~o~O~o~
CHAPTER SIX
"Ja genauer sich die leute anzusehen!”
– Strauss, Die Fledermaus, Mein Herr Marquis (Aria)

College Park, Maryland and Washington, D.C., December 9

The alarm went off, as usual, at 5:00, and it was off to the races.

Big glass of water.

Change out of my nightie and into one of my new sports bras and yoga pants. Stretching exercises. Fifteen minutes of aerobic cheerleading routines. More stretches.

Reluctantly peel off my silicone breast forms and use nail polish remover on my fingernails. Hit the shower by 5:45. Blow dry my hair, tie it low and tight into a male ponytail, then club the end to disguise any errant curls.

Make myself suitably drab and ugly with a white T-shirt, a white dress shirt, suit, tie and heavy dress shoes.

Grind some coffee beans, throw them in a drip cone and add water, hot but just below the boil (yeah, I’m a coffee geek). Dish out some yogurt and add fruit. Sit down, have a quick breakfast, then out the door by 6:30. That’s my morning, most days.

I opened the gate to the alley behind my garage apartment, took it to a side street, and walked to the College Park Metro station. I had decided to use this slightly longer route whenever I am disguised as Cameron Savin, aspiring young lawyer at Cavendish, Edwards and Gunn.

When I am dressed as I prefer, simply as Cami, I would walk out to the street in front of my landlords’ beauty salon and take a more direct route to the Metro.

It’s a mixed-use neighborhood and I’m typically out of the house too early and back too late on workdays to see a lot of people. But I decided I should take what precautions I can to avoid having strangers know that a transwoman lives in my garage apartment.

Once on the train, I grabbed a seat and did what everyone does: pulled out my phone. In my case, I checked emails, then checked headlines from the Washington Post. The news continued to focus on the impeachment hearings in the House of Representatives – a subject I was very interested in. Almost made me miss getting off at Gallery Place, my usual stop. I was in the office by 7:20.

Pretty normal start to the day.

My email check indicated that Eileen had sent me additional comments on the third section of the brief that I had sent yesterday evening. The time stamp on her email had been 11:40 p.m.

I plugged in my laptop and dove right in. By 8:30 I was able to incorporate all of her changes and send the section back to her.

I went to grab a coffee and bumped into Daviana Narvaez, a sixth-year associate who was also on the trial team.

“Good morning, Cam,” she said brightly, “how was your weekend?”

Monday morning, she was clearly getting her first cup of coffee, and Daviana was upbeat, cheerful and full of energy. I don’t know how she does it, but I can’t actually imagine Daviana grumpy or bad tempered. One of the many reasons I enjoy working with her.

I returned her infectious smile. “Never better! I love brief writing!”

She laughed. She had been working on four other sections of the brief over the weekend.

I said, “I got the mark-up on my last section back from Eileen at almost midnight. So I’m guessing the work doesn’t get easier the more senior we get!” Eileen was the firm’s senior trial lawyer.

Daviana touched my arm briefly in sympathy. “It doesn’t, for the really good ones, and Eileen’s the best. It’s a lot easier to work for someone like that.”

I agreed fervently. “Meeting at 9:30?”

“Yep. Eighth floor conference room.”

“See ya then,” I said, and went back to my office.

At 9:30 sharp we were all in the conference room. Eileen was punctual, so we were punctual too.

She didn’t tend to sit at the head of the table; instead, she was usually somewhere on the long side facing the door. Petite and sparrow-thin, she favored well-tailored suits in classic styles and subdued jewelry. Even relaxed, her posture was straight and she had a very direct gaze.

David Parr sat across from Eileen. He specialized in commercial litigation and had been running the case for the past four years. He was the go-to guy on the applicable law and the history of the case. David was about six feet tall, a bit heavy set, with sandy hair, a well-trimmed beard and a perpetually serious expression.

Daviana was sitting on David’s right, and Greg Gilles, the paralegal, had a chair toward the end of the table to the right of Daviana. I went around and sat to Eileen’s left, because I knew she didn’t like us all sitting in front of her like school children in front of the teacher.

Eileen finished what she was saying to David, then said to the whole group, “Carrie will be in in just a minute; I’ve asked her to make copies of an outline for us to discuss.”

Carrie was the secretary for Eileen and several other senior lawyers. She came in a couple seconds later, distributed copies of the outline, then sat at the foot of the table between me and Greg.

Eileen got the meeting underway. “Thank you all for your hard work over the weekend.”

Her thanks didn’t actually apply to Greg and Carrie; the firm didn’t have paralegals and secretaries work after hours without paying them overtime, and there had been no need for that over the past weekend. But Eileen liked to be inclusive.

She continued, “I think we’re in pretty good shape in terms of having the substance covered. But we need to do a better job connecting the pieces into an understandable theme that the judge will be able to follow easily. So, we need an intro that ties things together, we need to put all of the different sections in a logical order, and we need to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

We had a discussion about the themes we wanted to stress and the rationale behind the ordering of arguments. Eileen led the discussion, but worked hard to make sure everyone was heard and we were all on the same page.

My assigned task was to take the nine sections that had been drafted and create a single document, ensuring that the sections flowed together and putting everything in the correct format.

David was working on the introduction, which he would plug into the unified document once I had that part finished.

The meeting broke up and I got to work. While my task sounded simple, I discovered that it wasn’t. As I put the sections together in the order we had determined at the meeting, I found that there were several areas where evidence and arguments became repetitive. Terminology was used in earlier sections but wasn’t explained until later sections. Short case citations were used where the full cite was required, and vice versa.

It was almost 3:00 before I was finished with the stylistic changes. But something still seemed wrong with an argument that was central to one of David’s sections and was also in one of Daviana’s. Both arguments relied on City of Corinth v. Cassidy, a case I had read when researching my sections, and I remembered the case differently.

I went back and read the case again, start to finish. I wasn’t seeing what they were seeing. The appellate decision in the Corinth case hinted at the argument that they were making, but the holding – the court’s actual rationale for reaching the outcome it had – was more limited than our arguments suggested.

I went down the hall. “Hey Daviana – got a sec?”

“Sure,” she said. “What’s up?”

“You and David both cited the Second Circuit’s decision in Corinth to support our argument that several of the defendant’s documents were inadmissible, but I just don’t think the court went that far. I was wondering whether you could take a look and tell me if you think I’m crazy.”

She cocked her head, looking a bit quizzical. “Sure, I’ll take a look. I’ve got to finish this email, but I’ll read it again as soon as I’m done.”

I thanked her and walked back to my office.

David was walking out just as I came to the door. “Hey Cam — I was just wondering where you are on the unified draft. I’m done with the intro and I’d like to get the whole thing to Eileen for her review.”

“I’m basically done, but I had an issue that I wanted to ask you and Daviana about. I just talked to her – it’s about the Corinth case. I don’t think the holding is as strong for us as we suggest in sections two and seven.”

