Love in Paris
From an image sent by Typsie Tinker
By Maryanne Peters

That was the moment I fell in love with the woman who used to be my best friend. I could still see the man in that face, but when she turned to watch the shouting across the street I saw only the woman she now was.

Marcus had gone to Paris to find himself. It sounds corny, but he was a lost soul. Despite our friendship there was nothing I could do except to encourage him to find his own way, with no understanding of what he was going through.

A year later I had the opportunity to go to France, and I decided that I should look Marcus up. We had stayed in touch by email, and he was telling me that he had finally turned his life around but that he was not ready to return home.

“You might not recognize me when we meet,” he said. “I have made a lot of changes in my life, but they are all for the good. I have finally come to terms with something that I have been wrestling with for years. But I will meet you at “Tropezienne” in the Rue Lapin. It’s a coffee place. I will be wearing what is left of that light brown suit.”

It seemed like an odd thing to say. How would I not recognize him? But I did remember the suit.

It was an early spring day – a little cool but the sun was shining brightly. The café was not busy and most people were sitting inside. I had a good look around for Marcus and then looked back at the tables on the street. There was a pretty young woman looking at me intently, and even pleadingly. Then I recognized the jacket. It was from Marcus’s suit. I looked again and I realized hat I was looking at Marcus, now a woman!

I was drawn to walk towards this strange sight. The long hair I remembered looked lighter in color and was clipped up in a casual bun. There were earrings but understated makeup, and yet she was still simply beautiful. Her stare seemed to ask for my approval.

“Marcus?” I knew it was him. I just needed him to say.

“Marcia. Marcia now,” she said. A waiter appeared and she ordered two coffees in flawless French.

The jacket hung off her now. She seemed so slight and delicate inside it. And yet it worked with the short brown skirt possibly made from the suit pants, and the stockings, and the expensive looking handbag that she clung to.

“Why didn’t you warn me? I was not expecting this.” I am not sure why I chose to criticize her.

“I wanted to give you that chance to walk away, the way that my family did,” she said.

“But you must have been going through this for years?” I said. “I know enough to know this is a condition you are born with, and yet you never said anything.”

“I was afraid,” she said, looking as if she still was. “My family reacted badly. I didn’t want to lose everyone, least of all you. I just wanted to see whether I could transition from male to female and do it somewhere else. I came to France because they don’t care, and because if I failed I could always go back.”

“Well, you clearly haven’t failed,” I said. “I mean, you’re gorgeous.”

She smiled. It was a familiar smile but still hard for me to sort out. Was this somebody new? Here was somebody who knew everything about me, but I now realized that I knew nothing about her. Her life had been a secret, and a tragic one. She was forced to hide herself even from those she loved. That is a tragedy.

And then there was that noise, and her head turned. His eyes disappeared from view, and I was looking at her – that soft hair, the line of her cheek and her neck, the delicate hands clutching her bag. In that moment I knew that I wanted her. We were always close, but now we could be even closer. Could she feel the same way about me? I needed to find out.

The End
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© Maryanne Peters 2025