“Can’t we do it tomorrow?” Dutch’s lips puckered in grievance and his voice took on a teenage whine.

Angie kept her smile in place. They didn’t have a lot of time to get Dutch ready to negotiate his severance package, but she wanted to avoid having him think of her as some sort of nagging parent. Especially since the only parent Dutch had ever known was a horse’s ass. Tomorrow will have to do, she thought with an internal sigh that didn’t register on either her lips or her face.

Instead, she went with her Plan B. “Yeah, I’m pretty frazzled myself. Just thought I’d give you the option. Want to play a game instead?”

“What game?” he asked suspiciously.

“How about some poker?”

His brow furrowed. “You don’t play poker. I mean, not with other people. Just that phone app thing.”

“Well . . . that’s just ’cuz I’m not really a people person, normally. But I know the rules, which means we both do. And I’ve got a deck of cards for solitaire.”

He folded back into the couch. “I dunno. I’d kind of like to veg out and watch TV. It’s been a long time, you know?”

“Sure thing,” she said, hiding her disappointment. She had a Plan C, too, and his desire for some time alone might make for a great opportunity. “Hey . . . do you mind if I use the laundry? I tried hand washing your old stuff, but it could use some more work.”

“Umm, sure.” He seemed relieved. “Go ahead. And . . . you know, all that girl stuff you’ve got upstairs? You should take it.”

It hurt, to hear her precious stash – her only connection to her interior truth for decades – tossed like it was used cat litter. But she wasn’t going to spend time and effort checking any gift horse for gum disease, so she just said “thanks,” and left it at that. Who knows? Maybe something in all of that will still fit.

She hadn’t been upstairs since she’d switched bodies with Margaret Mary, and it was worse than strange to enter what had been her own bedroom – her inner sanctum – feeling like a trespasser.

The bed, the dresser . . . they all looked larger. Strangely, that helped her think of them as foreign objects belonging to someone else rather than furniture that she had chosen for her own comfort. Her words to Dutch in the parking lot at McDonalds came back to her. If you want that new life, you’re going to have to let your old life go. Resolutely, she marched into the walk-in closet.

Warm light and the smell of cedar. On the right, the suits, organized by day. Blue, Pinstripe, Charcoal, Black. The light gray one was missing. Dress shirts. Oxford, snow white. Buttons, not cufflinks. The tie rack. Solids. Stripes. On the left, clothes for trips outside that did not involve work. A shoe rack. Belts.

And tucked in the back, hidden from anyone who simply glanced in from the closet door . . . a small collection of skirts, tops, and dresses. A drawer that held underwear and stockings. Sleepwear that was embarrassingly slinky. A silk dressing gown. A shelf that held a wig on a stand. A box with her breast forms. A couple pairs of shoes.

She’d brought grocery bags from the garage, and started folding each item and bagging it. She needed to sort it all to see if anything would fit her diminutive body, but she felt an urgent desire to do it somewhere else. Almost anywhere else.

She’d hidden it all here, and for what? No one ever came inside her house. No-one would have seen any of her feminine clothes if she’d left them strewn around the house like confetti along a parade route. But the shame had been so great, so overwhelming, that she’d packed it all here. Made sure it never took up much space, by getting rid of items when she dared to acquire anything new.

Four bags, when it was all done. Just four bags of clothes, representing the life she’d been ashamed to show the world. She took each bag down the laundry one at a time; they felt ridiculously heavy. When she grabbed the last bag, her hand shot out and swatted the light switch, hard, leaving the space in darkness. “FUCK this closet,” she snarled.

Back in the laundry room, she did her sort. Virtually none of her prior treasures would work. The skirts fell off, the blouses looked ridiculous, the bras were useless both for cup and band size . . . ugh! Surprisingly, the panties fit well enough, and she could wear one soft boat-neck sweater so long as she went with an off-the-shoulder look on one arm. It was tent-like and it came down lower than a mini-skirt would, but maybe with a squint it might pass for an attempt at “cute.”

The dress she’d gotten out of the dryer the prior night and worn all day was a lost cause. If she could sew, she might have been able to cut it off above the tear at her knee, but she’d never learned. She checked her “Margaret Mary” memories, and was unsurprised to find no help there. For now, though . . . she just took a pair of scissors and cut the skirt off just above the tear and put it back on again.

