i am a bird now/but that is me
I'm looking at myself. But not a reflection. There's no mirror or anything like that. It's just me. Sitting there on the couch, staring back at myself in dull bewilderment. I feel that this is real and actually happening. If it were a dream, I don't think it would even phase me. And I would probably be able to see both mes, as my dreams are usually from the point of view of some assumed audience. I'm unable to see the me that's having these thoughts. Just the other me. The one I'm seemingly existing outside of right now. I'm uncertain what to do, so I'm just kind of waiting for him to react. Being that he's me, perhaps he's thinking the same thing. Will we both just remain here in silence, committed to the belief that the other will eventually do something? I don't know. What do you say to yourself? The answer eludes me, but apparently not him.
“What the hell?”
His voice startles me. I wasn't expecting it to be so unfamiliar. Supposedly, you never really hear the way you actually sound. Knowing this doesn't make it any less jarring. It puts me off. I have no idea how to respond, so he continues on without me.
“You're that woman from the Angel Olsen show.”
My confusion now even greater, I slightly crane my neck in an attempt to achieve the slightest of clarity. As I do, I notice some hair slide down across the side of my face. I lift my hand up to investigate and immediately become aware of its curiously delicate appearance. I reposition it, that it is directly before my eyes. But my arm is met with some resistance. I look down to discover that the obstacle appears to be a pair of breasts. Breasts that I'm alarmed to realize are my own. I am no longer without anything to say.
“What the hell!”
I dart toward the bathroom. I go to the mirror and I recognize the person staring back at me. But they bear no resemblance to that man in the living room.
“I'm that woman from the show.”
I stumble back in disbelief, desperately trying to make any kind of sense of what it is I'm seeing. I can hear him approaching. Reflexively, I slam the door shut.
“Are you okay?”
What kind of stupid question is that to ask? I'm on the verge of hyperventilating. I think. I don't know. I've never actually done that before. But I assume this is what one feels like just before they start doing it. Unable to pick up on the obvious, he reiterates
“Hey, you okay?”
I survey the room for something that might provide me with an answer. Maybe just an escape.
“Give me a minute.”
“Well, you are in my apartment.”
“Seriously, just give me a minute.”
“How did you get in here? Or find out where I live? Are you stalking me?”
Like anyone's going to stalk you. Still searching the room, my eyes catch my reflection in the mirror.
“Just let me figure this out.”
“Because you don't already know all of that!”
I take in the long hair, the breasts, the excessive make up that I seem to be wearing
“Shut up!”
Okay. Okay. What is this? What is happening? How is it that I'm in a shouting match with myself? Am I sure this isn't a dream? I know I'm like never aware that I'm dreaming, but I really want that to be what this is. Because what is this? I'm a woman. The woman from the other night. I'm a woman. I'm a woman. I'm a woman. I'm a woman.
“Oh my god, I need tampons!”
“What?”
I have to go out. Alright. I'm going to do this. I splash some water on my face, then grab a towel to dry it off. It messes up my make up. I don't care. I can't worry about that right now. Blood could start coming out of me any second.
“I'm coming out.”
“Okay...”
Deep breath. I slowly open the door. Just enough that I can slide out. I'm not sure why I don't allow for more space. But I know it creates a small sense of security. I'm grateful for that.
“So I don't really...”
I kind of turn my head away slightly. I just can't look directly at him. I can't look myself in the face.
“I don't know how to do this without sounding completely insane. I'm pretty sure it's actually impossible.”
“I'm inclined to believe that.”
“Just, just let me say whatever. Like before you respond or anything. And don't even respond to that, just...”
I can tell he thinks I'm crazy. But he's also checking me out. Because that's what he was doing the other night at the show. What I was doing. Because I am him. So I'm talking to myself. But it's myself that doesn't know that I'm myself and thinks I'm the woman he was lusting after the other night. Okay. Should I try to explain the situation? What would someone have to say for me to believe this? Do I just blurt out something that only he would know? That I would know! Why do I keep referring to him like he's another person? I don't care what's going on, there's only one person in this room right now. This is any other night where I end up just talking to myself. So what do I tell me? He's totally staring.
