I looked at myself in the mirror for the thousandth time. I could see every flaw, like they were highlighted with neon paint. The slightest bulge of an Adam’s apple. The jaw that was just a bit too strong, the shoulders that were a little too broad, the nose that was wider than it should be. The hands, that always looked so big to me. The waist that wouldn’t waste enough to give me a decent shape.

Won’t they all see what I see, when I look in the mirror?

I’d done a good job on my makeup and hair. I had, I told myself firmly. The three-quarter length sleeves of my dress left only my forearms showing, and they weren’t bad. My legs looked good. They DO, dammit!

But however much I talked to myself, tried to buck myself up, part of me wanted to crawl under my bed and just hide. Get food from DoorDash, and just stay in my new apartment. Stay forever.

Won’t they just see what Annie saw?

The thought of my ex-wife always brought tears to my eyes, even after two years, but I fought them. I’d spent too long getting the mascara and eye shadow right. No-one in this whole state knows who you are, I told myself. No-one cares.

“Come on, ‘Cheyenne,’” I finally said out loud. “Get over yourself!” Summoning all the willpower I had, I picked up my purse and headed for the door. But still I paused, my hand caught on the knob, feeling the coldness of the metal penetrate my consciousness. Just opening the door was a struggle.

Mercifully, no-one was in the hallway. I walked to the elevator and pushed the button, praying that no one showed up. Ready to flee into the stairwell if they did, and take the four flights down. It was no big deal; I wasn’t wearing serious heels or anything. Just modest, comfortable pumps with no more than a two-inch rise, and a solid platform at that. But I was so nervous I didn’t feel altogether steady.

The elevator door opened and to my dismay a man got out – a neighbor, I had to assume. But he didn’t give me more than a glance, muttering “’scuse me,” as he scooted around and down the hall.

My heart was still racing, like it was trying to make up for skipping a beat or three. But I managed to step into the elevator and push “L.” It was an old elevator, which wasn’t too surprising. An old elevator for an old building. Tired. Slow. But the rent was cheap, and my new job – call center work – wasn’t going to pay for anything better.

Eventually, the car came to a stuttering stop and the doors opened, grudgingly. I walked through the lobby, my low heels sounding loud on the linoleum floor that needed a good scrubbing. Past the mail boxes stuffed with junk mail that no one reads. Out the door.

It was a warm evening at the end of August so I hadn’t needed a sweater or jacket. Still, I found myself wishing it were cooler, so I could cover myself up more. Maybe hide a bit better. Stop it!!!

I had memorized the route. Not far to walk into town. All well-lit, so it would be alright, even if I stayed out after dark. And all the streets were busy enough. Plenty of cars. I would be safe. I told myself that a hundred times.

I had, after all, done a lot of research before picking this place. Where could I go, as a transwoman, and be safe? If – when – I got clocked, how likely was it that I would get hurt? I’d picked a college town, though I was long past college age, just because it was more likely that people would be more accepting. More open. But the state itself was marginal. I couldn’t afford to live on the coasts.

I wanted to be thrilled, walking to the center of town in a dress. I’d always dreamed of this, hadn’t I? From the time I was very small, holding my mom’s hand as we walked through the wonders of Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, my small and awe-struck eyes taking in all of the beautiful women. But all I felt was terror in the pit of my stomach. Worry that everyone would look at me. They would see me. See what I saw, when I looked in the mirror. What Annie had seen, that horrible day two years ago.

Just a guy in a dress.

I forced myself to keep walking. This is why you moved away, I told myself. Cut all ties, every one, so that I could start over somewhere new. Truth is, I should have done it right away. I’d tried to stick it out, after Annie and I split, so I could be there for the girls. But they were ashamed of me, and my attempts to stay connected had just been painful. Work had proven to be unbearable. All of their pious nonsense about nondiscrimination had been a lot of horse manure. In the end, they’d been delighted to pay me two month’s severance to see the last of me.

But I’d never been good at meeting people, much less making friends, and it hadn’t gotten any easier as the years went by. I couldn’t imagine how I would manage it now, all alone in a town I didn’t know, trying to live as a woman full-time for the first time ever, at age 38.

I told myself that I’d just keep doing what I was doing that very moment: Putting one foot in front of the other. I no longer had friends or family, but at least I could live my life as the woman I’d always known myself to be. To turn the old lyric on its head, another word for “nothing left to lose” is “freedom.” I had that.

For whatever it was worth.

My building was on a busy street – two lanes each way – and cars whizzed by, drivers eager to be somewhere else in a hurry. I wasn’t in any kind of hurry myself. I didn’t need to be back in front of my computer terminal for another twelve hours, and until then, there was nothing I needed to be doing.