She put Margaret Mary’s top, ratty jeans, and socks in the washing machine. The panties she’d been wearing weren’t worth saving, especially since Angie had some of her own, and Margaret Mary hadn’t owned a bra.

After two years without much to eat, she hadn’t needed one.

It was about 4:30. She’d saved half of her Subway sandwich, and she could definitely eat again. But . . . she couldn’t be sure Dutch would invite her to share dinner. That half sandwich might be it for the evening.

Her frustration began to simmer. Yes, she needed to go easy on Dutch. To remember that he was processing even more than she was, and coming from a much darker place. But she couldn’t keep waiting for a better time to have a discussion about some bare necessities of hospitality.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so filthy. Grime everywhere. Dirt under finger nails and toenails that all needed a trim. Hair that had only been washed by rainwater for months. Though she’d worked to push it all far from her consciousness, her awareness surged the instant she stopped focusing on other problems. I fucking need a shower!

He would almost certainly say yes if she asked. But he’d resent the interruption, and the reminder that she was sharing his space. And, if she was being honest, it bothered her that she needed to ask. With the TV on and the washing machine running, there was a decent chance that he wouldn’t even notice.

Decision made, she slipped up the stairs, feeling foolish for her stealth. Jesus, she thought. It’s a shower, not Grand Theft, Water!

At the top of the stairs, she paused to raid the set of built-ins that served as both a linen closet and a medicine cabinet, and grabbed supplies that she knew she would need, both now and later. Since Len hadn’t used the extra bathroom much and hadn’t had guests, it wasn’t well stocked.

She put towels on the rack and toiletries in the vanity before stripping out of the remains of her linen dress and waiting for the hot water to arrive. One look in the mirror was all she needed – no further examination would take place before she was clean!

A bath would have been nice, but not until she’d gotten the accumulated grime off of her body. Once the water was hot, she switched the regulator to shower mode and stepped over the tub wall and into the enclosure.

The touch of hot water momentarily overwhelmed her absurdly sensitive skin. It felt sensual in a way that was both electrifying and soothing. A minute went by, then two, before she even had the presence of mind to reach for the soap. She wanted to scrub everything, as hard and as thoroughly as if she was washing away years of neglect. Hands first, then each leg. Each foot. Between each toe. She had to give up on the toenails; it would take a long soak of some sort to get the dirt out from under them.

She found evidence of hard living at every turn. A purple bruise on her hip where Margaret Mary had fallen. Scrapes, cuts. Scars. The soap and hot water momentarily soothed the bug bites that covered her forearms – another sensation she couldn’t ignore once she focused on it. But she kept going. Face. Torso. Pelvis.

Her hands moved, hesitated . . . then came back. One paused on her breast, the other rested on the miracle of her mound. Once again, and even more strongly, she felt a sense of wonder and possibility wash over her.

Growing up, she’d felt so alienated by male society, so aware of how unsuited to it she was. But she hadn’t ever thought it was something she could change. It was just something she needed to accept and adapt to. At some point along the way, she’d stopped even fantasizing about living as a woman. Yet every pulse of water that hit her new body pounded the message home.

I’m a woman. A young woman.

Downstairs, Dutch flipped the channels. All the networks were playing sports, and it meant nothing to him. Football, basketball . . . who cares? He shut it off.

The sound of running water reached him, coming from both down the hall and upstairs. As soon as he figured out that Angie must be taking a shower, he kicked himself for not thinking of it first. There’d been nights on the street when he’d have killed for a shower, and even though Len’s body was way cleaner than Margaret Mary’s had been in years, a shower still sounded pretty amazing.

After an instant’s reflection, he realized that there were two full bathrooms on the second floor. Seeing no reason to delay, he got off the couch and went upstairs. The water was running in the spare bathroom so he went into the master suite and stripped. Without looking into the bathroom mirror – he knew well enough what he’d see – he stepped into the shower.

The hot water felt every bit as good as he remembered. Better. He cranked up the heat, reveling in the feeling of being totally, completely warm. Even better, I’m not hungry!