“You thought of me this morning when you masturbated, but you weren't imagining us having sex or even me being naked because you've been involved in too many relationships that drug on far too long simply because of the ease of finding yourself in that situation despite not really having anything in common or necessarily even liking any of them because who's going to turn down sex especially not you because you've gotten to a point where you can only meet women at shows and since you always have to drive to Baltimore or Philadelphia to do that you just don't have the energy to approach anyone plus they probably live in those cities and do you really want to have a semi long distance relationship(?) and your sister's name is Karen(!) and your mother's maiden name is Martin which if she had been a single parent your name would have probably ended up being Mark Martin like the race car driver even though you don't like racing but you still know who that is because your dad is into it or he used to be when you were a kid and this girl who's name may have been Abby or Aubrey wanted to kiss you and you said only if you could see what was under the bandaid on her arm her right arm and she showed you and you swear it was just like this black hole and then she kissed you and that was your first kiss but you remember what you thought you saw more than the kiss and that's pretty much set the precedent for every relationship you've ever been in which I never really thought about until just now.”
His eyes widened and his mouth goes agape. Maybe that was too much. I feel like maybe I should say something to bring him back down. I don't know. Maybe that's just going to make it worse. Maybe I should just wait for him. Fuck, how is all this going to play out? What if he doesn't buy any of it? I don't even know if I have any money or anything. Like if that was included. Where would I go? I can't really go home or stay with any of my friends. Would I have to sleep in the park and hope that nothing happens? Or try to “hook up” with someone and also hope that nothing happens? Is that something I'm going to have to constantly worry about now, 'cause it's really freaking me out. He needs to say something.
“You can respond to that if you want.”
That pulls him out of his daze. Now he's kind of just glaring at me.
“Can I?”
“If you -”
“What the fuck was that? Like, where did that come from? You seriously are stalking me!”
“How would I know what you were thinking? You don't go around telling people what was on your mind while you were jerking off.”
“I could!”
“You don't ever talk about anything sexual, because then people are just going to ask about previous relationships. And you don't want to talk about that. Those girls are out of your life. Why relive your past failures? That's fucking stupid.”
“Who are you?!”
“I'm you.”
“Well, you look like the woman from the other night. That's somehow in my apartment and knows everything about me.”
“Because I'm you. Look, I don't know how this works. How this happened. But there's no way for me to possess such intimate knowledge without being you.”
“Maybe it's a dream.”
“If it was a dream you know you would probably be trying to force yourself on me right now.”
“I don't like what you're trying to imply.”
“Oh, it's just some subconscious belief that any potential relationship isn't going to work out. So why not just forego the inherent obstacles of courtship in favor of something strictly physical? Which is fine within the context of the dream. Definitely wouldn't want to take that exact approach in real life.”
“I wouldn't do that."
“Whatever. So do you like have enough of a handle on this that we can move onto other stuff?”
“No. What do you mean?”
“Like I don't know the specifics of anything going on under the surface.”
“Like penis or vagina?”
“Like I don't know how real any of this is. So I don't know what inconveniences I may have to deal with.”
“Thank you for choosing the least disgusting way of saying that.”
“I wasn't doing it for your benefit.”`
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because this is an inconvenience I have to deal with.”
“Pobrefuckingcito. Did I ruin your evening? And your plans to dick around on the internet until you fall asleep!”
“I was going to watch a movie or something.”
“But not before you...”
The horror of realization sets in.
“Oh my god. You were going to masturbate. That's how this happened.”
“What?”
“That's the last thing I can remember from before. You were thinking about her. Me. Wondering about what could have been. Maybe she'd be at the next show you went to. Maybe you'd talk to her this time. Hey, it seemed like she smiled a few times and looked away. Right? Hold on to the fantasy, at least until you got to the bathroom.”
“That's not what I was -”
“I was still there for that. That's exactly what you were thinking!”
“Obviously I didn't know this was going to happen, okay? And you just said it yourself, you were there for that.”
“So?”
“So that was you too. So you can't just put all of this on me.” “It is all you!”
“Because we're supposed to be the same person?”
“We are!...I am.”
I'm incapable of any semblance of certainty right now. Nothing I can manage seems to change that. It just fuels my anger, confusion, but mostly fear. Because I know this is real. But the validation in knowing I'm right does nothing for me. I need comfort. Reassurance. To know that this is something that can be dealt with. And that this feeling engulfing me is just temporary. I look up at him, what used to be me, and I see him looking back. And it's weird. But not for the obvious reasons.
“So you like probably need pads or something, right?”
“Yeah. I didn't even think of that. Sounds a lot better than sticking tampons in my -”
“Vagina?”
