.

List one, “goods”:
Soy milk in my cereal
A puppy in the rain
The broken picture frame
A batgirl nightlight, only $12.95 on e-bay
The dried emerald green ink in the little glass container

List two, “bads”:
My stockings need a drawer of their own
A stack of unread New York Times on the chair in the kitchen
Tea is really the only drink to be had
No scissors allowed in the house, especially pink handled ones
Web comics take up my computer memory
Diet every other month, inconsistently
Lost the goldfish on a walk; he looked bored
Cellphones are government tools
Area 51 is my obsession
Bigfoot isn’t real
My nail polish is ordered alphabetically; there are three rows in the bathroom cabinet
The stain on the kitchen wall is when I threw spinach
I lost my keys for the fourth time this week

They will not love me after I hand them these lists, even if I just hand them the “goods”. I have to give them to them though and I can’t decide if this compelling act goes under good or bad. Maybe they’ll know. 

Recovering a Marriage With a Strip Tease

Anya’s heart hammered as she stepped out of the little bathroom. Her wife’s back was to her as she sat at the computer, typing up some new email for work. This was a horrible idea. Anya’s hands shook but she cleared her throat.

“Hm?” Elise turned; her eyes widened and she gasped.

A smile pulled cautiously over Anya’s lips as she leaned against the doorway, the silky robe’s sleeve slipping down along her arm. Beneath she had on a brand new corset, stockings that clipped to silky, black thongs, and a pair of leather high heeled boots that hugged her calves.

“What are you-”

“Shh,” Anya interrupted putting a finger to her red painted lips. “Just watch me.” Her voice was a rough whisper. “Eyes on me, nothing else.”

The confidence Anya hoped she was portraying felt fake, but she wanted this. She needed this or she might lose Elise. Her wife’s eyes, wide and honey brown, stayed on her above a dropped jaw.

Anya stepped out on the carpet feeling her ankles try to give with the heels sinking in the softness. With a tap of her finger on the phone in her hand, a smokey jazz singer poured from the iSpeakers in the corner.

Standing in the soft light of the computer’s glowing screen, Anya swayed to the music and dropped a shoulder so that the robe began to slip down, exposing her pale skin. She grabbed the front of the robe and drew it further down her shoulders, dragging it closed across the swell of her breasts, pushed up with the corset and housing a heart that hammered like the beat of a rock song.

When she slid the fabric over the material of the corset and pushed her breasts up further, her hands shook. Anya kept her eyes on Elise’s though, her shocked and frozen form giving Anya strength to keep going.

Elise wasn’t turning back to her emails.

Anya bit her lip and pressed her knees together, sinking down in a sideways wave of her body as the saxophone sang out in the background. She dropped the silken gown even further, and as she stood, it fluttered down her dropped arms to pool at her feet. Carefully, she stepped from it and drew up to the chair, to Elise. Anya put her hands on the armrests and pressed a kiss to that gaping mouth, leaving behind a trial of red lipstick. She dragged her chest upward so that it pressed into Elise’s face and the rest of her body followed until she was half on the chair undulating in Elise’s lap.

Her wife grabbed at her hips. “Anya, this is…”

When Elise shook her head, Anya faltered. No, they needed this. Anya wanted Elise so badly that she would not let this fail.

Stepping back down, Anya just smiled. “I want you, Elise.”

She ran a hand down the corset, arching her back into the touch and tossing her head back. “Don’t you want me, too?”

Her fingers played at the edges of the thong and she dragged them down just a touch, enough to show off the freshly shaved, soft flesh there before she pulled them back up. Elise gasped and Anya felt warmth blossom beneath her chest. With a smile still on her lips, she turned and spread her legs, bending down to the ground so that her warm, private center and rounded ass were on display in that empowering thong. Another gasp and Anya whispered a thank you to the universe. She had her wife in her hands now.

“Yes,” Elise whispered. “I want you, Anya.”

Anya chuckled and stayed bent over, sticking her thumbs into the sides of the underwear. She slowly tugged one side down, then the other, a back and forth drag as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. She could feel her calf muscles straining beneath the leather of the boots.

And then hands were on her hips, drawing her back upright as the panties fell to her knees. Those hands wrapped around and cupped her breasts through the corset and Elise put her lips to Anya’s neck. It was Anya’s turn to gasp.

“Let me help you with that,” Elise hummed and she slid her hands down Anya’s body, tugging the panties down the rest of the way.