He pumped out some bath wash and started to lather up. Nothing unusual about a flat chest, but the amount of muscle was startling . . . and strangely pleasant. He pressed his right fist into his left palm and pushed as hard as he could both ways, checking out the visible evidence of his new upper body strength in both pecs and biceps. He thought about the exercise equipment he’d seen in the other room. Len had used it, he knew. But he vowed he would use it a whole lot more. How hard could it be, to get back to having a flat stomach?

Eventually his soapy hand found his new appendage, and he fingered it like he was checking out a potential purchase. It felt beyond strange to have a penis, especially after the number of blow jobs he’d given to make a few bucks. He wondered idly what it would feel like, to have a woman kneeling at his feet, stroking, caressing, sucking . . . .

He grew hard, then harder still, and his breath caught. His fingering changed, tightened, became more urgent and primal. Holy shit, this feels good!

The switch to cold water wasn’t instantaneous, but it was close enough. Dutch gave a yelp and danced away, his erection vanishing even more quickly than it had appeared.

Two rooms away, Angie gave a little shriek of surprise and shut off the tap, only to start cursing. She’d lathered her hair up with shampoo, and all that product was still there. Cold or not, she needed the water back on.

She’d just gotten the shampoo out when Dutch banged on the door. “Angie – what happened to the hot water?”

“I dunno – It’s never done this before!”

“Shit, that was feakin’ cold!”

She started toweling down her hair. “Give me a sec; I’ll check it as soon as I dry off.”

It took them both a surprisingly long time to figure out that they’d just exhausted the capacity of the hot water heater. It wasn’t something Len had ever done, living alone as he always had, and Margaret Mary had only lived with her father, who had the type of job that required showering after work rather than before it.

They ended up back in the living room. To make conversation, Angie said, “got bored of TV?”

“Yeah. Nothing on but sports.” Dutch made a face. Even knowing the answer, he said, “You don’t have any games on that computer of yours, do you?”

“Nope.”

He shrugged. “Maybe cards wasn’t such a bad idea.”

Angie thought for a minute. “Tell you what. I’ll get a deck made up, but I don’t have any poker chips. Why don’t you grab the change can from your bedroom and we’ll use that.” Seeing the look on his face, she added, “It’s just for keeping score.”

He flushed. It was stupid to have thought that she was trying to rip him off or steal his money. If she’d wanted to, she could have taken stuff out of the change can when she got her girl things from the closet. But somehow, like a reflex, he kept worrying that she was trying to pull something over on him. With a pang of recognition, he thought, Probably ’cuz that’s what I would have done. “Yeah, fine,” he mumbled, then went upstairs to get the change.

The memories were there. Year after year after year. Len coming home, after work, or shopping, or whatever, pulling whatever change happened to be in his pocket, and dropping it in the big blue can on the dresser. Maxwell House Coffee. Good to the Last Drop. If the can filled up, he’d spend hours rolling the quarters, dimes, nickels and even pennies before taking them to the bank. Sitting at the kitchen table, wearing something girly and trying not to feel foolish.

Dutch picked up the jar, which now weighed substantially more than the one pound advertised on the tin, and shook his head. Really?

REALLY?

He brought the whole can downstairs, where he found Angie at that same kitchen table, wearing an off-the-shoulder sweater like it was a minidress. The contrast to Len’s memories couldn’t have been greater. Her hair was almost dry, and for the first time in forever it was clean and shiny. The fine blue-black strands had less body than Dutch remembered, and framed a face that was still hauntingly thin. She looked childlike, vulnerable, and very feminine.

Angie smiled up at him. “We won’t need all of that. Just a couple buck’s worth.”

“Just a couple bucks.” His voice was flat.

Her smile faded as she studied his expression. It didn’t take a lot of sleuthing to discern the path his mind had taken.

“You know what this kind of money would have meant to me? ‘Just’ a couple bucks?” The tin sounded like a length of prison chain as it landed hard on the table top. “Food. Maybe a new pair of sneakers from Goodwill.”

“I know,” she said quietly, but with enough stress on the second word to remind him of how she knew.

He ignored both the words and the subtext. “I wonder how many blow jobs I had to give, to get as much scratch as you’ve got just in this fucking can!”

The fury in Dutch’s eyes hit Angie like the fall of an ax. She had Margaret Mary’s memories, so of course she knew what her life had been like. Now, though, seeing all of that fear, hurt and pain manifest as wrath, she felt it, deeply, viscerally, and personally.