David’s face showed mild impatience. “I repurposed that section from a brief we filed in the Baxter case last year; I’m sure it’s fine. Anyhow, we can deal with any issues on that later. If the draft is otherwise done, just shoot it over to me.”

What could I say, other than, “Will do”?

I sent the draft brief off to him, but it bothered me so I continued to research the issue. By six o’clock I was absolutely famished, having forgotten to eat lunch, but I was more certain than before that I was right.

Daviana popped her head in my doorway. “Hey, Cam – sorry, the afternoon got away from me. I just had a chance to re-read Corinth. Is this a good time to talk?”

“I don’t suppose you'd be willing to eat and talk? I forgot lunch and I’m just about ready to eat my phone.”

“You got it,” she said. “Elephant and Castle work for you?”

“Right now, the roadkill cafe would work for me. Thanks!”

We walked over to the restaurant, flagged down a server and ordered right away. Daviana ordered a glass of wine with her dinner; I stuck to iced tea since I wasn’t finished working.

With the preliminaries out of the way, she said, “I think you’re right. I was working off of a brief we filed in Baxter, but I can see why you think we might be overstating what the Corinth court decided. It isn’t all that important to the argument in my section, but it’s the key to David’s. If Corinth doesn’t get us there, I don’t know how we make the argument. Any thoughts?”

I told her about my additional research and explained the more complicated argument that I wanted to suggest as an alternative. The food arrived just as I was finishing my summary.

She clinked glasses with me. “So, the majority of district courts that have analyzed Corinth haven’t read it the way we are, but you think the minority view is better reasoned?”

“Right.”

“I want to know why you think that, but only after you’ve had a few bites of your sandwich. You look like you are about to fall over!”

I chuckled, but complied. Then I explained my reasoning between bites.

She continued to chew over what I was saying and ask questions while we ate. By the time we were finished, she appeared to be satisfied with my argument, so I asked what I should do next.

“Well, I hate to say it, but I think you should write up the alternative argument that you want to substitute for the Corinth discussion in each of the two sections and send it to David to look at. I’m happy to look at it first if you want me too, but I don’t think I need to. Your argument’s solid and better than what we have. It’s longer, though. Do we have room?”

“I don’t know how long David’s introduction was, but the body of the brief was only eighteen pages and we have twenty-five. It shouldn’t be a problem, especially if I can cross-reference the long version of the argument the second time.”

Then I asked her what I was really worried about. “Will David be okay with it, do you think? He seemed a bit impatient when I raised it this afternoon.”

She gave me a thoughtful look. “We can’t afford to get caught out making arguments that the other side can take apart at the motions hearing. David’s smart and he knows that.”

There was a certain hesitancy in her voice, which caused me to say, “But . . . ?“

She smiled. “. . . but junior lawyers need to be diplomatic when correcting partners. David can be a bit prickly, but like I said, he’s smart. And if you give him a good alternative, he won’t fight you about it even if his feathers do get ruffled. Which they probably won’t.”

“Thanks, Daviana. That’s what I was hoping.”

We talked a bit more about the firm generally, then paid the bill and left. I went back to the office and Daviana went home. Her husband’s job had odd hours and she often picked up dinner on her own.

I went back to my desk, sat down, and drafted the alternative arguments for the two sections as Daviana had suggested. The first section was now a full two pages longer and the second was most of a page more. We might have to do some trimming elsewhere, but that almost always happened with briefs.

I sent it off to David and copied Daviana, with a note phrased as diplomatically as I could make it: “David – I gave some more thought to the issue I flagged earlier and did some follow-up research. The Second Circuit hasn’t revisited the issue since Corinth, but there have been eight District Court opinions on it – one from Vermont, two from Connecticut (but not by our judge), and five from New York. Five of the eight read Corinth differently than we do in our brief.

“One of the Connecticut decisions and two of the New York cases go our way. Although they are the minority, I think the judge may find their reasoning to be more persuasive. I’ve drafted alternative sections of the brief that lay out the argument, just to see how it reads. If you think it makes sense, maybe we can change those two sections. Best regards, Cam.”

By the time I was done it was too late to catch the Metro. I called an Uber, got dropped off a block or so from home, and stumbled in around 1:00 am.

During the drive, I closed my eyes and attempted to analyze how the men and women in the office communicated, both verbally and non-verbally.

Daviana always seemed warm and approachable. So, I asked myself, what specific characteristics gave that impression? She smiled a lot. She kept eye contact while talking. She very visibly “listened” when other people were speaking, and asked follow-up questions that showed she was processing what they said.

Daviana was animated when speaking; her hands moved and her expression was mobile. The pitch and tone of her voice used a broad range, though her volume was usually even. She could express empathy with a quick touch on the arm, as she had that morning.

David, in contrast, projected reserve and competence. He appeared to occupy more space, he typically displayed very little emotion and he spoke with a generally even tone. Even his expression of impatience had been very mild. The slightest raising of an eyebrow, a small hand movement, an increase in the tempo of his speech. He tended to listen carefully, then respond in a declarative manner.

Eileen was brisk. Not as approachable as Daviana, but her face was more mobile than David’s and did not project David’s reserve. Like Daviana, she was more inclined to ask follow-up questions and invite further discussion rather than stating her own views in a declarative way.

But, there was never any doubt that Eileen was in charge. She managed that by conveying an easy confidence. Nothing in her voice – not pitch, or tone, or cadence – projected any uncertainty or trepidation. Yet her vocal range, like Daviana’s, was more animated, less of a monotone, than David’s.

Eileen’s style of communicating was very different than Daviana’s, but both were, in innumerable ways, more like each other than they were like David. And, some of those differences seemed to be gender-related in ways that were difficult to pin down.

As Cami, I would need to develop my own distinctive style – everyone does. But, if I wanted my style to more convincingly appear feminine – which I did – I would need to incorporate my observations of how women interacted with men and with other women.

And if that were not enough, I would need to practice that outside of the work environment until I was ready to let my secret be known.

Not easy!

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Zur mitternächt’gen Stund’”
– Lehár, Giuditta, Meine Lippen (Aria)

College Park, Maryland and Washington, D.C., December 10-13

The rest of the week passed in a blur.

I was pleasantly surprised by David’s reaction to my efforts. He passed the changes directly on to Eileen, copying me and Daviana, with a note that said, “Cam caught me with my pants down on Corinth. Looks like we’ve been a bit aggressive in our interpretation – both here and in Baxter. I still think we’re right, but the argument is more complicated. Fortunately, after finding the problem, Cam proposed a solution that I think works well. See what you think.”

Eileen did a “reply all” about an hour later that said, “Agreed. Nice work, Cam.”

We continued to work on elements of the brief throughout the week and finalized it at about 4:00 on Friday afternoon. Both our reply brief in support of our motions, and defendants’ reply brief in support of their motions, had to be filed electronically by midnight.

