ARTHUR

"Artie. Hey. Wake up, babe."

I blink blearily up at Alfred, who I can barely make out in the shadow of our bedroom. The read light from the alarm clock gives his silhouette a demonic red fringe. I wish he was a monster, sometimes. Then I wouldn't feel so terrible about my unhappiness at being with him.

If he was abusive, overbearing, my cage would be real. But as it is, I'm the one who put myself behind these bars, and I hold the key. I'm just so terrified to unlock it. I don't even know how I would. . . .

"You were having a nightmare," Alfred whispers.

"Thanks for reminding me," I mutter through a tired, exasperated sigh. This one is actually genuine, for once. I'd forgotten about the bad dream until he mentioned it, but it's coming back, in all its unspeakable horror.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asks gently. He's always so gentle, so kind. Nothing about him is the problem. It's just me who's broken.

"Not in the slightest," I reply. It's the truth. Two in a row, my word. I'm on a roll tonight.

Alfred shifts his weight on top of me, legs straddling mine and elbows braced on either side of me. "Well," he murmurs, lips in the dip of my collarbone, "if you don't wanna talk . . . and you're not sleeping . . ."

I snake a hand between us, reaching for the nightstand, and seize the remote. The television bathes us in blue-tinted light, and I almost get aroused by the image of us, the slope of his back drawing the blankets taught as he—

No. No erection, otherwise I won't be able to stop myself. I cannot have sex while the nightmare is still fresh in my mind. Then I really will go mad.

Alfred groans dramatically and lets his forehead drop to my chest. "Aw, c'mon, Artie. Blue balls tonight, even after you looked so good in that tux?"

"Indeed," I reply flatly, surfing the channels over his shoulder. "You match nicely. Blue eyes, blue blood, blue balls."

"The holy trinity." He drops to his side, smiling. He's not religious at all, and neither am I, these days. I used to go to church when I was young; I remember Sunday school with my brothers, I recall the wee cubes of bread, the sip of grape juice they pretended was wine. Cheers, lads! Nostalgia pricks at my eyes, and I have to pinch tears.

"You okay, Artie?" Alfred asks, rubbing my arm slowly.

"Don't call me that, you know I hate it." I don't hate Artie anymore than I hate Arthur. Most of all, I hate this man who owns the names. "My eyes are just dry, that's all."

"We'll have to buy some Visine tomorrow." Alfred gently relieves me of the remote. "Let's watch one of those TLC shows, you like them. Maybe My Strange Addiction is on, that's the best one."

I do have a fondness for the segments about people who are stranger and more miserable than me. If they can get better, so can I. Right?

He puts TLC on, but it's not anything about addictions or pregnancy as usual. Instead, it's the first episode of a new show called C'est La Vie of Me. A blond man with wavy hair down to his shoulders informs us in a sultry French accent, "I am Francis Bonnefoy. I may walk, talk, and look like a man to you, but let me assure you: I am a woman in my heart. Watch me start off as a beautiful man and transform into the true me, une belle femme! A pretty, pretty lady!" He—she?—blows a kiss to the screen, and the screen transitions to the usual reality TV show bollocks of arguing about breakfast with your housemates under the opening credits.

"Jesus," Alfred remarks, with a surprising amount of distaste.

I glance at him. "I've never seen a show about a transsexual's journey. The person might be . . . campy . . . but the science of it could be interesting."

He changes the channel. I'm astonished to feel sadness, like a cold bullet to the heart, when he does. Like my only friend is gone, never to return. Alfred's lip curls in disgust as he says, "Goddamn trannies. I think that's really twisted. Think about that guy's parents. They had a son who they probably loved, and he's taking that away from them."

"But he'd be giving them back a daughter."

"They don't have a daughter, Artie, they have a son. That's why it's so screwed up. It would be like me trying to change into a straight person. I was born gay, and that's what I am. He was born a dude, so he should be that, and not be tearing up his body to make it look like a woman. It's almost sad, really. He clearly has a mental, like, dysphoria or whatever. He should be in therapy to learn to accept his body, not parading around with cameras filming his perverted mistakes."

I can't believe these words are coming out of Alfred's mouth—and so easily, like he's thought about it before, like his point of view is obvious. He has defended our love to homophobes on the street countless times; he was a leading member of the Gay-Straight Alliance in his high school; he has always been the more open-minded one between us. But now he's talking like this, using slurs like a rapper! I can't believe it. I am shocked.

How am I married to this man?

Alfred glances at me, shaking his head a little and smiling. "World has a lot of crazy people in it, huh? They'll do anything for some money and attention."

I nod slowly. For the first time, I feel afraid. What might happen if I can't play my part? Uncertainty makes my heart tremble in my chest. "Everyone's mad, if you ask me. You, in particular."

Alfred turns off the TV, and his chuckle fills the silence; it'd be creepy if his laugh didn't sound so handsome and safe. He's a golden boy, an angel. I can't remember him saying the words even as they echo in my head. Perverted mistakes. I can't picture the disgust on his face as he looked at Francis on TV. Francis the woman. That's what she is. Even if she looks like a man, she is a woman if she says she is.

You were born gay, I could say, and Francis was born a woman. It's just that her body doesn't match, so she has to change it. What is so hard to understand about that?

But I don't say that. I say, "If I have another nightmare, do me a favor and wake me up by shooting my in the head."

Alfred wraps his arms around me. "Don't joke about that, Arthur," he murmurs. "I could never hurt you. I love you."

I don't know who I am. I press my face into his chest and fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart.