Chapter Text
Bleary-eyed, I sat on my worn leather briefcase. It was stuffed to the brim with my clothes. The house was empty, even the furniture had gone. I was used to this. I hadn’t bought much for this very reason.
She had burned it all as if I was diseased. My landlord stood before me, her small face puckered in disgust as she looked me up and down. She held out a gnarled hand, short cut nails faced the ground as she demanded I return her keys.
The world was blurry. I complied, reaching into my side bag. I jumped when she hissed that I needed to hurry. Dropping the keys between the floorboards didn’t help my case.
“Just leave,” her voice was cool.
As I picked up my bags and hurried out with my head hanging low. I heard her mutter horrible things at my back.
I should be used to this by now. When they find out I'm trans, this has always been the outcome. It never stops stinging. I wish it did.
It rained. It rained all night. I waited for the bus to come in silence, soaked through to the bone. When it’s clunky red body lurched around the streets tight corners I stood. I got onto the bus, giving the driver a small share of my precious stash of coins.
He smiled at me pitifully.
“Yer jus a boy, remember yuv got lots’ time ta figure it out,” his voice was harsh, but his words were gentle.
I nodded, flashing him a weak smile. A boy. I’m a boy. Sometimes I have to remind myself. Sometimes the world gets it wrong. I made my way to the back, taking a seat. As I curled around my belongings, I closed my eyes.
I woke up to a hand on my shoulder. The bus driver nudged me again. I looked up in a haze.
“This the last stop kid,” he motioned to the door as he sparked a cigarette. The already scarcely populated bus was empty. I nodded, thanking him.
I stepped outside into the cool, foggy night. It had stopped raining. The streets were damp. To my left was a closed fabric shop. The windows were obscured, first by a small cluster of barrels, and then the smokey darkness that leaked through the glass panes of the lightless shop. I could barely see through, but there was a small light coming from another window in the back of the store. The alleyway it led to flickered as a neighbor's candle failed to burn out. I stood on the tops of my toes to see over the barrel. There was nothing, only layers of wood until it ran into the store's front window. I nudged myself between them, settling down between three barrels and the brick base of the building. No matter how good I was, no matter how kind, no matter how willing, I always failed. I always ended up here. I felt my face become damp with salty tears as I cried myself to sleep.
There was little mercy late that night. My mind was plagued with the faces of those who spit in my face and tell me I'm a freak. Sometimes, I believe them. I can never make it stop. I just want it all to stop.
Bacon. The smoky scent wafted through the air. I turned in towards my bag, shimmying down closer to the pavement. It was comforting. I could almost hear the sizzling of the pan. It was followed by sweet chocolate and hazelnut. My mind was surely playing tricks on me at this point.
“Shit,” a muffled voice hissed through clenched teeth. My eyes snapped open as I realized it wasn’t all just a fantasy. What had once been a great number of barrels was now only three, the three I was hunched behind. In their place I saw the underside of a table and a pair of tall heeled boots. I followed them up the figure, up the satin pants and ocelot print shirt. All the way to the red silk bow tie and big steel blue eyes. His right eyelid was in a permanent shadow, a painted bolt of lightning trailing down his cheek. His apron was black. It was covered with pockets filled with various necessary cooking utensils.
“Good morning,” he mumbled playfully with a singed finger in his mouth. I jumped up, hastily gathering my two bags.
“Breakfast?” He held out a plate filled with bacon and a chocolate, buttery crepe. I watched him with a bewildered expression on my face.
“Im Artie, I own that shop behind you right there,” I blinked hard, trying to process what was happening. “Come eat, Je parie que tu as faim comme un loup,” he motioned towards the small gold metal chair across from him.
“I have strawberries if you want any,” he said.
“Oh no i’m fine thank you,” I tentatively picked up a piece of bacon, perplexed at the small makeshift kitchen he had managed to set up outside his shop. He beamed, his bleach white hair falling in his eyes.
“You look like you've got some good stories to tell, let's hear them,” he motioned for me to come inside his shop. I blushed as I brushed past his chest, squeezing through the door. He was much taller than I was. Then again, he was in heels.
“Alright dove,” he muttered as he fixed the door open. “I open at two in the afternoon for three hours on Sundays, so we have a little while.”
Butterflies flew through my stomach. I’d never been called anything sweet before.
“I….uh….I’ve just had some bad luck,” I stuttered. His shop was full of precious things, both old and new. Shiny trinkets lay still in a glass case to the right. To the left, a beautiful display of custom gowns, dresses, and suits.
“Tell me about it,” he looked me deep in the eyes as he bit the inside of his cheek. His slender, manicured fingers held his head up as he slouched over his glass showcase table.
“I’d prefer not to, it’s not very interesting at all,” I added quickly. To my embarrassment, Artie saw the flash of pain in my eyes. He nodded.
“Do you have a place to go tonight?” he asked. I turned a bit red as I shook my head.
“You can stay here. Really, it’s ok,” he grabbed a set of keys from behind the glass case, tossing me one. “Right there behind the rack of clothes there's a room where I store my fabrics. I’d offer my place above here but I only have one room, and I barely fit in it myself.”
I took a step forward. To the left of the window was a small door. I assumed that's where his fabric was kept.
“That is very generous but I couldn’t,” I stammered.
“Why not,” he asked, tilting his head to the side like a sleepy bird. His ocean eyes pierced through me, their warmth was confusing.
“I would have to do something in return, I’ve got nothing,” I wasn’t used to this level of kindness.
“Nonsense,” he waved my statement away.
“At least let me work for you, I in no way want to burden you,” he smiled at the proposition.
“Sure, I could always use an extra hand in sorting all these fabrics,” he clapped his hands together.
From then on, his beautifully disorganized store was whipped into shape. The dresses were sorted by color, pattern, and most importantly, cut. His trinkets were shinier than ever, and his window display changed every night. I loved Arties company. He had a flair for the dramatics, and a tongue both sly and sharp. We soon discovered together I was practically exploding with creative energy. Every day we would talk about what setup we could create later that night together.
Over the next month, we got closer. Close enough that I no longer doubted any insecurities I may have previously felt. I truly liked Artie. I knew he was queer, and I use that term in the most endearing way possible. I hated the people who called us queer from hatred. They couldn’t possibly understand us, and that drew us closer.
It was eerie inside the lamp post. The butterscotch yellow light was dim beneath the layer of dirt and grime covered glass that sheltered it. As the blood rushed to my head, I noted the way each fiery shade dissolved and molded itself into a new, brighter hue. My eyes lost focus. I saw how dark they were in my warped reflection. Slivers of orange light cut through my eyes like daggers. The color red bled from my pupils as the glowing lamp flickered behind the deformed echo of myself I saw in the glass. I needed to tell him. It would break me if he didn’t accept me as trans, but it would only hurt more if I waited.
“Hurry,” Artie hissed from under his trenchcoat, beneath it was a red vest and frilly white shirt. I smirked at his farcical outlook on ‘anonymous’ clothing.
I hopped down from my hanging place, shushing him quietly. We turned and faded into the dark streets around us. A snap sounded behind us. We whipped around, Artie tripping over my feet. A small cat whisked her tail, clunking against the pebble covered metal sewer grate at her paws. I relaxed, giggling. Artie let out a sigh of relief. Anxious butterflies made me sick.
“Artie,” I swallowed. “I have something to tell you…..”