The rapidly passing cars stirred leaves and empty plastic water bottles, left carelessly in the road. This part of the city always seemed to smell a bit moldy; I wasn’t sure why. But it was pleasant enough, I suppose. Mostly because it was inexpensive and probably safe.

Probably.

I took a left on a slightly less busy street. Only two lanes here. Trees coming up through grates in the sidewalk. I counted the intervals by pacing them out as I walked. Thirty-six steps between each tree. I thought they looked like Bradford Pears, but I wasn’t sure. I would know for sure in the Spring, I suppose.

There were plenty of street lights. They weren’t on yet, but it would matter later. Here, the streets seemed to hold small shops, mostly. A shoe store. Hardware. A delivery operation. A barber shop. There were people on the street, walking.

I avoided making eye contact with anyone. Somehow, I felt like I’d give myself away, if I was caught looking at someone, when they were looking at me. When they were seeing the man in the dress. One foot in front of the other.

No-one seemed to notice me. Or if they did, no-one said anything. That would do, as far as I was concerned. They were sure to notice, but so long as they didn’t say anything – so long as they didn’t appear to take any notice of me – I could pretend I was able to pass. That I was just another not-quite-young-enough-to-be-interesting woman on an errand of her own.

Another block, and my destination was on the right. An indie bookstore that I’d noticed when I drove the U-Haul into town with my few remaining belongings.

Lots of cars parked on the street. My eyes were drawn to a big pickup truck, up on ridiculously high tires, its back window plastered with stickers. One was for a local concealed carry group. Another said, “I identify as a Prius.” I shivered, fighting the urge to turn around and run. You’re safe, I told myself. Safe!

Somehow, I managed to keep moving. But as I approached the bookstore my panic only increased. It was so brightly lit . . . so full of people! I could imagine them all turning around as I entered, stopping what they were doing, to gawk and point at the freaky guy in the dress.

I’d done some rock-climbing when I was in my twenties. The one athletic thing I’d been genuinely good at. Not good enough to try El Capitan, but pretty damned good. My personal best, at 25, was the Sirocco Pitch at The Needles. Stunning, and almost surely the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life, bar none.

Up ’til now.

But I would be more likely to draw attention standing outside the bookstore, looking like a frightened rabbit, so I took the plunge. I’d like to say that I marched up to the door and flung it open, but the reality is that I almost scurried. And fortunately it was an automatic door, so all I had to do was slip inside.

No-one paid me the slightest attention. Everyone was doing their own thing. Checking out books to buy, wandering the tall stacks, or sitting in the small area where they served espresso drinks. The checkout clerk seemed to be doing a brisk business.

The lack of attention drew me in. I have always loved book stores – especially independent shops like this one, that might have a dozen copies of the strangest things and absolutely no copies of whatever was currently passing for a best-seller. I walked down the central aisle, looking at the hand-written labels taped to the stuffed shelves. Psychology . . . Self-Help . . . Spirituality . . . Religion . . . Philosophy . . . Politics . . . History.

History drew me in, as it always did. My undergraduate degree was in history, and I’d always loved it. Not that I’d been able to use my degree to get a job in a related field, of course. America has even less use for historians than it has for history itself. But I still read history books, just for the sheer pleasure of it.

I must have browsed the shelves for forty-five minutes, spending a few minutes with a variety of interesting titles. The history shelves weren’t drawing a lot of attention – surprise, surprise – so it was a quiet and safe space. I got lost enough in my browsing that I even stopped worrying about someone discovering me. When I came to the realization that I had spent an hour in public en femme and no-one had bothered me, I was astonished and gratified.

I selected an interesting book on Vichy France, a subject with which I had some familiarity, though I hadn’t read anything about it in well over a decade. Since college, probably. Choosing a moment when no-one was in line, I brought it to the register and paid with a credit card.

The clerk at the register was a few years younger than me, though his premature balding made him look older. “‘Cheyenne?’ That’s a pretty name.” He gave me an impersonal smile and told me to have a nice evening.

Somehow, I think I managed to say “thank you,” and walked away in a bit of a daze. But I felt emboldened, and decided to go to the cafe and spend a few minutes reading my book with a cup of good coffee. If I could manage that, I would definitely count the expedition as a huge success.

I asked the barista for a vanilla latte, speaking deliberately softly. My voice has never been particularly masculine, but I need to concentrate when I want it to sound affirmatively feminine.

The barista was a pretty girl, probably a college student. Big, round glasses that made her look both studious and cute. She rang me up without much of a glance. Whatever I was – either a middle-aged woman or a guy in a dress – I had no interest to her. Which was completely okay with me.