In the rage that filled Dutch’s face, she felt the weight of her failure to look beyond the narrow confines of her life and see all of the people that had been left behind. Left adrift. Pushed to the margins. She wanted to hang her head in shame.

But another voice inside her head was suddenly chittering in fear, responding to Dutch’s evident anger with a powerful, instinctive urge to escape. To run, and keep running. It was all Angie could do to stay rooted in place.

With an effort of will, she reminded herself that running hadn’t done Margaret Mary any good. Falling back on decades of experience hiding her emotions and controlling the face she showed the world, she forced her voice to remain calm and even. “I can say that I’m sorry, and I am, but that doesn’t change anything.” She met her accuser’s glare with a level gaze. “I no longer have assets to give to the poor or needy; you do. So if you want to do better than I did, then you’d better start thinking about how you’d do it.”

Dutch gaped like a fish and sputtered, “If I . . . you . . . .” The thought simply wouldn’t complete itself, so he gave up on it. “How can you just sit there?”

“Lots and lots of experience.” She looked up at him and sighed. “Dutch. Sit down.”

He hesitated, looking rebellious, but finally sank into the seat across from her.

“Listen to me. You’ve got the memories, but you’re still thinking like Margaret Mary.” She put up a hand to forestall his response. “Nothing wrong with that. I got numb to things, after a few decades. When you spend so many days doing the same things, over and over, you just fall into ruts and can’t see what’s around you.”

“That a shit excuse.”

“An excuse?” Angie shook her head. “No. A warning.”

Dutch leaned back and his eyes narrowed. “Let me guess . . . You want me to make up for all the things you didn’t do, while you were raking in the dough and living it up.”

“No. I want you to have a good life.” She leaned forward. “More than that – I want you to have the best life you can imagine. I really, really, do, because from where I’m sitting, you’ve been robbed of decades.”

Something in her face, her posture, and her tone pierced through his suspicion. It didn’t make his doubts vanish . . . but he didn’t look away. Instead, he chewed on his lower lip – a Margaret Mary habit – trying to make sense of what she was saying.

It didn’t add up. “If you want me to have a good life, why’re you trying to get me to give away stuff?”

She breathed a sigh of relief that he was willing to give her a hearing. “I’m not trying to tell you to give away stuff. Honest. What I am trying to tell you is that you should think about what you want that good life to look like, right now. Because if you don’t, in a few months you’ll find yourself just living the life I had. Or worse, the one I was scared of having, once I retired.”

“What was wrong with your life? It looks pretty good to me!”

“Does it?” Angie cocked her head. “Then why were you so mad at me, just now?”

Dutch was having trouble following her logic. “Huh?”

“You were mad because I had so much money that fifty bucks in change wasn’t even worth rolling up and taking to the bank, and you were out there starving, right?”

“Yeah?” Dutch still wasn’t following her.

“Well, I’m guessing you weren’t the only starving person on the streets, and now you’re the one with money. If you’re just going to go on doing what I was doing, won’t you be angry with yourself?”

“No!” Dutch’s reaction was immediate. “I spent two years on the street. If I’ve finally got a house and a car and a shitload of cash, I’ve fucking earned it!”

She leaned back, saddened but not surprised. “So you have.”

Eager to change the subject, he said, “Are you gonna show me this card game, or what?”

“Sure.” Her voice was neutral once again. She picked up the deck, steepled her hands . . . and spilled the cards every which way.

He snorted. “Smooth!”

She looked at the cards, dumbfounded. She’d played enough games of solitaire over the years that the deck was nicely broken in and her movements were automatic. Pulling them back together, she tried a second time and had the same result. “What the hell?”

This time, Dutch got there before she did. “Your hands are a lot smaller, now.”

“You’re right.” She gathered the cards a third time. “I should probably just do this a different way, but . . . let me see if I can adjust.”

He sat back and watched, amused, as she tried again and again. But she got it to work after six or seven attempts, and by the tenth she seemed to be getting the hang of it.

“Okay.” She stopped shuffling and looked up at him again. “Tell me the rules.”

He frowned. “You know the rules.”

“It’s like with the driving lesson,” she explained. “I want you to make those memories more readily accessible. How many cards get dealt?”

“Uhh . . . five.”

“Right. And what’s the first thing that happens after the cards are dealt?”