To prevent the other side from getting a sneak peek at our arguments before they filed their brief, Greg agreed he would file our submission from home at around 11:00 p.m.

Our efficiency meant that I could join Javier for dinner and a movie. He had asked if I would go with him to see “Knives Out,” a new whodunnit with a great cast, because Al, according to Javi, “is a party-pooper who hates movies and likes to be in bed by 10:00.”

I was delighted for the chance to go out anywhere looking pretty, or as close to pretty as I could manage. So I rushed home, dumped the male clothes, and spent some time getting ready. I showered, washed my hair, shaved, then slipped on my green dressing gown and did my nails.

Normally I would listen to some classical music to relax while my nails and hair dried and set, but I hadn’t had as much time as I had liked to follow the news in the past week, so instead I flipped on CNN.

The headliner, of course, was the party-line vote by the House Judiciary Committee to impeach President Trump for abuse of power and obstruction of Congress, though Boris Johnson’s convincing win in the UK snap election got a lot of airtime as well.

I listened with some impatience. I don’t like watching news; it’s emotive and inefficient. I can get more and better information faster by reading. But it was easy to do while my nails and hair were doing their thing.

When my nails were dry, I took the curlers out of my hair, blow-dried and brushed it out and arranged it in the loose, over-the-shoulder braid that I found attractive and feminine but also practical for everyday wear.

I selected a black bra-and-panty set, put them on, and sat down to do my face. Cleanser, moisturizer, foundation, eyeshadow, mascara, blush, lip gloss . . . . Not too much; we were only going to the movies. But more than I would use for daytime.

For purposes of just fitting in, I probably should have worn my stretchy jeans, but I had been in pants all week. Instead, I put on my black tights, zipped up my new, full, dark red skirt and crisp white collared shirt with three-quarter sleeves rolled up to half with a strap. My black bra was visible through the shirt, but fairly muted.

I added my knee-high leather boots with the two-inch heels and accessorized with drop earrings and a matching pendant that nestled in the v of my shirt.

Before I called Javi, I opened my computer and sent a quick email to Fiona concerning the list of health care professionals Sarah had recommended as people who might be able to help me in my goal of becoming more outwardly feminine. Fi is a doctor and would no doubt be offended if I didn’t even ask her opinion. Besides, I trusted her to give good advice.

Then we were off. We stopped at a local fast-food eatery with a vaguely Caribbean vibe and got a bite before catching the movie at 8:00.

As I perched on a high-top table, doing my usual people watching, I wondered what people would see when they looked at me and Javier. He is in his early forties and I’m twenty-seven. We both look a bit young for our age, though that’s even more true of me when I’m dressed as a woman.

Would they think I was his daughter? Unlikely. We both have very dark hair, but that’s about where the resemblance ends. I’m 5’10” and slender, Javi is short and stocky; my eyes are very blue, Javi’s deep brown; my skin is so white it’s practically blue; Javi’s is nut-brown.

But I also doubted we would be mistaken for lovers with a wide age range. While our conversation was spirited, we did not interact like a couple.

Well, let them wonder. No way in hell would they identify us as an older gay guy and a younger transwoman who just happened to be friends!

I was actively working on my feminine communication skills, putting to use some of my observations from the week just past. I consciously took up less space, keeping my legs together and my elbows tucked into my sides. Allowing my facial expression more mobility was actually harder, given my lifetime of keeping a poker face.

When Javi was speaking, I made a point of visibly listening, keeping eye contact and nodding at appropriate intervals. I tried to ease back on my tendency to speak in declarative sentences.

I needed a lot of practice.

For all that I felt my efforts came up short, Javi nonetheless noticed them. As we got in his car he said, “Good work, Cami. I saw how you were trying to act more like a young woman. I think you have some talent at mimicry. Don’t worry; you’ll get better.”

I thanked him and resolved that somehow I would get the practice I needed.

I’m not a big mystery fan, but I enjoyed the movie a lot – it felt so good to get out. And, I enjoyed watching Javier’s exuberant appreciation of everything from the actors to the plot to the theater itself. He was chatting about it in an animated fashion as we got in the car and drove home.

When we were almost back, though, my cell phone rang. It was Greg Gilles. I apologized to Javi and took the call. “Hey Greg, what’s up?” I asked.

“Hey, Cam,” he responded, sounding flustered. “I’m trying to file the brief and I can’t get into the system. Our remote gateway must be offline.”

I checked my watch. It was almost 11:00, and we had to be filed by midnight. “Do you have the final version on your laptop?”

“No,” he responded. Nor had the final version been sent as an email attachment. It could be recreated from near-final drafts, but there was no time.

He lives in Fredericksburg. No way could he get into the office in time.

My usual reaction to an emergency is to become preterhumanly calm. Keeping my voice even and easy to defuse Greg’s rising panic, I said, “No problem. I’ll get it filed; I’m a lot closer than you are. I’ve got the necessary login credentials at the office.”

“Thanks, Cam,” he said, sounding extremely relieved. “You’re a lifesaver!”

We ended the call just as Javier pulled into the driveway. He looked at me.

“Can I borrow the car for an hour or so?” I asked.

“Of course. But you won’t have any time to change!”

“I know. Don’t worry. No one will be there.”

He handed me the keys and I went into my apartment just long enough to grab my laptop. Then I raced back to the office, completely focused on meeting the needs of the moment.

By 11:30 I was in the parking garage. I took the elevator up to my floor and got out, triggering the motion detectors which turned on the lights. Good – that suggested that no one was there.

I walked to my office quickly, hearing the distinctively feminine click of the heels of my boots on the hardwood floor, feeling the swish of my skirt against my tights as I strode down the hall.

Once I reached my office, I plugged in and fired up my computer. The seconds ticked by.

I logged in, then went straight to the shared document files and located the final version of the brief in pdf form (it was the only version that had been converted into a pdf, so I knew it was the right one). Then I went to the website for the U.S. District Court for Connecticut and logged in to the document filing system using my personal credentials.

It was now 11:45.

It seemed to take forever, but I finally got the series of screens that allowed me to identify the case by number, the party filing the document and the motions to which it related. I uploaded the pdf and authorized the filing.

At 11:52, I received the automatic confirmation from the court that the filing was complete.

I looked up, half expecting to see Eileen standing in the doorway, waiting for me to finish. But no one was there, nor did I hear any sounds on the floor. I shot Greg a text saying all was well.

The mission accomplished, reaction set in. I started to shake and my heart pounded, so I took a minute just to calm down as I shut down my computer.

But it also felt so right to be sitting in this chair, in this office, dressed in a skirt, modest cleavage visible as the first three buttons of my shirt were undone, my long hair spilling over my shoulder in a loose, thick braid. To be typing with beautiful, manicured nails.

Some day, I vowed. Some day!