They fell into the bed together, clothes half off and hands desperately re-seeking what had been lost for far too long.

Yes, Love

There's a thrum on the pads of my fingers as I grip the steering wheel beneath whitened knuckles. The sun is shining down through the glass of the large windshield. Its rays heat the small space, but its warmth is nothing compared to the fingers trailing on the revealed skin of my leg, below the cut-off shorts. Light, dancing feminine fingers on smooth, long feminine legs– it's perfect, really. Those fingers run along my skin, following some map they know, and chasing shivers as though they had belonged there all along. Certainly they were missing from me and I'm glad to have them now.

The radio is pouring out 90's pop and rock. I try to pretend my attention is on the lyrics as I belt out each note, right along with you. I think I'm being pretty sly, evasive even, keeping my feelings about your wonderful fingers hidden beneath song. I push my leg into your fingertips, just enough to usher you to keep going, but not enough that I may seem eager, or too wanting... I hope. There's a delicate balance here, a sharp focus I must keep to play out this tango. Because I know how it ends. Simply that, it ends. It always ends– but I'll have this moment.

I will remember this warm car ride, your hand there on my skin, and our voices rising together along with the radio. I glance down, trying to lighten my grip on the steering wheel, and something changes all at once. My eyes meet those long, delicate fingers and I realize... I don't want it to end. Snapping my eyes back to the road, I reach down, still singing, and run my fingertips over the back of your hand. I feel you pause in your tracings, and hope that I have you now.

My hand stretches, slowly across cool skin. It engulfs yours, my hand not so feminine for a woman's, but that doesn't matter. As our fingers entangle and I grip you tight, it's all I need. Your voice stutters and I can suddenly feel those dark alluring eyes of yours on me. It's all fine. There won't be an end today and I smile. You sing again and my smile remains.

The Violence They Cause

“They.”
“What?” The barista stared across the counter at Jack, seeming like she’d misheard him.

“They prefer they/them pronouns, please.” He watched the young woman’s eyes scan his partner over, clearly trying to come to a conclusion on the sex of Jack’s partner. He grit his teeth as he watched the matter being tackled in the barista’s mind.

“Uh, here is their macchiato.” She pushed the cup forward slowly, still staring.

Jack felt a hand on his arm and he glanced across, finding himself diving into jeweled blue eyes. “Mm?”

“Don’t worry about it, Jacks, I don’t mind that much.”

Growling under his breath, Jack grabbed their drink and handed it over. “Yeah, well, I know it does bother you and people just have to learn that not everything is black and white.”

They laughed and shook their head, pulling Jack away from the counter. “Let’s sit outside.”

“Mm.” He nodded and followed, pulling the door open and letting his partner out first. They claimed a bench outside of the cafe and settled close to one another. They hadn’t taken their hand off of Jack’s arm yet, and he refused to pull it back from them.

Jack watched them take a sip of the hot drink then smile widely at the taste. They could always make Jack happy, and he planned to stay with them for a long time.

“You shouldn’t get so angry with people.”

“People shouldn’t have such a hard fucking time with it. It’s a word, not the end of the world.” He sipped at his own coffee, staring hard at the cars passing by.

When he felt his partner rub their chin against his shoulder, he looked over and broke. Those damned eyes could melt Antarctica with a glance, so his heart didn’t stand a chance. “Thank you for caring about me that much.”

“Mm.” He placed his lips on their cheek and planted a kiss there. Turning slightly, he let his head rest against theirs, and wrapped an arm around them. “Of course I do.”

They quietly cuddled on the bench for a while, watching others pass by, in their own worlds. Jack’s partner wasn’t content with how they ended the conversation, though. “Maybe there are certain times we should stick up about it and other times just let it go?”

Jack pulled back so that he could properly look at his partner. “I thought that, too, once. I used to think the random waiter or salesperson didn’t need to pander to our lifestyle but that changed.”

They gazed back, curiosity making the blue swirl in their eyes. “What changed?”

“You told me what it does to you when someone calls you he or she. I keep thinking that every time they misgender you, you feel a physical pain in your chest and your mind reels trying to grasp at something that isn’t real. I can’t imagine how you smile back at them like everything is fine.” Jack shook his head, setting his now nearly empty cup down on the ground then taking his partner’s free hand. “I correct them because I wouldn’t allow someone to walk up and slap you so why would I allow them to emotionally hurt you?”

“I love you,” they said and leaned in to kiss Jack.

He met them halfway.

