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Alex slapped her shoulder playfully. “How’s Mari?” she asked Michelle. Alex and Mari had been a couple for a hot minute some years back.
“She’s good. Busy, but good. Is that new art, Alex?” asked Michelle. “It looks great.”
Alex extended her right arm to display her sleeve of tattoos. Gael hoped her tiny involuntary gasp would go unnoticed.
“I added the caged heart two months ago,” she said, pointing to her bicep. “So now I had him extend the tendrils from the rose on my shoulder into the cage.”
Gael’s mental jukebox played a Dropkick Murphys song about expressing love and commitment in a rose tattoo.
“Can I get the mini-caprese kabobs?” she asked.
“Beet salad for me,” said Michelle.
“And another round, ladies? Be right back.”
Gael watched Alex take the order inside. Not for the first time, Gael gave silent thanks for The Twelfth’s uniform: black jeans, black T-shirt. Long sleeves in the winter, short sleeves or tank in the summer. Alex went with the latter today, displaying the ink on her arms, shoulders and back.
Gael forced her attention back to her friend. “I love being properly gendered,” she said. “It’s such a small thing. But it makes me disproportionately happy.”
“Well, aren’t you easy to please,” said Michelle, rolling her eyes.
The conversation took its inevitable detour into school talk. Michelle recounted the antics of Alan the Ass-Waffle, as she referred to her principal. She had taken an FMLA-approved twelve-week leave at the start of the 2021 school year. Bella was a toddler. Schools across the country were taking precautions against the pandemic, but teachers understood that safer wasn’t even remotely safe. Michelle chose family over work. Alan now took every opportunity to remind her she was not a team player.
Eventually, the conversation circled back to intimacy. Michelle asked, “Do you think you’re using COVID as an excuse? So you don’t have to reach out to anyone?”
Gael sipped her drink thoughtfully. “At first, yeah. We work with kids, so you err on the side of caution. But masked and six feet apart is no way to meet someone. Now, thirty months down the road, I don’t know. Yeah, I guess I’m probably avoiding things.”
“When's the last time someone got past your defenses?”
Gael lied, “About eight years.” It was more like ten, well before transition. “I’ll flirt, but beyond that? I can’t. It’s part-inertia, part-fear. I’ve worked so hard to be healthier, to live in stillness and gratitude. I don’t want to jeopardize that just because I want to be held.”
“Well, let’s game this out a little,” said Michelle. “Pretend you meet somebody. You flirt a little, like you do with. . .”
“Alex,” Gael started.
“Oooh, good one! I could definitely see you and Alex together.”
“No,” Gael hissed. “I mean, she’s behind you. Hi, Alex.”
Gael hastily gave her full attention to systematically removing the condensation from her glass. Alex set down the appetizers and drinks. Gael darted a quick glance. If Alex had heard the conversation, her expression betrayed nothing.
When they were alone, Michelle leaned in and said conspiratorially, “So, Alex?”
“I think she’s. . .I just . . .It’s not. . .” she stammered, shut her eyes, rocked a little in her seat. “Please don’t. . .”
“You know I wouldn’t. I get it; I do. That haircut is sharp enough to cut paper. And those forearms? She’s hot alright. Marisol always did have excellent taste in women.”
“I could happily spend an afternoon tracing her tattoos,” Gael sighed.
“With your tongue?” teased Michelle. Gael squeaked involuntarily.
“Kinda robbing the cradle there, aren’t you? How old do you think she is?
“I’m guessing 30-ish. That’s not so young.”
“Old enough to know better,” Michelle teased. “What do you know about her?”
“Not much. That one time she had an after-shift coffee with us, she said she was holding down two jobs. Three shifts a week here at The Twelfth and then working the loading dock at— where was it? Wal-Mart, maybe?”