I got up, stretched, picked up my computer and my purse, turned off my light, and walked slowly down the hall, click-click-click once again echoing in the silent space. I got to the elevators and pushed the down button. An elevator began descending in response.

Then a second elevator became active, this one ascending. Someone was coming!

Or else, I told myself sternly, they weren’t. The building was twelve stories and the odds were against the second elevator coming to my floor.

The descending elevator arrived and I stepped quickly into it. Just as the doors were closing, I heard the “ping” that announced the arrival of the second elevator. But it was too late: the doors of my elevator finished closing and I was on my way to the parking garage.

Empty as the garage was, I was parked right by the door. I hopped in, pushed the button, and drove off.

I was overcome by relief. So overcome that I inadvertently ran a red light at an empty intersection. Empty, that is, except for the police car. I prayed that he would have better things to do. Surely there are real crimes occurring in the District at 12:15 in the morning?

I kept driving. But then the lights on top of his car started flashing, he turned and began driving in my wake.

This is going to be ugly. I only had one driver’s license, and both the photo and the text said I was male. A thousand bad outcomes flashed through my mind. But there was no choice. None. I was driving Al and Javi’s car. They trusted me. On top of which, I’m an attorney. An officer of the Court.

I pulled over.

The cruiser just drove around me and kept going, the lights continuing to flash as it accelerated down the deserted street. My hands shaking, I put the car back in gear and slowly, carefully, finished driving home.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER EIGHT
“il mio mistero è chiuso in me”
– Puccini, Turandot, Nessun Dorma (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, December 14

I’m normally an early riser, but I slept until 8:30 Saturday morning. I had a bizarre dream where I was standing up in court to make an argument and I looked down to discover I was only wearing my blue nightie.

The judge was saying, “Your breasts are very impressive, Mr. Savin, but I can’t follow your argument, at all.” I looked for my notes on the podium, but the only thing there was a packet of condoms which I thought must have been left by the last attorney to argue.

It felt good to wake up. It also felt good to be able to lay in bed for a few minutes instead of jumping up to get going. I needed to read the brief the Defendants had filed at 11:15 last night, but it could wait until tomorrow. So I luxuriated in the feel of – naturally – my dark blue nightie caressing my skin as I stretched like a cat, buried deep under the covers.

I finally hauled my ass out of bed, slipped on my dressing gown and put on a pair of fuzzy slippers. A cold and steady rain made for a gloomy view when I lifted the curtains. Too bad; I’d really like to have gone for a run, but running in cold rain is no fun at all, as well as being a good way to get sick.

I procrastinated a bit longer. Had a cup of tea. Ran my fingers through my long hair. I’d been so pressed for time lately that I wasn’t sure what to do with a little extra when I had it. I needed a break from my daily exercise routine.

Finally I said, “Gaaaaah!” in disgust, got up, and changed into stretchy jeans and a simple merino v-necked sweater with a camisole underneath. I put on running shoes, brushed my hair, quickly did my loose side braid and put on some light morning makeup.

Grabbing my winter coat, my purse and an umbrella, I left the apartment and went for a walk. There was a coffee shop a few blocks from the apartment – a Starbucks, unfortunately, but these are the suburbs. It wasn’t on the route that I took to get to the Metro when I was dressed for work. So I walked there, mostly staying dry, then went to get in line.

A couple minutes later, the door behind me popped open and a guy came in, half soaked from the rain but smiling hugely. It was apparent he was just finishing a run.

Without thinking, I smiled at him. “Tough day for a run – I couldn’t bring myself to do it this morning!”

He smiled back, clearly still coming down from a runner’s high. “Yeah, well – keeps me from sweating too much. You like running?”

“I like it better than most other forms of exercise, that’s for sure.”

Somehow, we kept the conversation going, an easy lobbing of the ball back and forth, with no one trying to score points. I paused to ask the barista for a venti latte, double shot, skim milk, and gave her my name for the cup.

“Cami?” said the runner. “That’s a nice name.”

I drawled back, “Whah . . . thank you, kahnd sir . . . does that lahn woohrk often?”

He just grinned. “Every time,” he said. “With all the practice, even ‘Gertrude’ believed me!”

He ordered a straight up black coffee (“Devin”), which I probably would have done myself if I weren’t trying to blend in. Although I had ordered first, his drink was simpler and came right up. “Join me?” he invited.

“Sure. Grab a seat while you can and I’ll be there in a minute.”

While I waited for my coffee, I wondered what I was doing. But I decided I just wanted a little human company – preferably someone who just saw me as a girl, not as a trans girl, let alone a guy. I wanted to be the person I felt I was. Besides, I told myself, I need the practice. I won’t get it sitting at home.

So we chatted for a bit. Just chatted. We talked about running.

Well, mostly he talked.

I actively listened, kept eye contact, kept my expression mobile and interested, and asked follow-up questions. I asked what he did when he wasn’t running.

He said he was just another Congressional staffer.

“You must have had a busy few weeks then,” I opined.

“Meh, just another day.”

We talked a bit about sports. He was a hockey fan; I professed no knowledge of the game.

I mentioned baseball.

He grimaced. “No, no. Only real sports!”

I laughed.

I finished my coffee. “Thanks, Devin, I guess I needed a bit of company this morning. Enjoy the rest of your day!”

He stood and smiled. “Anytime, Cami. See you around!”

We each went our own way. Ever cautious, I took a roundabout way home and made sure I wasn’t followed. Sarah would be proud of me.

It had been a pleasant chat, and had managed it without giving off any clues. I’m a high tenor, but even so my natural voice is a bit low for a woman. I spoke softly and lightly to mask it as much as possible, and I had worked to make sure he did most of the talking.

My need to focus on verbal and non-verbal communication mechanics did detract a bit from the purely human interaction, but it still had felt good.

And, I’ll admit, it was pleasant to have a nice-looking guy ask me to join him, even if it was only for a coffee. It made me feel appreciated. Feminine. There wasn’t anything sexual about our encounter as such; it was just an enjoyable social interaction. But I had no doubt that it would never have happened if we were just two guys in a Starbucks’ line.

I got back to the apartment in a much better mood, made myself a bit of breakfast – an egg, a bit of ham, a slice of toast – and read the Post. When I was finished, I put on some Carrie Underwood and got down to my first project for the day.

I had tried to come up with something to give Liz to thank her for the work she had done preparing those stunning, professional photos of me. At some point in the week I had an inspiration which I knew would take me a few hours: I wanted to build her a website for her photography – one that she could activate and add to if she decided she wanted to do more with it.

When she had taken me to her salon, she’d told the girls that she was considering doing photography as kind of a cross between a hobby and a side gig to her day job. This was a cover story on her part, but I guessed there was a hidden germ of a wish in what she had said.

First I went to GoDaddy to see what URLs might be available. URLs are easy and relatively cheap to reserve for a period of time – certainly long enough for Liz to decide whether it was something she wanted to pursue.

Variations on photography and Liz, and variations on photography and Talbot, all seemed to be taken. Unfortunately, both her first and last names were fairly common. I was able to get something that included Liz, Talbot, AND photography, and made the reservation.

Then I prepared a beta version of a website for her to look at. It was something I’d done both in college and law school to earn a bit of money, based on courses I had taken as far back as high school. I didn’t have the talent to make a living at it, but it paid better than bussing tables in the cafeteria or doing research for professors.

I created a logo and added one of my favorite shots of her from back in the spring. Writing an “About Liz” page was fun, since I filled it with over-the-top hyperbole (but made it possible for her to edit it!). After creating links to subpages for “Weddings,” “Portraits'' and “Special Occasions,” and setting the pages up so that she could add portfolio pictures to them, I put a couple of the (G-rated!) photos that she had done of me into the “Portraits” page.

On the “Special Occasions” page I added the picture that had made me so flustered – the one which showed me dressed in something appropriate to a fancy event, gazing into the eyes of a handsome man in a linen shirt. For demonstration purposes, of course!

I tested the pages on multiple platforms and devices: the PC and Mac partitions of my laptop (Safari, Chrome, Firefox, Edge), as well as my iPad and my phone. Unsurprisingly, I needed to make adjustments to ensure that it looked good on all of them. It was already 3:30 when I finished the job.

I shot Liz a text: “I arranged a little present for your ‘thoughts & daydreams.’ When you have a moment, check out this URL. It’s not public, but it can be anytime you want. Much love, Cami.”

Somehow, I doubted that my gift would change her life as much as the bra and panty set she had given me for my “daydreams” changed mine!

Before powering down my computer, I confirmed that I didn’t have any work emails. Fiona had written to say that she’d gotten my list of health care professionals and would get back to me after doing some research.

Fair enough.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER NINE
“e fu quel bacio, rivelazione”
– Puccini, La Rondine, Chi il bel sogno di Doretta (Aria)

Suburban Maryland, December 14, immediately following

It was time for my second project: I really needed to do some additional Christmas shopping, now that I was going to spend Christmas with Fiona and Henry. I freshened up my makeup, checked my hair, and headed out to a local mall. Thank God for Uber!

Two hours later, I was juggling several shopping bags and a rice bowl while I tried to find a place to sit in the crowded food court. It was a madhouse. A young guy with short blond hair and eyes as blue as mine looked up from his phone, saw my dilemma and waved me over.

I accepted the invitation gratefully.

“Let me help you with that,” he said, relieving me of my precariously balanced food and setting it on the table.

I bent at the knees to put my packages on the floor by my feet. “Thank you so much! I was getting a bit desperate.”

He chuckled. “I sympathize; I was in the same boat five minutes ago. Every year I tell myself I’ll do my Christmas shopping in November. It never happens.”

He looked like he was around my age; maybe a bit younger. Well-built – broad shoulders; his strong chest and biceps highlighted by the athletic trim of his hoodie. Friendly face. He filled the space opposite me – legs spread wide; upper arms out at an angle, forearms on the table. He was pretty frankly checking me out, but not in a creepy way.

Turnabout is fair play; I admitted to myself that I had been doing the same, albeit more discreetly. I decided to lean into it with a bit of humor. Catching his eye, I smiled and asked, “So, did I pass inspection?”

His eyes widened fractionally, then he returned my smile a bit ruefully. “Guilty, I’m afraid. But I was really just admiring. I’m Steve.”

I kept my friendly smile firmly in place and held my right hand out to be shaken. “Cami.”

He gave a firm handshake.

I responded with a gentle one. “No harm done, Steve. It’s kind of nice to be noticed in this bucket of crazy.”

He relaxed visibly and we chatted while we ate. He had the harder task since he’d ordered tacos and a beer.

As before, I was working on my female communication skills. Maintaining eye contact. Letting myself smile in a way that showed my teeth; using my eyes and the tilt of my head to convey animation and interest in the conversation. Freeing my hands to add emphasis when I spoke. Keeping my voice soft by relying on the muscles of my throat rather than my chest.

It felt a little more natural than it had this morning or the night before. I was enjoying the company. As we were finishing our meal, I said, “You don’t seem to have any packages. No luck?”

“None,” he said with a bit of drama.

“Who are you shopping for?”

“My mom and my kid sister. At least, I already found something for Dad.”

I thought for just a second, then said, with unusual spontaneity, “Tell you what: if you carry these,” — I indicated my shopping bags — “I’ll help you find something for the women in your life.”

His face lit up. “You will?”

I laughed, stood up, and handed him my bags. “C’mon!”

As he got to his feet, a woman with three hyper children honed in on our table with the speed and desperation of a hungry cheetah. I waited just long enough to make sure she won the race, shot her an understanding smile, and steered Steve out of the food court, my hand on the elbow of his free arm.

I was feeling positively buzzed. As Cam, I would never have waved a good-looking girl – or any girl, for that matter – over to my table, as Steve had done. Nor would I have assumed that someone would want me along while they shopped, as I had just done.

As a woman, though, I had felt perfectly comfortable making the offer. And, based on our conversation and his upfront inspection, I had been supremely confident that he would want my company.

He clearly thought I was a good-looking woman – I had “passed” – and he was eager for both my company and my assistance.

“Tell me about your Mom,” I prompted

He looked a bit blank, then said, “Mom? Well . . . she’s shorter than you, I think. Maybe 5’6”. She has blonde hair and blue eyes, like me. Thin.” He looked at me. “What else would it help to know?”

This is going to take some work. “Does she have any hobbies? Things she likes to do?”

“Oh, sure. She gardens, like, all the time. I mean, not in winter, obviously. But whenever she can.”

“Vegetables?”

“No, no,” he responded. “Flowers. Lots of flowers. She cuts them, brings them in the house and makes flower arrangements. We must have a million vases.”

Better. Making progress. “Anything else, besides gardening and flower arranging? Does she like to cook?”

“Cook? No, I don’t think so. I mean, she does cook, especially because Dad just sucks at it. But I don’t think it’s her thing.” He smiled with a sudden memory.

I prodded, “Okay, out with it!”

“I was just remembering. One time Dad got her some sort of frying pan for her birthday. She threatened to use it on his head if he ever got her something to cook with again.”

I smiled. I’m starting to like this woman.

“But she does like to bake,” he added. “Cookies, cakes, pies . . . she says she loves the way the house smells when she’s baking.”

Hmm. I thought some more. “Is she a people person, or more introverted?”

“She’s very friendly,” he said. “Very approachable. Like you,” he added with an offhanded smile, less a complement than a recognition of something he thought was obvious.

As if I would, of course, think of myself as friendly and approachable.

My mind was still grappling with that novel idea when he paused, looking thoughtful. “But . . . .“

I just stopped, cocked my head, and looked at him.

