update from sparkleup
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<p>She’s a weird bird, but I can forgive much from someone more than ten times as old as me.</p>
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<p>And this whole time, even past my one-week-iversary of uploading, I keep forking and changing, forking and refining, forking and tuning. My hair could be this long, right? Or…well, no. Maybe it could be a touch shorter. And my eyelashes could be a bit longer. And the hairs that make up my unibrow could be thinner — not gone, no, just enough to shape an impression of a face. And my cheeks could be maybe just a little rosier. Which maybe I could do by keeping them as they are but toning my skin a little lighter, perhaps?</p>
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<p>It’s infuriating. It’s <em>more</em> than infuriating. It’s crazymaking, forking and changing, forking and changing, hunting for ever finer lines of exploration, going down blind alleys of gender, making U-turns in front of piles of identity that make me wince and squirm.</p>
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<p>My doesn’t need to say anything, she just keeps on talking to me, keeps on spending time with me. She just keeps on being around me as someone </p>
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<p>My doesn’t need to say anything, she just keeps on talking to me, keeps on spending time with me. She just keeps on being around me as someone who is happier, more content with her life. She just exists at me as someone who lives in her body entirely while I, itching, squirming, do not.</p>
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<p>She never calls me on it, not once, but when I finally break down and start babbling about it, ‘I know’ is painted across her face in plain-to-see lines.</p>
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<p>“I just don’t even know what I’m doing. I feel like I’m refining myself into something unrecognizable,” I ramble in a quiet corner of one of those Jesusy coffee shops. “I’m turning into someone I don’t know.”</p>
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<p>“Why?” she asks. “I mean, I know how you are doing it. You are trying to become maybe a cisfemme woman, yes? You are trying to be the you that you always saw yourself as, yes?”</p>
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<p>“Well, yes,” I say, turning my untouched latte around in a circle on the dinged-up tabletop. “I told myself I’d come up here and finish my transition.”</p>
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<p>“‘Finish’?”</p>
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<p>I squinted up at her, sensing a trap. “Ye-e-es…”</p>
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<p>She holds up a hand disarmingly. “I am not calling you out, my dear. Everyone approaches this differently. I meant to ask what ‘finished’ looked like for you.”</p>
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<p>“I don’t know,” I say, sounding miserable even to myself as I subside back into my seat.</p>
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<p>“You have all the time in the world, Rena,” My says. “And that world is going nowhere fast.”</p>
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<p>I nod sullenly.</p>
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<p>“Well, hey. Can you show me what you looked like before?”</p>
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<p>“Here?”</p>
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<p>She shrugs. There really isn’t anyone around but us and the constructs behind the bar.</p>
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<p>I shrug, too, an fork into that version of me I remember from so long ago — was it really a week and a half?</p>
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<p>My raises an eyebrow.</p>
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<p>“What?”</p>
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<p>“Look.”</p>
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<p>I look over to that fork of me. Really, truly look. What I’d taken as too tall comes off a merely tall-ish, now that she’s not me. That too-high hairline is all but unnoticeable. That rectangular frame I’d bitched about plenty was…fine. Like, it was fine! She was fine!</p>
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<p><em>I was fine.</em></p>
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<p>My pushes her chair back and goes to stand by this new version of the old me, and similarities and differences crowd into my mind. There, two trans girls, just standing in a coffee shop, looking for all the world like they were on a date. Maybe they don’t pass, not to my discerning eye, but they look fine. They look fine.</p>
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<p>“Fuck,” I say.</p>
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<p>My laughs.</p>
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<p>“What do I do?” I sigh, slouching back in my chair and looking up to the two before me.</p>
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<p>“Whatever you would like,” My says. “You have the time, yes? And I sure as shit do not know what you need out of life. All I can do is keep taking you out for coffee while you figure it out, yes?”</p>
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<p>I laugh. “Yeah, but which me?”</p>
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<p>She casts an appraising look at me, then at my new instance standing beside her. “One of you,” she says eventually. “But only one. The other can do whatever she wants — she can quit or go on exploring her own life or whatever — but only one of you gets to go on the next date.”</p>
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<p>Me and this new Rena, this new old Rena, look at each other, smirk, and nod.</p>
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<p>“Deal,” we say in unison.</p>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2023-09-20</p>
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