“Yes, I have a vagina. That's so weird.”
“Not really. Lots of people do.”
“I'm not lots of people.”
“You are now.”
“This is a lot of shit to deal with.”
“You at least have a place to stay.”
“Do I?”
“You didn't think I wasn't going to let you stay here?”
“This is fucking insane. I didn't know what was going to happen. My whole existence right now is nothing but uncertainty. If you didn't believe me, I was totally screwed.”
“We'll figure it out.”
“I don't know what the fuck to do. We're the same person, so I know you don't either.”
“We can start by getting you some stuff. Things you're going to need.”
“Tampons.”
“Or pads.”
“But like for period, you can't just use pads. God. I really don't think I can do that.”
“Maybe you'll luck out and it won't be an issue for you.”
“That would freak me out even more. Like if that's not going on, then what the fuck am I?”
“One problem at a time. Come on.”
I reluctantly follow him out of the apartment. We pass through the front door and I have the impulse to take out my keys to lock it. But he beats me to it. I then consider the possibility that perhaps I would have been unable to anyway. I check my pockets. They inform me that my suspicion was correct.
In spite of this, I am still a bit thrown when I see him get in on the driver's side of the car. I begrudgingly go around and take what I wonder might become my permanent place in the passenger seat. He perhaps anticipates my disorientation, as almost immediately he informs me
“You may have to adjust that.”
“Why is this back so far? Who was the last person that sat here?”
“Uh...Maybe Holly, I think.”
“That was like last year, wasn't it?”
“No. January or so.”
“That's still eight months ago.”
“That's not last year.”
“Stop being all defensive. Nothing was ever going to happen and you know it. She wanted to go to that show. We were her way there. She spent pretty much the whole ride to and from “sleeping”, occasionally “waking up” to check her phone. Nothing was going to happen.”
“Weren't you saying earlier about not wanting to talk about past relationships?”
“Past failures.”
“Same thing.”
“No, that was entirely a failure.”
“You know, I don't have to do this. What I'm doing right now. I could just say fuck it and let you bleed out.”
“Ew.”
“Then quit being a dick.”
“That's such a cheap shot. And it's not like I'm doing it intentionally. It's how we are. We've just never had to deal with it before.”
“I'm really this obnoxious?”
“I'll be your mirror.”
“Does that mean I should call you Nico?”
“You should not. Especially with the whole her being really racist thing.”
“Marketta?”
“We don't even like Mark, why would I pick that?”
“Solidarity.”
“No. Anyway, I feel it's kind of obvious what my name's going to be.”
“But I never found out what hers was.”
“Show girl? That would be creepy as hell. If I was going to do that I would just make it Holly. Or some actual ex. Erin. Michele. Perhaps Carrie.”
“You wouldn't.”
“Of course not. Those are all horrible names.”
“And horrible people.”
“Michele wasn't.”
“She was just really boring.”
“And yet we still went out with her for six months.”
“What else was I going to do?”
“Sad truth. But you still -”
“Hey, did you just want to go to CVS?”
“I can do that.”
“Good, because we're here. So you might want to do something with your face.”
“What's...Oh, the make up.”
“You look like some high school goth.”
“Whatever. Worst case scenario, they think you did something to make me cry.”
“I feel like you want that to happen.”
“People believe what they want to believe. It's entirely out of my hands.”
“I didn't realize you had money to pay for any of this stuff you wanted.”
“Stuff I need. Unless you want to try to get menstrual blood out of this seat.”
“I hope you don't think you can always use the threat of perioding on things to get your way.”
“Sure I can. And I honestly don't know why all women wouldn't do this. Lemons and lemonade.”
“We don't need lemonade.”
“Right. Because I can make it.”
“I really don't want to think about what lemonade is in this scenario.”
“It's the whole reason we're here.”
Once inside, I instinctively make a beeline for the hygiene aisle. Though I’ve never been here before, I find it right away. Perhaps this is my woman’s intuition kicking in.
“So many options. Overnight. Heavy. Thin. Flexi-wings. No wings. Unscented. Maybe we should look it up on the phone.”
“Now? We should have done this before we came in.”
“Shut up and give me the phone.”
“I can look it up.”
“You don't know what you're looking for.”
“Neither do you.”
“I'm more attuned to these things.”
“You've been female for all of twenty minutes.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“Is this really a conversation you wish to have loudly in public?”
“Just shut up and give me the phone.”
“Take it. There's no reception though, so it's not going to help you.”
“Still probably do a better job than you.”
“Maybe you -”
“Wait, shut up.”
“Stop telling me to shut up.”
“There's someone coming down the aisle. Pretend like we're having a conversation.”
“We are.”
“Something normal.”
“I”m not sure what that means in this context.”
“The phone really is more helpful.”
“I think once the contract's up I'm switching to someone else. I mean, we're on a college campus and I'm getting no reception. If that's really the case, they might as well just shut down the whole school.”
“That seems a bit excessive.”
“I'm not using the college. What do I care if it's here or not?”
“Pretty sure they put this store here primarily to accommodate the students.”
“There's another CVS just as close to us as this one. We could have easily gone there.”
“Then why'd we come to this one.” “Because it's the nicer one.”
The aforementioned someone also seems to be in need of supplies. I try my best to make like this is routine for me, but my eyes are firmly locked onto her hand that is so assured of what it wants. I've never witnessed such confidence in my entire life. Current or former. Always Infinity Flex Foam. I watch in awe as she walks away. Once she's out of site, my hand violently jerks out before me to snatch a pack off the shelf. In doing so, I may have knocked some other stuff to the ground. But I can't be certain that it wasn't already down there.
“So you thinking you might want to go with those?”
“Probably alright.”
“And the ones on the floor?”
“I don't much care for those.”
“You're just going to let them there?”
“I get things are the way they are now. I can appreciate that. But that doesn't magically erase the discomfort of standing here doing this.”
“You literally could have picked everything up in the time it took you to say that. Or even have done it while you were talking.”
While I know he's right in my ability to perform the task, I can't help but feel he's still not seeing the bigger picture of what's going on. This simultaneous existence in two different worlds. I have an idea of how I'm supposed to go about this, but there's still the memory of thirty years spent outside. It's like a phantom limb trying to hold me back. Plus, I just don't feel like doing it.
“You got this.”
I make my way to the counter, as he predictably puts everything back on the shelf. I wonder if I should feel bad. Or if even thinking that is an acknowledgment that I do. But really it's just the way we do something in the moment that we know will screw us over later. I'm sure he'll do something to return the favor, so I decide I'm in the right not to care. Oh, iced tea.
“I'm getting this too.”
“I don't have an endless supply of money.”
“We have four sixty five in our account. Utilities just came out and you got two more paychecks before rent's due. You also have forty three dollars in your pocket.”
“Our account?”
“Yes, our account.”
“So you're going to go to work for me tomorrow to make that money?”
“I am never stepping foot in that place again.”
“Then I guess it's not our account, is it?”
“I can take you over here.”
“You're going to put me out like this? After everything that I've been through today?”
I angle my face that the cashier can clearly see just how much I had needed to “do something with it”. I want her sympathy for me to turn into disgust towards him, since he seems so intent on returning that favor.
“Are you okay?”
I turn back to face him and am made immediately aware of his displeasure. He takes the forty three dollars out of his pocket.
“Yeah, I'm alright.”
He steps up to the counter, but she is clearly not sold on his innocence.
“Thirteen seventy eight.”
He hands her the money and anxiously seeks out a magazine to focus on while she makes change. She turns to me as she holds out his change and the receipt.
“Did you want a bag for this?”
It wasn't much to carry before it had been paid for. But knowing that it was now mine, even just sitting there on the counter, it possessed this new weight that I still wasn't entirely ready to take on.
“Maybe for the pads.”
She places them into an unnecessarily large bag. Like some kind of metaphor.
“Here you go. Have a good night.”
I pick up the bag and consider my exit.
“Thanks.”
I feel like I'm carrying it wrong. That it must be noticeable. I want to look back to see if anybody's staring. But I don't dare do it. I want her to still be on my side. It'd be upsetting to not have that. I appreciated the solidarity. Even if it was under weird circumstances. Being such a dick.
“Hey, dick. You forget something?”
He's beside me, drinking my iced tea.
“What the hell?”
“What the hell you? Why'd you try to make me look like an asshole to that cashier?”
“You were being one. It is our money. I worked for that too. Put up with those sexist creeps everyday. Just because now that it actually matters, doesn't mean that it didn't before.”
“I'm trying really hard to be nice to you.”
