I love Mondays, and I know that makes me weird. But it actually makes sense in my case, because I’m a junior-assistant nobody cook at Fujimole, a Japanese-Mexican fusion restaurant.

I know, I know. Don’t ask. Really, despite what you may be thinking, I’m a pretty good cook if I do say so myself. I didn’t choose the menu.

Anyway, that’s just a digression. Sorry. The reason I love Mondays is that Fujimole is closed on Mondays. It’s also closed Sundays (the owner is a very observant Catholic – you know, the kind that says the rosary a lot and goes looking for the nearest Latin Mass), but my roommate Roger is off on Sundays, too. No knock on Roger, who’s a really nice guy. Most Sundays we hang out and play Dragon’s Dogma and eat Cheese-Its. We’re pretty evenly matched, too, though I let him win sometimes just because he gets so pumped. Honestly, it’s cute.

But every Monday, when he puts on his brown uniform and goes off to deliver packages, I get to spend one precious day having some girl time. Roger doesn’t know I’m trans, and – thank whatever god you like – my boss doesn’t know either. My parents do, which is why we don’t speak to each other anymore. But they live in Oklahoma City, I live in Austin, and all three of us like it that way.

I love Austin. Sure, it’s in Texas, and that sucks rotting bananas. Keeps me careful, too. Can’t afford to get clocked in public by some yahoo wearing shiny boots, city jeans and a ten-gallon hat! I never leave the apartment looking less than my best, but at least I don’t have any trouble finding places where I can get supplies, if you know what I mean. So this morning, when I heard the front door close behind Roger, I leapt out of bed, tore off my shorts, and went to the closet to get my secret stash.

Who do I want to be today? Should I be demure? Laid back? Casual, but fun? Pretty? Alluring? How should I do my hair? My makeup? How tall should I be? These are all questions that I never ask, and never would ask, Tuesday through Sunday, when I’m presenting as Roy. Presenting as Rowena, the woman I’ve always felt myself to be, requires a lot of work – and a lot of decisions. And I love it.

First up, I decided not to go out at all. It was September, hot, and unusually humid, and when I’m out in public I need to wear a bit more fabric and padding than is comfortable in that kind of weather. But that decision just gives me more freedom, not less. If no-one is going to see me, I can dress for “Netflix and chill,” or for “Office Girl,” or for clubbing. It doesn’t matter.

Humming in happy harmony with the fun thoughts swirling through my brain, I stepped into the shower and gave myself a close shave everywhere. I like to be smooth as a used car dealer when I’m being Rowena. Roger’s never questioned Roy’s shaved state; he knows that I’m a speed swimmer – true story – and that makes a great excuse. I don’t even think about it anymore. Even shaving my pits is second nature.

After showering, I moisturized my skin, slicked back my short hair, and wrapped a towel around my torso. Back in my room, I decided that the look for the day would be “night out with my besties,” so I opted for dramatic eye makeup and deep red lipstick that looks moist and kissable. I wanted to do my nails to match, but I know from experience that it’s too much trouble to get it all off.

I spent a moment wishing I had besties – girlfriends I could hang with, go to clubs and bars, and talk about everything and nothing. But no more than a moment. I have a good imagination, so I conjured them up, Melissa and Carly and Tammy Sue, and each of them were wonderful friends. I imagined that we would be playful “tonight,” full of wit and sparkling word-play. They would be laughing with me, loving my humor. I am pretty, and witty, and bright!

I carefully attached my long blond wig and fussed it into place. There’s nothing like long, golden tresses to convey femininity! Well . . . almost nothing. The pride of my collection is a pair of silicone darlings from The Breast Form Store. I’d bought the set years earlier – my parent’s discovery of them was the reason why we were no longer speaking – and I love them to bits. Two bits? Well . . . they are two bits, I suppose. Specifically, two big, luscious, C-Cupcakes of wonderfulness. But they cost a lot more than twenty-five cents!

Once I used the concealer to hide the seams of my breast forms, it was time to get dressed, and I had the perfect LBD for clubbing. Hits about mid-thigh. A simple v-neck, not too dramatic. Spaghetti straps and a deep, revealing back. I added a couple simple gold strands. Girls aren’t really wearing necklaces much right now, but I always shiver when the cool metal brushes against my bare skin.

How tall should I be? Oh, tall, honey! I’m kind of self-conscious about my height when I’m presenting as male; five-and-a-half feet isn’t very impressive. But it means Rowena can wear five-inch heels and only hit 5’10”. Lots of guys are taller than that! Roger’s six-one, and I know plenty of men who are taller.

So, strappy black leather sandals for me, with long, delicate spiked heels that make me feel heavenly.

It’s stupid. I know it is. I know that being a woman isn’t about looking like a blond bimbo. But it’s fun, in a distinctly feminine way. It’s a sweet, froofy cocktail with a pink umbrella rather than a glass of wine. In theory, anyone can drink it, but in reality only girly girls do. I wouldn’t order it most days, but sometimes that’s where my head’s at.

A look in the mirror confirmed that my transformation was complete. I couldn’t resist hamming it up a bit. You know – sticking out my tush, tossing my head, smiling with all my teeth, their pearly white maximizing the contrast with my lipstick. Roy’s smile is tight. Controlled. Rowena’s is sunshine. Sunshine! A few selfies, which I will carefully hide, joined my collection.

Did I mention I love Mondays?

I sauntered into the kitchen to make myself some tea and dry toast. Boring, of course, but a girl needs to watch her figure! Heels this high defeat me after an hour or two, but I love the way they shape my legs and naturally feminize my walk. They make me feel sexy and even desirable. I imagined myself dancing with Tony Dovolani . . . .