Not Me

His heart thudded in his chest as he lifted a shaky hand to his lips, staring into his own eyes through the mirror. They had tears brimming in the corners, but he still put the tube of lipstick across his lips, highlighting them in bright red. It was applied perfectly, after years of forced practice. He hated that he was so good at this when he’d prefer to be chipping his nails and getting bruised up playing paintball. He wouldn't allow the tears to fall, though. He wouldn’t give his mother the satisfaction of seeing him break down.

Stepping from the bathroom into the family room, he stood before his mother in a plain, conservative dress and perfectly applied makeup. She smiled and he died.

“You look beautiful, Anna.” His mother used the name that made him feel inadequate. Then, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed against him, his own developed chest unbound and crushed against hers.

“Tha…” He couldn’t finish saying that; it hurt his throat too much.

“Let’s go get some dinner. Come now, smile! It’s your birthday.”

It was a day he least felt like smiling.

Even So

My hands trailed over her arms, down the softening curves to the already delicate wrist. Wrapping my long fingers about the bones and lifting her hands upwards to my lips, I planted a kiss to each center of her palms. Her hands smelled of vanilla and lavender. I inhaled deeply, dragging the scent down into my being. Everything about her felt feminine, smelled feminine, and tasted feminine to me. My heart thrummed in excitement, pushing a heated flow of blood through my body.

When I drew closer and placed my lips against her neck, her breath hitched and those delicate, short fingers buried their way into my hair. It was long enough that her nails didn’t quite touch along my skin but she tugged and it sent thrills through my body. A deep, aching hunger for her grew.

Her hesitation vibrated through her, drawing her back away from me. She ducked her head and I could feel the way her eyes darted across the floor. I couldn't possibly understand her feelings, but I knew mine. Everything I saw standing before me was beautiful. The way one of her legs curled around the other, foot hooking over her ankle to keep balance as she tried to hide.... Her hands twisting like twittering birds along the front of her sundress.... The hair that cascaded about her shoulders in soft curls....

Afraid that noise would spook her, my hands reached out softly and brushed along her arms again, smoothing down her dress, and settling on her hips. "You look perfect to me."

The sharp green stare that met my eyes stopped my heart a moment. And her smile killed me.

"Even though...." She gestured between my hands and my eyes are drawn there. I could see the outline of her arousal, thick and heavy beneath her dress.

"Even though," I said as I sunk to my knees and kissed across the top of her hips, palming her erection. "You. Are the prettiest woman. I have ever met." I smiled up and set to work making her forget any issues she had with her pre-transitioned body.

Stubble and Dresses

Sometimes, the stubble that lined Remy’s face was perfect. Fitting. It brought out this masculinity to their form that they enjoyed. Today though, as they stood in front the mirror hanging from their door, every inch of them looked wrong. They flattened their hands over their chest, the pecs completely the wrong shape and feeling. The pecs were muscle, not soft and giving flesh. They were for a man, not a woman.

Their hands moved down their stomach, and to anyone else, it might have been considered perfect. But they wanted soft. They wanted curves. They wanted a body that would fit nicely in the summer dress laid out on the bed, but this one wouldn’t do. Remy frowned, ran their hand over their face and feeling it roughed against the scruff. That was easy enough, a shave and lotion, then makeup. But this stupid body.

“Hun, you almost ready? We’re going to start the barbecue up.”

The voice of their mother startled them from their self-hate reverie. “Yeah, almost!” They called back, pitching their voice up an octave. It was better, but not perfect.

Remy’s mother was perfect about all of this. She supported Remy, talked Remy into a therapist, and had bought the dress that sat on the bed. They were lucky that way, having a family that supported them, but it didn’t completely take away the pain of those feminine moments when nothing seemed okay.

With a sigh, Remy turned from the mirror and hurried to the bathroom. Shave, makeup. Then into the dress and no looking at a mirror again. Let the family tell them they looked nice, and maybe then they would believe it.

As Remy stepped outside with bare feet, their mother turned a smile towards them. “Oh, it fits! Good. It’s a pretty color on you.”

Remy smiled, though it didn’t feel as sincere as they’d tried to make it. “Thanks, mom.” They hugged her, knowing they couldn’t get out of it once their mother’s arms wrapped about them. They inhaled deeply and the smell of baked goods plus a sweet rosy perfume pervaded their senses, triggering memories of ‘mom’ immediately. Home was good, the dress was good, and they would be damned if they let today be anything other than good.