“You shouldn't have to be trying. You should just be nice. And you should definitely stop throwing it back in my face. Which you've done about ten times already. This is why people don't like us.”
“Who doesn't like us?”
“A lot of people.”
“I don't believe that.”
“We haven't had interaction with anyone we're not obligated to in over a month.”
“That's not true.”
“Margaret's birthday at the bar.”
“Has it been a month?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. But that was still an invitation to hang out with her on her birthday.”
“She just posted something on facebook for anyone to come out. She has like five hundred friends.”
“But she doesn't hate us.”
“She could like us more.”
“She should.”
“Should she?”
“I think so. I'm nice to her. When haven't I been?”
“Well, it's like I just said. You like to constantly remind everyone of how nice you are. What you've done for them.”
“Because people are dicks.”
“They are. But no one wants to own up to that. Much in the way you're doing right now.”
“Fine. I apologize for being a dick.”
“Only because I shamed you.”
“Yeah?”
“Let's just go home."
I begrudgingly retake my passenger seat. Try as I might, I can find no comfort in it. But I'm not sure how much I'm really trying. Is this the way things are meant to be? Constantly scraping for a position I can never have? Just always going along with whatever I'm allowed. This isn't what I had intended. I thought she'd at least like me. Want to...It keeps coming back. Knowing that this a thing entirely of my own design. I thought things would be better. Now I'm here without the slightest idea how to solve her problems. My problems. What do I even do with these?
“So you're staring at that pretty intently.”
“Because I intend to stick this in my underwear, so I am reading the accompanying literature. That I can be fully aware of just how invasive this is going to be.”
“And?”
“First of all, you need to forget pads of the past.”
“Done.”
“And try Infinity with FlexFoam, our most amazing pad ever. While regular maxi pads mostly contain fluff -”
“They're made of marshmallow?”
“Yes. But I assumed they didn't have any fluff, so I settled for these. Which are made of FlexFoam, a unique material that provides up to eight hours of comfortable, leak-free protection.”
“You got to wear that for eight hours?”
“If need be, eight hours. But thing is, it's so soft and flexible you'll barely notice it's there.”
“I don't fucking believe that.”
“Hey, until you try it, you won't believe it.”
“Does it really talk to you like that?”
“Yes. There's also a disgusting diagram of what looks like milk being poured out that then turns into a pad being soaked in piss.”
“That's -”
“Wait, there's more. Oubliez les serviettes du passé et essayez Infinity avec FlexFoam, notre serviette la plus à ce jour.”
“It actually sounds less condescending in French.”
“Oui. Que les maxi-serviettes régulières sont constituées -”
“You're going to read the whole thing?”
“Maybe just this one bit here: grande partie d'une.”
“That's pretty good. But it doesn't really tell you anything helpful.”
“I knew it wouldn't.”
I put the package back into the bag and just let it drop down to the floor mat. Even though it's now out of sight, it's still all I can focus on. I anxiously begin to swish it back and forth between my feet.
“I almost wish I could ask Mom about this.”
“Can only imagine what that conversation would have been like.”
“Okay, so you're at this age now where some new stuff is going to start happening. Maybe some of your friends have already experienced it. And that's alright. It's not a race. If it hasn't happened to you yet, that's fine. Because I hope you would tell me if it had.”
“That guilt there at the end is eerily spot on.”
“That's how she is. As you know.”
“I guess that's probably the same talk she must have given Karen.”
“I feel like that's a conversation her and Karen never had.”
“Why wouldn't they?
"I just imagine she wouldn't have felt like she needed to."
"Why not?"
"Because Karen's never come across as someone who needs protecting."
“We are the baby.”
“It's more than that.”
“What else is there?”
“I really do admire your ability to so effortlessly go from acknowledging we're the same person in one sentence to pretending we're not the next. And, you know, denying that I'm privy to every detail of OUR entire life. It's quite the gift. You're so blessed.”
“I don't think it's really that big of a deal.”
“It definitely was. But I'll concede that she probably wouldn't have volunteered to have the talk with us. The issue would have had to been forced.”
“Might be a generational thing.”
“Perhaps.”
We round the corner to the apartment and I begin to brace myself. While the bond I have...had with my mother didn't really extend beyond a default parent child setting, simply thinking about having someone to awkwardly walk me through this was comforting. It was the first warm feeling I've had in my brief second life. I wonder if I'll ever be able to experience it anywhere other than some false nostalgia. He finds a spot and parks the car. He exits the vehicle. I keep looking forward, but there's nothing there. So I get out too.