“I’ve never really thought about it before,” he said slowly. “Mom is Mom, you know? But I guess . . . I mean . . . I’ve always thought she was friendly and approachable. But I think maybe she’s kind of . . . shy? She’s not the type to jump into a conversation on her own or approach strangers. She kind of waits for them to come to her?”

His voice rose at the end as if he were asking a question, though it clearly was one he was directing at himself rather than me.

I started to get an idea. “Does she have a favorite flower?”

He looked at me blankly. “She’s like a florist, practically. She likes all kinds of flowers.”

“Any in particular that you can remember?” I pressed.

“Well,” he drew out the word as he thought. “There was a purple flower that grows in bunches, like, on a bush? She seemed to like those a lot.”

“Lilacs?”

“Sorry. Flowers are Mom’s thing, not mine. I don’t know.”

Suddenly, Steve was reminding me strongly of Cam. Focused on his own world, pretty clueless about other people in general and women in particular. He was a good-looking guy and seemed pleasant. But there was a reason he was here in the mall, ten days before Christmas, shopping for his mom and his sister rather than a girlfriend.

He needs to open his eyes and see other people. Really see them. Still, I thought his heart, at least, was firmly in the right place.

“Steve,” I said, gently, “the best present you can ever give is showing that you’ve really thought about the other person. Thought about what they like, what makes them feel happy. Doesn’t matter what it is. Don’t think about your mom as just your mom. Think of her as a woman, as a person.”

I went back to asking questions. “What’s her name?”

“Ingrid,” he said, still sounding puzzled. “Ingrid Harrison.”

“How did Ingrid meet your Dad?”

He was clearly having trouble figuring out where I was going. “They met in college. William & Mary. She was studying . . . art, I think? He was a grad student at that point, working on his Ph.D.”

“Did she finish her degree?”

“She . . . she didn’t. Dad got his degree first, and he had a job offer from Berkeley. He’s a professor of linguistics; jobs are hard to come by.” He sounded defensive.

I touched his arm in sympathy. “I understand. So, you know that Ingrid is a woman who studied art, who is warm and friendly, but shy, who loves beautiful flowers and the smells of baking. What do you think would bring a smile to Ingrid’s face?”

He gave it a long thought, but try as he might, he couldn’t break through. “A pretty scarf?”

Scarves, in my opinion, are like ties: the gift you give when you can’t think of anything. God’s gift to laziness, and the last refuge of the unobservant. “Does she actually wear scarves?”

“Ummm . . . ?” he responded, looking uncertain.

“You’ve tried scarves before, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Well, she seemed to like them . . . .” His voice trailed off.

I was going to need to lead him there directly. “Does she wear a scent?”

“Perfume? I . . . this is going to sound lame, but I don’t know.”

“Okay, come with me!” I guided him across to Macy’s, past the dresses and lingerie, and over to the perfume counter. While we were waiting for the sales person to finish with a customer, I pulled out my phone and did a search for lilac bushes.

Steve confirmed that those were the purple flowers his Mom was so fond of.

When we got to the counter, I asked the saleswoman for recommendations on a perfume with florals, weighted towards lilacs. She had two recommendations, so I had her put a spritz on each of my wrists.

“Okay, Steve. Close your eyes and think of your mom, indoors on a sunny spring day, arranging flowers. Think of the light in the room. Think of the sounds. Remember the smells. Are you there?”

His eyes were closed, a look of intense concentration on his face. “I’m there,” he breathed.

“Alright, I’m going to have you smell one wrist, then the other. You tell me which one best matches your memory. Ready?”

“Ready.”

I brought my left wrist to below his nose. “First option.”

He took a sniff and immediately said, “Stop. That’s it. That’s it!”

“You're sure?” I asked, very softly.

“Yeah.” He opened his eyes and I was surprised to see they were moist. “That scent – I’ve smelled it a million times in our house, when Mom’s doing her arrangements. . . . It’s . . . those are the times she’s always seemed the happiest.”

I gave him a huge smile; I must have shown every one of my teeth. “One down!”

Steve gave me a spontaneous hug. I returned it without a second’s hesitation. It felt so good to have been able to help him, to make him break through his existing image of his mother and see her as a person in her own right. I had no doubt that was what had made him tear up.

He made his purchase.

I took his elbow again, this time walking back to the center courtyard. “Now tell me about your sister.”

This time he had a better sense of what I was trying to do. “Her name’s Laurie,” he said, throwing me a quick smile. “I was eight when she was born, so I was almost more of a third parent than a brother in some ways. I did a lot of babysitting, anyway.”

He smiled at the memory. “She was always getting into stuff. I can remember Dad saying, ‘Steve, what’s job one?’ and the answer he drilled into me was, ‘Keep Laurie safe.’ Sometimes it was a real challenge. She was good about it, though. Didn’t fight me. She knew I was her white knight.”

“Her ‘white knight?’”

He laughed. “Yeah, she went through a ‘knights and ladies’ phase when she was like five or six and I was still reading her stories. It kind of stuck.”

“Sounds like you two have a great relationship,” I said encouragingly.

Surprisingly, he shrugged. “We did. It’s been a bit rockier the last year, or so. I’m not sure why.”

“Anything new you can think of? Did you move away?” I was thinking of my relationship with my own sister, which became much more distant when she left for college.

But he shook his head. “No. I’ve lived in Tenleytown for the past six years, but the family’s still close, in Annapolis. I see them pretty often – and the frequency hasn’t changed.”

Hmm. “How has she been acting differently?” I tried.

“She just seems annoyed with me all the time. With the world, for that matter. Like, she’s decided that she’s ‘Laura’ now, and gets pissed off if you don’t remember. If you disagree with her about anything, or if you ask her to do anything, she goes postal. Mom’s been having the same issues. Mom’s such a softie, it really cuts her. And that gets me mad, which only creates more trouble when I say anything.”

Oddly enough, this sounded like it might be straightforward. “Steve, did Laurie go through puberty early, or was she a late bloomer?”

He looked confused. “Umm . . . You mean, when did she have her first period? I don’t know. Should I have known?”

“Not necessarily.” Certainly my sister hadn’t discussed such things, and I have no idea when she started them. “How about developing physically? Something you actually would see.”

“Oh — Definitely late on that. I think she was still flat as a board when she started her sophomore year. It really wasn’t till this last year or so that she . . . .”

He stopped speaking abruptly and looked at me. “How do you do that?”

“Magic,” I answered with a grin. “So, she was stuck looking and feeling like a little girl for too long. She finally feels like she’s growing up. Maybe she wants people to start taking notice, treating her like an adult?”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he said thoughtfully.

“Were you a late bloomer too?”

“Not so much. But I definitely remember hitting a point where I felt like my parents should recognize that I’m not a kid anymore.” He laughed and added, “Truth is, they mostly still treat me like a kid.”

“Do you think you might treat your sister like a kid?”