After two seconds the answer came to him. “We have a round of betting.”

“Who starts the betting?”

“The player to the dealer’s left.”

“What does the next player do, after someone makes a bet?”

“Raise, call, or fold.”

“Once the betting round is over, what happens?”

“Drop and draw cards.”

Just as with the driving lesson, Angie’s questions came faster and faster, and Dutch’s answers grew more confident. More fluid. When she was satisfied, she said, “Ready to go?”

He nodded.

“Ante’s a nickel,” she called, throwing one into the pot. Deciding to throw one more memory test into the mix, she said, “Five card draw, jacks or better to open and trips to win.”

He just moved a nickel into the center of the table and looked at her expectantly.

The game started. Angie won the first hand, and the second. Dutch won the third. But after next to half an hour of play, Angie had almost all of the coins.

Dutch was watching carefully, and there was no way she was cheating. For one thing, her hands were still awkward on the cards. “I know this game just like you do,” he conceded. “I guess my luck just sucks tonight.”

For the first time since they started playing, Angie smiled. “Nope. The cards aren’t your problem, your face is.”

Dutch scowled. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“Well . . . I’ve never much liked it. But never mind about that. Thing is, though, you’ve never learned to hide your feelings. When you get good cards, you look happy. Bad ones and you scowl. When you try for a straight and your draw card’s a bust, you look disappointed. I watch your face, and I know how I should play my hand.”

The lightbulb went off. “Oh yeah . . . the whole ‘poker face’ thing, right?”

“Right.” She shuffled the cards and held them out for him to cut. “So what I want you to do, is think about what you might be showing me. Think about how you hold your head. Whether you look nervous. All that. Above all, try to keep your face neutral throughout each hand. If you win one, you can grin and crow all you like – right up until the next deal!”

They played some more, with Dutch showing slow improvement. After another half hour of play, he was doing better, though Angie was still winning more hands than he was. When it was his deal again, he shuffled thoughtfully, using an easier technique that Angie taught him, after he’d been unable to do it casino-style. When he was finished, he set the deck down rather than dealing. “The whole poker face thing . . . when did you learn that? You only played computer poker.”

She leaned back, pleased that he’d gotten to the point of the game without her prodding. “I’m an engineer, but as you know, a lot of what I do involves negotiations of one sort or another.”

Dutch nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“Negotiation’s just like playing cards. You don’t want the other guy to know what your final position is – you want to know what his final position is. That way, you’re the one in the driver’s seat.”

“This is all about Monday, isn’t it?”

“Mostly,” she agreed. “It’s also a good way to get to know someone.”

“How would you know?” Dutch’s face, mobile once more, showed extreme skepticism.

She smiled. “Something I read. What do you think? Was the author right?”

He made a rude noise, but returned her smile as he pushed back his seat. “Whatever. I’m hungry again.”

“Me, too.” She rose. “If you want, I can make us both something for dinner.”

“Moocher,” he teased.

She decided it was as good a moment as any. “I am, and I’ll have to be for the week while I’m here. There’s stuff I’ve got to be able to do, like eat and drink and do laundry. I know it’s your house and all, but I don’t want to have to come asking for permission every time.”

His suspicion flared again, but this time he tried to tamp it down. “Food, drinks, water . . . sure. Just don’t be takin’ stuff, okay?”

She nodded. “I promise. How does baked chicken sound?”

“Are you kidding? Remember what I’ve been living on?”

“Done, then. Give me an hour and I’ll have it ready.”

“Okay.” He nodded, but sounded uncertain. “Should I, uhh . . . do you want me to, you know . . . help?”

What she really wanted was an hour of quiet, to sit with her own thoughts. But she’d spent a lifetime keeping other people away, while Margaret Mary had spent a far shorter lifespan being kept away by everyone around her. So instead of shooing Dutch back to the living room, Angie gave him a grateful smile.

“If you’re up to it,” she replied, “I’d love the company.”

She had him deal with the chicken, which actually took the least amount of work, while she cut up some broccoli and made rice. Simple stuff; nothing fancy. Nothing that would overtax her new digestive system.

“What should I put on it,” Dutch asked, after he’d gotten the packet of thighs out of the fridge.

“Same as always.”

He frowned, then got it. “Oh, yeah! I know all this.”