By the time I reach the front door he's already inside and halfway up the stairs. I slink past the foyer and fumble with locks behind me. As I ascend towards OUR apartment, I notice the bag keeps grazing each step. I wonder if it's this uncertainty I'm carrying that's just dragging me along, but then it occurs to me that I am now shorter than I used to be. Another new burden to add to what seems to be a growing list. And he stands there at the door, maybe viewing this, me, the same way. Or maybe he's just waiting up. We enter and he turns on the light. There's a crackle that I had almost forgotten.
“I don't need that on.”
“I didn't know if -”
“My eyes still work and I haven't forgotten the layout of the apartment we've lived in for the past five years.”
He pushes the switch down.
“Okay. Lights off.”
“I'm not helpless.”
“I wasn't implying that you were. But I didn't know, like maybe you have shit eyes now. You say you don't, so I apologize for trying to be considerate.”
“Remember that whole conversation earlier about how nobody likes it when you constantly remind them of how wonderful you are?”
“That wasn't the whole conversation.”
“But it should have been the big take away.”
“I know this was also a contested point before, but I'm trying really hard.”
“Aw, poor white man -”
“Which you were until like a half an hour ago.”
“I think it's been at least an hour.”
“It's definitely hasn't. But that doesn't matter. All I'm trying to say, All I'm trying to say -” “Are you going to explain things to me now?” “I'm just trying to accommodate you as best I can. And! Because I know you want to interject right here, maybe just resist the temptation to attach negative connotations to my use of the word accommodate because I'm not trying to suggest that you're any kind of burden but certainly our newfound plurality is something of an obstruction to our customary, singular routine of just not really giving anything any kind of real thought, consideration and this is something we must now the both of us deal with and so I am trying, yes trying, to make this easier for you which in turn helps me too. It's mutually beneficial. I'm not wrong about that. I'm pretty sure. Thank you.”
“I'm hungry. Do we have food? Should we have gone to the grocery store?”
“You're not even going to acknowledge any of that?”
“I'm asking if there's anything to eat. You can accommodate me by answering that question.”
“Yeah, okay. Well, there's -”
“I already remembered what we have. But thanks anyway. Really.”
“I can't say I'm a fan of the condescension.”
“You got your acknowledgment and a show of gratitude, so shut up.”
I expertly navigate my way through OUR still dark home to the kitchen, where I finally deign to turn on a light. I grab a bowl from the cabinet then carefully examine the spoons before committing to one. A trait I had really hoped not to inherit. I take the fuller of the two boxes of Rice Krispies and fill the bowl.
“Hey.”
He's hanging out at the fridge door.
“We're out of milk.”
“No, we're not.”
“No, we are. Look.”
Incredulous, I ignore his proof and seek out my own. I poke my head into the “mud room” and am met with unwelcome company: an empty milk container in the bin.
“Fuck.”
“I can run to Turkey Hill quick.”
“So you can hold that over me forever.”
“Yuh huh.”
He dickishly exits out onto the fire escape, while I contemplate just how hungry I am. I decide that the sound of his footsteps still making their way across the driveway is justification enough for me to begin shoveling the milkless cereal into my mouth. After all, my sudden coming into being must have exerted a great deal of energy. I should probably sit down and rest. But it seems whether he's around or not, I can't escape some kind of constant nagging. The pads have taken what should have been my seat on the couch. I could sit beside them and just ignore them. But that would be childish. And I already have fingers covered in cereal dust, so I think I've probably hit my limit for today. I snatch the bag and trudge to the bathroom. I leave the bowl atop the radiator and go in.
“The water's still running.”
I hit the lights and secure the door. Then go to investigate the tap. It has a tendency to drip, but is that the case or I am just weaker now. Thinking that reminds me how just half an hour ago I was trapped in here. Everything was so frantic and terrifying. I put my hand out before me. It's steady. But does that mean it's all okay now? I don't wish to lose momentum, so I retrieve the package from the bag and commence the experiment.
I open the box and am somewhat pleased to see no trace of pink, given all the condescension they were trying to give me on the outside. I pull one out and examine it closely. Hoping to unlock it's secrets. Or at least find instructions. But I'm overthinking this. It just lies there. That's all there is to it. I'm just stalling like it's some phone call I don't want to make. The longer I wait...Maybe I should try to pee first. That's sensible.