“I treat her the same way I always have,” he said stoutly. Then he stopped again. “Oh.”

“Right,” I responded. “Oh.”

He leaned against a railing overlooking the lower level of the mall. Then he surprised me. Staring off into space, he said, “I was her hero, and she was looking for me to see the changes, to recognize that she wasn’t just a little girl anymore. And I let her down. Kept putting her in the same box she’s always been in – my baby sister.”

I reached up and squeezed his shoulder, leaving my hand in contact afterward. “Christmas is a good time to make amends, Steve. A really good time. What could you get her that would make her realize that you appreciate that she isn’t a child anymore? That you think of her as an adult?”

He thought about it for a few minutes, and this time he didn’t come up empty. “She’s started dressing up recently. You know, in actual dresses.”

That made me smile. Actual dresses. Imagine.

“She always used to be a jeans and T-Shirt girl. Not a tom-boy, exactly. Just not into clothes. Now, she wants to look nice. I need to find her a dress – I mean, the right dress. A . . . I don’t know. A sophisticated dress? Something that a woman would wear, but a girl never would.”

I squeezed his shoulder again and released it. “Perfect. That would be beautiful, Steve.”

He turned to face me. “You’ve been such a help already, and I hate to ask . . . . "

I cut him off. “You just keep carrying my bags, mister. No way I’m not seeing this through to the end!” I asked him to show me a picture of his sister.

He pulled out his phone and flipped through his photos, selecting one and showing it to me. It was a selfie of Steve with a significantly younger woman who was clearly his sister. She looked about seventeen and had his coloring – blue eyes, blonde hair. She was tanned an even golden brown and wore her hair just a bit below shoulder length – a bit shorter than I wore mine, I was startled to realize.

They were at a beach or a pool, because she was wearing a one-piece swimsuit and Steve was bare chested (somewhat disconcertingly, I found myself appreciating that he had nicely defined pecs and a fair bit of golden chest hair). Her suit was light blue, which went well with her eyes and hair, but somehow didn’t work with her skin tone.

“This was taken last summer?” I asked.

“Late September,” he confirmed.

“So, this is about what she looks like now?”

He looked at the photo again. “She might be a bit bigger in the chest now.” He sounded uncertain.

I thought about it. “Let’s see what they have at Forever 21.”

“Wouldn’t Macy’s be a better choice for something more sophisticated?”

“It would, if she were older. But we want something that will feel right for who she is today. I think we’ll have more luck at a place more like Forever 21 than a mainline department store. I could be wrong, but that’s where I’d start.”

I didn‘t mention that I was rather far from being an expert, though my several shopping sprees had at least given me some sense of the playing field.

“Lead on,” he directed. So off we went.

I knew I had found the right dress as soon as I spotted it – a cherry-red mid-length dress with a halter top. The top of the bodice was straight across the top of the bust line, with a spaghetti strap that looped around the neck from the center of the chest, just where a young woman would be showing a little cleavage.

The dress would accentuate her chest, waist and hips, making them look larger than they likely were, and expose the beauty of her young and slender shoulders, arms, and neck. The red would look stunning with her coloring. It was a dress only a young woman could wear. Not a girl, not an older woman.

It was perfect.

I showed it to Steve and he immediately agreed. He asked if I would model it for him.

I declined, with real regret. “You want the dress that is perfect for her. How it looks on me won’t tell you anything useful.”

This was only part of my reasoning, sadly. The reality is that I couldn’t be sure the halter top wouldn’t expose the tops of my prosthetic breasts, and I was never confident that the seams would pass muster under good lighting and close observation.

He accepted the logic of the reason I had given him, and mercifully didn’t press me. We went to the cashier and he paid for the purchase.

As we walked back into the Mall proper, I said, “You need to write cards with your gifts. Tell your Mom that you thought of how happy she was when she was doing her flower arrangements, how she filled the house with good smells, and how you wanted the fragrance to remind her of that.

“Tell your sister how proud you are of her, how you wanted to get something special for the amazing woman she has become. And for God’s sake, call her Laura!”

He looked startled at my last comment, which I had made with a bit more force than I had intended.

I dialed my emotional reaction down a notch, but said with some earnestness, “Names are powerful, Steve. When someone tells you what they want you to call them, they are trying to tell you something about themselves. About who they are, how they see themselves.”

I was thinking of Liz, who had gone by Beth as a child and BethAnn in high school and throughout the ten years of her marriage. And I was thinking of Cameron Savin, who had also gone by Candi, and was now Cami. Those were different names. They conveyed different things.

Names have power.

He looked thoughtful, so I decided I could press the point just a bit further without being rude. “What’s the name on your birth certificate? Steve, or Steven?”

“Steven,” he confirmed.

“With a ‘v’ or a ‘ph’?

“A ‘ph,’ he said, “but I’ve always been called Steve.”

“Right,” I said. “But suppose you decided that you wanted to be called ‘Stephen.’ Do you think that would convey the same sense of who you are?”

“No,” he said forcefully. “‘Stephen’ looks fine on written documents, but it’s way too formal to use in conversation. I’d feel like a complete jackass, a stuffed shirt.”

“So ‘Steve’ fits the person you are, the person you are comfortable being, and ‘Stephen’ doesn’t?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, your sister is telling you that ‘Laura’ fits who she is, and ‘Laurie’ doesn’t. Maybe she thinks it sounds older, less like a child’s nickname. It doesn’t matter if you agree with her.

“When you call her ‘Laurie,’ you’re telling her that you won’t allow her to grow, to change. That she can’t be a peer. That your relationship will stay where it’s always been. You’ll be the white knight, and she’ll alway need rescuing. Just be open to the possibility that she wants something different now that she’s older. I promise you, it will mean a lot to her.”

This time, he really got it. “You're right again.” His voice was quiet, reflective. “I came here tonight just looking to make sure I had something to give everyone. Didn’t matter what. Just checking off names on a list, making sure I did what was expected. I wasn’t thinking about them, I was thinking about me. They deserve better.”

Without warning, he turned to face me and his right hand – the one that wasn't loaded down with shopping bags – reached up and cupped my left cheek. I felt my heart pound as he took a step forward, bent his head, and kissed me, ever so softly, right on the lips.

I felt light-headed and, suddenly, not remotely conflicted. His kiss was magic. He broke it off and raised his head, staring deeply into my eyes, continuing to cradle my cheek.

“Do that again!” I said, so softly even I could scarcely hear it.

He bent his head a second time.

I put both arms around his neck to kiss him back. It felt incredible. When I broke off the kiss, I stepped back, keeping my eyes in his. “That was intense!” My shaky voice betrayed my sense of wonder.

He smiled shyly. “Oh, yeah!”

We stood there looking at each other like idiots for a bit longer, then I took a deep breath and said, “What an absolutely lovely way to end a great evening. Thank you so much for your company!”

“Do you really have to go? We could get a drink, or . . . ?”