“Yup,” she agreed. “I mean, I suppose it might have been harder, if I didn’t cook it the same way every time.”

He went back to the refrigerator, got the Italian salad dressing, and began dousing the chicken pieces with it. “Seems like you ate this a lot.”

She nodded. “I never paid that much attention to food, I guess. I had to eat, so I made sure I could cook a few things.”

Dutch thought about her response as he worked the dressing under the skin and set the pieces in a baking dish. When he was done, he observed, “You got enough scratch, you could eat out every night.”

“I know.” She turned the water down on the rice and put a lid on the pot. “But I didn’t care enough about food to pay that much for it.”

“Didn’t care enough about food.” Dutch shook his head, disgusted.

Here we go again, she thought. “I just mean–”

“I know what you mean,” he said, cutting her off. “I get it. You didn’t care what it tasted like, you just needed fuel. And I was like that too, some. I’d have eaten anything, when I was hungry enough. It’s just . . . well. You know.”

Angie thought about it, sifting through Margaret Mary’s memories. How she would smell something – like when the bagel place was getting its first batches done in the morning, long before the sun was up and no-one else was on the streets – and suddenly she would be overcome by a craving for the food she associated with that smell. The craving would be overwhelming. All-consuming. The hunger pangs would intensify ten-fold. A hundred-fold.

She decided to try to keep it light. “On the bright side, neither of us are likely to be picky eaters.”

“Fuck, no,” he agreed.

Dinner was quiet. Angie kept her portions small and avoided the skin on the chicken, trying to eliminate anything that might overload her stomach.

Dutch, on the other hand, ate everything with enthusiasm. “It’s funny,” he said after he finished. “I used to hate broccoli, growing up. Maybe Father cooked it funny, but I think I just hadn’t learned to appreciate food.”

“I’ve never been a big vegetable fan,” Angie admitted. “But the doctors always tell me I need to be better, and I try.”

Dutch dipped into his new memories and faked a lilting, musical accent. “‘Lennart, you must start listening to me – enough with the meat and potatoes!’”

Angie laughed. “Not bad! I got a new doctor, after Patel. But she said the same thing, too.”

“And so, chicken, rice, veg,” Dutch summarized.

“Yup. And, hate to say it . . . .”

“Don’t. You’re gonna say portion control.” Dutch grinned. “I’ll get there, I promise. But not today!”

“I hear ya.” On impulse, Angie reached over and squeezed his hand. “I just want to make sure you get as many years as possible. And that they’re good years.”

Dutch shook his head, uncertain how to respond. He knew Angie was reacting from guilt, mostly. But having someone even seem concerned for his well being was novel. Even disconcerting. He cleared his throat and rose. “I’ll . . . uhhh. Let me clean up.”

Angie moved to help, and they had a minor collision at the sink. “Tell you what,” she offered. “Why don’t I wash and you can dry and put away. I can’t reach the upper shelves anymore!”

“Sure, but . . . I mean, why don’t we just use the dishwasher?”

“Well, because . . . .” Angie stopped, dumbfounded.

“Because?”

“I just never have,” she confessed. “I’ve always been alone, and I don’t use a lot of dishes. It always seemed easier to just wash it by hand.”

“Huh.” Dutch looked at her.

She frowned, uncertain. “Do you know how to use a dishwasher?”

“We didn’t have one.” Dutch shrugged. “How hard could it be?”

They opened the dishwasher and saw the pristine racks that had never been used. There were a bunch of buttons at the top which should have been intuitive but somehow weren’t. Angie was ready to just go back to hand washing, but Dutch convinced her to pile everything into the machine, close the door, and hit “on.”

“Is it working?” Angie asked after a minute. “It’s awfully quiet.”

“Beats me. It’s your machine.”

She chuckled. “Nope. It’s all yours now. One more thing you’ll have to figure out.”

“If that’s the worst thing I’ve gotta deal with, I think I’ll be okay.” Dutch rapped the counter as if to emphasize the point, then pivoted away, putting the problem behind him. “I think I’m gonna catch some sleep.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Angie agreed.

“You’ll be okay?” he asked, suddenly awkward. “I mean, with the air mattress and all?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Well . . . okay then. Uhhh, good night, I guess.”

Angie smiled. “Good night, Dutch.”

– To be continued.

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