I unbutton my pants and shimmy them down to my knees. I then hesitantly pull down my underwear. And I find myself greatly relieved by the presence of obvious genitalia. Because despite my acknowledging its existence earlier, there was still a legitimate dread that I would prove to be all Mattel-like. Yet I still have the seat lifted halfway up before everything fully clicks. I let it drop back down.
The porcelain is cool against my skin. That's good. It should help with...My hand is instinctively going between my legs. I pull it back and my fingers make contact with my pubic hair. I always found myself mildly repulsed when this happened as my former self. Now it's somewhat pleasant? Or maybe there's just a satisfaction with this new form that I could never find in him.
“Oh. That was way harsh, Tai.”
And I have still yet to piss. Why can't you just work with me? I turn the faucet back on and thrust my hand into the trickling water in the hope that it'll pass the message along to my urethra. If we had milk. If he hadn't taken my tea, this wouldn't be an issue. So this is his fault. He should be the one stuck here trying to do this. Seriously, what was our goal here? Was it lust? Or were we just tired of being alone? It has been over a month. But we didn't even really enjoy ourselves. Just a bunch of dudes talking about dicks for some reason. Kept waiting for things to wind down so we could leave. But then on the way home, I kept thinking how I maybe I should've stayed. That doesn't make any sense. Neither does this.
I pull my hand away from the sink and wad up some toilet paper to dry it off. Annoyed by the lack of cooperation, I stand up and retrieve a pad from the box. I start tearing at the wrapper until it is rendered an assortment of debris on the floor. I shove the pad down into the bottom/trench of my underwear and pull my pants back up. I flush the toilet even though I didn't technically do anything. This is still an accomplishment and I'll allow no lack of proof to suggest otherwise. The sink having been left running, I wash my hands. I catch myself in the mirror. The mascara is still messed up. I put my face down into the basin and attempt to rinse off the remnants of the other night. Because that isn't me. She's wherever. I'm here. I turn off the faucet. Make sure it's completely off. And blindly reach for a towel. I furiously rub it against my face. I remove it and see two black streaks. I consult the mirror once more.
“Good enough.”
That now behind me, I reacquaint myself with the cereal and seek out the comfort of the couch. I collapse into its soft embrace. I put my feet up on the ottoman and immediately wonder if they'll ever come back down. I've existed for maybe a half hour, but it feels like it's been so much longer. And maybe it has. What if this is something that has been coming for a while?
Some illumination presses itself up against the window.
“Coming.”
He's back. That was quicker than I anticipated. I'm not sure what to do. I have the impulse to feign being asleep. The cereal's all but gone, so it's not like I really need the milk anymore. Give me shit about that. I get that it's how we are, but dude needs to learn to read a room. And at least for the time being, just be on my side.
He suddenly appears in the kitchen, cockily holding up the milk.
“Here.”
He doesn't even face me.
“Everything they had expires in two days, so drink up.”
“It's like the night we moved in.”
“Place is pretty janky.”
“Thanks. You can just put it in the fridge.”
“You don't need it now?”
“I was really hungry.”
I brace myself for the onslaught of his disapproval of yet another inconvenience.
“I'd imagine sudden existence will do that to you.”
“Yeah, it's pretty draining. Probably just fall asleep right here.”
“You can have the bed if you want.”
“But, like, going forward I'm stuck here.”
“We can alternate. You know, until we figure out a more permanent solution.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“I was thinking like getting another bed. But that spare room's not exactly ideal for a bedroom. I don't know. Maybe we end up moving.”
“How long have we talked about doing that?”
“Maybe you'll prove to be just the push we needed.”
“Thanks for objectifying me.”
“You know that's not what I meant.”
“Eh.”
“But you also know that, from here on out, it's something you should definitely get used to.”
“I think I'm going to go to sleep now, so you can...you know, fuck off.”
“But I was going to make some flowery speech and wish you happy birthday.”
“I guess it is. Let's just pretend you already did and that it was very moving and not at all strangely focused on you and that you didn't then try to follow it up by awkwardly hugging me and agree to just say goodnight.”
“It wouldn't be that weird if you were standing up.”
“Yes, it would. Goodnight, Mark.”
“Whatever. Goodnight...”
I can see that he still hasn't figured it out, so I accommodate him.
“Alison.”
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