The bread was toasting and I was dipping my tea bag in and out of the cup, when the front door opened and Roger walked in, carrying a grocery bag and a gallon of milk.

I froze.

Can I play it cool? Will he recognize me?

It was clear from his expression that he did, right away. It wasn’t a bad expression, or a mean one, but in a million different ways, it screamed “I know.” Carefully, neutrally, he said, “Roy?”

His words broke the spell that held me motionless, pinned in place like a bug in a display case. I did the only thing that came into my mind, which was to run just as fast as my high heels and tight little skirt would take me. But Roger, damn him, was blocking the front door, so I made for my bedroom.

Once inside my only possible safe space, I tried to slam the door behind me, but it wouldn't go. Spinning, I found myself staring into Roger’s deep, dark eyes. Somehow, he had lost the groceries.

I couldn’t help myself. “What are you doing here? It’s Monday, damnit!!!!”

“Did you forget?” After a moment’s pause he added, “It’s Labor Day.”

Labor Day! Fuck!!!! However hard I tried to keep control, I suddenly found myself bawling and shaking. “I’m so sorry!”

“Why?”

So teary that I couldn’t read his expression anymore, I stammered, “because . . . because . . . .” But I couldn’t complete the thought. However delightful my imagination is in normal times, under pressure it tends to default to lurid and paralyzing scenes of horror. The man in the mask turned cold, basilisk eyes toward me and revved the motor of his chainsaw . . . .

After a moment, Roger stepped forward and folded me into a hug. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s okay. Really.”

His words didn’t make any sense. “What?” The guy with the chainsaw isn’t supposed to ask you which tree you want to remove!

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

It felt strange to have someone give me a hug while I just left my arms at my sides, but I hesitated to return his embrace. He’s being nice; no need to take chances with it. He still might have a chainsaw somewhere!

He just kept holding me and saying soothing words. Finally, I couldn’t help myself. I raised my forearms and rested my palms lightly on his back. He has the hard, efficient muscles required to lift and move heavy boxes, day after day, rather than the showy sort cultivated by “personal trainers.” I lowered my head to his shoulder, mostly so I could avoid his eyes. Eyes which don’t actually resemble those of a reptile. Not at all.

Eventually, I stopped crying. I don’t know how long it took.

When I finally stopped quivering like an aspen in a windstorm, his hands stopped moving over my back. “Want to tell me about it?”

“I’m trans.”

“Yeah, I kind of got that part.”

I raised my head and gave him a questioning look. “You did?”

“Just now.”

“Oh. Well, yeah. I mean, I’ve always been trans. And I’ve always been in the closet.”

“Because of your family? I’d wondered why you never talk to them. Or about them.”

I nodded. “It was them, to start with. But it’s also work, and . . . .” I paused, not wanting to go on. But it needed to be said. “It’s you, too. I didn’t want you to . . . well. You know.”

“Did you really think it would bother me?” Why had I imagined he had eyes like a lizard? Stupid.

Still, I thought about his question carefully before answering. “No. Not really. But I didn’t know for sure, and I didn’t want to risk it. You're my best friend, you know? The only real family I’ve got, these days.”

“What kind of a friend would I be, if I walked away just because it turns out you’re a woman?”

That made me chuckle, but it wasn’t a humorous sound. “The only kind of friend I’ve ever known.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

“Well fuck them! I’m not like that. You’re my friend, no matter what. Okay?”

“You aren’t mad?”

“No.” He was definitive. But he added, “I’m a bit disappointed, I guess. I wish that you’d trusted me.”

CAN I trust him? Am I SURE he doesn’t wear a mask or carry a chainsaw? But I decided I would have noticed it by now, whatever my brain was gibbering. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I guess I get it.” He held me at arms’ length and gave me a quick look-over. “I’m kind of surprised I never saw it – you look good.”

“I do?”

“Fishing for compliments, girl?” he teased.

Girl?!!!! “I’m kinda insecure?” Yeah, and the Horsehead Nebula is kinda far!

He chuckled, then turned serious. “What should I call you?”

“Rowena.” I found myself smiling. Really smiling – with my “Rowena” smile, not my “Roy” smile.

He smiled back. “Rowena. Okay, then. Ah . . . isn’t it a bit early in the day to be dressed for clubbing?”

I felt the blush come fast. “Yeah . . . I was just. You know.”

“Playing dress-up?”

My blush got worse. Way worse. “Yeah,” I said in a small voice. Then I took a deep breath, let it out, and asked the question that was maybe worrying me the most, once I’d dismissed all thoughts of masks and chainsaws. “You don’t want me to leave? We can still be roommates?”

“Well . . . Roy’s a good cook. And decent at most video games. Is Rowena?”

The playfulness in his voice put my fears to rest. “Hell, yeah!”

“I bet she takes longer in the shower though.”

This, I had to confess, was true.

“But she smells nicer, so there’s that.”

“Hey!” I gave him a look. “Are you saying I smell bad?”

He grinned. “No, I’m saying Roy smelled bad. You aren’t Roy, are you?”

“Five days a week, I have to be,” I sighed.

“No,” he corrected me. “Forty hours a week, maybe. But when you aren’t at work, you can be Rowena all you want.”

“Really?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“Roy’s a great guy and a good roommate. But honestly, I’d rather look at you.”

And I thought I was blushing before! “Just so you know, I don’t always dress like this!”

“Really? What a shame.” His voice was gentle, teasing. His warm eyes drew me in. Basilisk my ass! Suddenly, without warning, he bent slightly and kissed me. Tenderly at first, but when he felt me respond, the kiss became harder, stronger, deeper.

I had never ever felt so feminine, so desirable. I writhed in pleasure as his arms tightened and his hands wandered.

This, I knew, was going to be the best Monday EVER.

— The End

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