I was shaking my head, but smiling. “I do have to go, Steve. But if you give me your contact info, I’ll send you a text and maybe we can get together again. Okay?”

He looked disappointed but gave me his number. He neglected to ask for mine, which was fortuitous.

Cami doesn’t have her own phone.

I summoned an Uber. He stayed and gave me a goodbye kiss before I got in, my own packages in hand. I felt like I floated home.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TEN
“Cruda sventura m'astringe”
– Verdi, La Forza del Destino, Pace pace mio Dio (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, December 15

I woke at my usual workday time of 5:00. A better dream had left another smile on my face – a repeat of the dream where I was jogging down the length of a dock over deep water, dressed in a lime-green, one-piece bathing suit, beckoning someone behind me to follow.

Unlike the prior morning I was full of energy and eager to start the day. I threw back the covers, had a glass of water and changed into my exercise clothes for my morning workout. This week I was ratcheting it up to a full twenty minutes of cheer routine (in reality, a five-minute program done four times), bracketed by ten minutes of stretching before and after.

After exercising, I showered, shaved, used baby shampoo, dried and brushed my hair, reapplied my prosthetics, and put on morning makeup. I went with leggings, flats, and a comfy sweater that was long enough to cover my crotch and my rear end.

It was still only 6:30. I usually had Sunday breakfast with Javier and Al sometime around 8:00. So I fired up my computer and checked all of my email accounts. Nothing new from work.

My personal email had a message from Fiona saying she had some info for me, if I had time to talk around noon. I also had a lovely message from Liz positively gushing about the website I had designed for her and asking if we could talk at 7:00. I responded affirmatively to both emails.

I spent a couple minutes running searches on Steve Harrison and Stephen Harrison and found some likely matches. BS from American University in 2016, working as an IT specialist for the DC office of a national financial services company. Plays second base for the Wizards, a team in an intramural softball league in the greater DC area. Ha!

Then I buckled down and did some work, reading the reply brief defendants had filed Friday and making notes. After I got through the twenty-five pages, it was 7:30. I shot Al a text (he was the early riser) asking if I could pick up bagels, and received a thumbs-up in response.

I put on my warm coat and walked three blocks to the local bagel shop. The streets were deserted, and I was back by 8:00.

As usual, I had a very nice breakfast with my friendly landlords. When I mentioned that I needed to make calls and texts as Cami (rather than Cameron Savin), Javi suggested a third-party app he used to keep in touch with his family in Colombia. He even showed me how to load it on my phone and use it.

I sent him a message and it came up with the number assigned by the app and the name Cami. Perfect.

By 9:30 I was back in my own apartment. I made myself a cup of tea, and rather than playing music, I just listened to some peaceful nature sounds. Amazing what you can find on streaming services.

I sat down, held my tea in both hands, closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of the seashore, imagined myself there, sitting in a beach chair, sand between my toes, morning sunshine warming my face. . . .

Yesterday evening had been amazing. In my encounter with Steve, I had felt like a woman, inside and out. Within minutes, the mechanical elements of the more female communication style that I had been practicing felt smooth and easy. Not second nature, by any stretch – I still had to be mindful of my speech, expressions, posture, and the like – but I definitely felt like I was going with the grain rather than against it.

By the time he kissed me, I was as comfortable in my gender as I had ever been. So kissing him back had been as natural as breathing. And as beautiful, as perfect, as sunrise at the beach where I imagined myself to be sitting.

It was full morning, though, and reality had to be faced with clear eyes. I had connected with him and our mutual attraction had been real. But while I knew myself to be a woman, Steve might not agree with my definition. Chances were high that my being a transwoman would make a difference to him.

I’ll confess that there was a part of my mind – a small part, in every sense of the word – that whispered, “Sure, of course, but you don’t need to say anything yet.” But that’s not what I want. Not for myself. Not for Steve.

We had a lovely evening, but neither of us had gone down the enchanted rabbit hole too deep. We could still get out with minimal harm done. Letting things take their course, even for a little bit longer, would be playing with fire. And it would be dishonest.

This is the right time.

I sent him a text. “Morning Steve – Cami.”

After last night, I was not surprised to get an almost immediate response.

“Cami!! Was hoping U would text.”

I sent a smile in response.

He followed up: “Yesterday was amazing. Can I see U?”

Here we go. “I’d love to see you. But I want you to know something before you decide. I am a transwoman.”

I got “Haha very funny” in response.

Rather than typing, I just waited.

It took almost three minutes before he tried again. “R U serious?”

There was so much I wanted to say, to put into a few characters. To plead, “I am worthy, I am genuine, the person you saw is who I am . . . .” But none of that was fair. It wasn’t even relevant.

Answer the damned question, counselor. “Yes,” I typed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he texted.

I had expected that – a natural reaction, but in this case misplaced. “Until you kissed me, it didn’t matter. Then, it was too late. All I could do was end things quickly.”

“You asked me to do it again.”

“Moment of weakness. Sorry.”

This time the pause lasted longer. Five minutes stretched to ten. I closed my eyes, sipped my tea, and listened to the thunderous crash of waves, the sigh of retreating surf, and the high, lonesome cry of the soaring seagulls.

My phone buzzed.

“I’m sorry, Cami. I just can’t.”

“I understand.” And I did. Cameron Savin wouldn’t have been able to handle it either, and I couldn’t fault Steve – or anyone else – for being honest about what attracted them . . . and what repelled. The heart goes where the heart goes.

Because I really liked Steve, I added, “I wish you all the best, always, and hope that you have the most joyful Christmas ever.”

I assumed we were done, and I sat with that for a bit. But I got another text.

“This isn’t just a way to blow me off?”

That made me laugh. It would have been a foolish and unnecessarily complicated way to “blow someone off.” “No,” I replied. “I’m a woman. I enjoyed yesterday and would love to see you. But, I am trans and you deserved to know that before you decided whether you wanted to see me again.”

His response this time was quicker, and he had the grace to end with a good note: “Thank you for telling me. You are a wonderful person. I just can’t go there. I wish I could. And I wish you all the best too.”

I thought, irrelevantly, How interesting that people sometimes drop the stupid text abbreviations when they are writing from the heart.

“Good-bye, Steve.”

“Good-bye, Cami.”

I finished my tea. After a few more minutes, I opened my eyes, and was surprised to find they were still dry.

There might be someone out there for me, as Sarah had said, and I was willing to try to find him. At least, after last night I was fairly certain that I wanted it to be a “him.” But I would need to be able to deal with this sort of rejection, and now was as good a time as any to practice.

Not every life lesson is pleasant. A quick Google search indicated that only three percent of men would consider dating a transwoman. Sigh.

I washed my tea cup, dried it, put it away, and sat at my computer. There were a couple of legal issues I needed to research for work before tomorrow’s morning meeting.

Unfortunately, it appeared that I had the time.

To be continued . . . .