“Vichy? I don’t know that I’ve ever run across anyone who would read that for fun. Are you a new graduate student?”

I looked up very slowly, afraid I was going to give myself away. The man who had spoken – to me, clearly; no-one else was carrying a book on Vichy France – was probably a couple years older than me. Light brown hair – almost blond – and a neatly trimmed beard. Bright, inquisitive eyes. I was afraid to meet them. Afraid he would suddenly see right through me.

“N-n-no,” I stuttered, before righting myself. “No. Just interested in it.”

He had a nice smile. “Really? That’s extraordinary. I don’t know anyone who’s really studied it, and I teach history. What about the period speaks to you?”

I managed to raise my eyes to meet his, if only to look for some sign of mockery. I couldn’t see any. Maybe you just don’t WANT to see it, my panicked mind gibbered. “I . . . it . . . ah. Well. There’s a lot of similarities to what’s happening today, in our own country.”

“Here’s your latte, Ma’am,” the barista said, interrupting me. I thanked her and reached to take it, trying to keep my hand from shaking.

The guy who said he taught history said, “Feel free to tell me to buzz off, but I’d like to hear the rest of that thought. Can I join you for a minute?”

Terror!

But . . . what could I say? “Of course. Are you getting something?”

“Yeah – just give me a second and I’ll join you.” He turned and ordered a black coffee, no sugar.

I sank down in a chair by a small table with only two seats, feeling like my legs wouldn’t support my weight. The book felt like a barbell. Even the coffee felt heavy. What am I DOING here?!!!

He came and took the other chair, blowing on his coffee. “So . . . Vichy?”

“Really?” I asked, incredulous. “You really want to hear my thoughts about Vichy France?”

He chuckled. “I don’t know anyone else who’s actually had thoughts about Vichy France – including me – so, yes. Very much. I get paid to teach history, but I’d spend all my time thinking about it even if they didn’t.”

“Okay . . . Well. It’s a complicated subject, but . . .” And, believe it or not, I launched into a discussion of the parallels between the American Right in the 2020s and the French Right in the 1930s, touching on subjects as unfamiliar to most Americans as Ultramontanism and the Dreyfus Affair. And this guy who seemed to know something about history was nodding and asking smart questions and generally taking my ramblings seriously. All without pointing a stern finger at me and shouting “J’Accuse!” at the sight of the guy in a dress.

It was disconcerting, really. Like a dream.

In fact, it’s the sort of thing that actually happens to me in dreams. Seriously. In dreams, I find myself having animated discussions with people about the great Tulip Bubble of the early 17th Century, or the remarkable life of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Poitou. Like it’s perfectly normal. And realizing, in the middle of the dream discussion, that I forgot to wear any pants.

So, yeah, I was kind of pinching myself, but near as I could tell from the pain shooting from my complaining flesh, I was absolutely still awake. And the conversation really was fascinating, even if I wasn’t wearing any pants.

We probably talked for twenty minutes, though I wasn’t exactly checking the clock. But he finally drained the last of his coffee, grimaced, and said, “I’m going to have to stop having fun, and get back to grading papers. I’ve really enjoyed talking to you.” He shook his head, smiling, and said, “And I’ve forgotten my manners, as usual. I’m Dave Stull.”

“Cheyenne Walker.” On a whim, I extended my hand.

He took it, and gave it more of a press than a shake. “A pleasure. I hope I see you here again.”

“Likewise,” I managed. He got up, but I didn’t follow. I figured I’d leave after a few minutes, just to be safe. The encounter had been incredibly pleasant, but the paranoid part of me feared that he was really the stupid monster truck guy. He might have seen through me right away, and was even now waiting outside with a lead pipe, like a demented Professor Plum.

Girl, I said to myself, you have GOT to get a grip!

When I’d calculated that enough time had passed, I finished my coffee, stopped pretending to read my book, and left. Outside of the coffee house, I went back the way I came, taking note that the lighting was just as bright as I’d thought it would be. I’m safe. Really. I’m safe.

Just before I turned off the street where the bookstore was located, I saw Dave ahead, getting into his car.

It was a Prius.

I laughed quietly as I retraced my steps, leaving the downtown and taking the main road, the safe road, the road with all the lights and the busy traffic. As I neared my tired little apartment complex, I began to truly relax for the first time all night. Maybe for the first time in two years. I felt like I’d just completed a difficult ascent. A near impossible pitch.

A slight gust of wind made my skirt flutter against my bare legs, a sweet and subtle caress. I was suddenly aware of the musical sound of my low heels on the pavement, of the delicate scent of the perfume I had placed with great care on my wrists, and at the base of my throat.

Maybe, just maybe, I could do this.

The end.

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