ARTHUR

The next morning I wake up to the shocking, tugging, lustful pleasure of Alfred sucking on my penis beneath the blankets.

I have never liked my penis. Ever since I became aware of it from a self-conscious point of view—around eleven years old, probably—I have despised it. I have the usual complaint of length; it's an inch and a half shorter than Alfred's. It isn't circumcised, and it looks like some kind of grumpy worm, the way the skin moves along it, stretching, covering up to the tip—it disgusts me. Alfred's is so beautiful, elegant and bare-headed and perfectly smooth. He could be a pornstar, really, even though he would never do something like that. But my body is all unattractive. Everything is too big (eyebrows, nipples) or too small (penis, general musculature) or otherwise just homely. Alfred is handsome. He deserves so much better than me.

But when he's pleasuring me, showing me that he loves me, that he loves this body I'm in. . .

When we first met, it was fine.

Recently, it's been uncomfortable.

And today, after what he said last night, I can't take it.

"Stop," I say, pushing on Alfred's shoulders. "Stop it, Alfred. Stop."

Alfred lifts his head, moving the blanket back so he can look at me. His brow is furrowed, his blue eyes confused and almost hurt, which kills me.

"What's wrong?" Alfred asks. "Are you hurt? Are you . . ." He sits up, the blanket falling down around his hips, so I can see his stirring erection, his tanned torso. "You've been . . . off, lately. There's something wrong in your eyes, has been for weeks. I don't wanna see your hurting. I love you. So, please, Artie. Tell me. What's wrong?"

I stare at him, at this man above me. My American husband, golden-haired and lit like a deity from the window sunlight. Anyone else would be happy with this life. Why am I so ungrateful? So incapable of accepting my fate, even when it's a happy one?"

"I . . ." The way his blue eyes get so filled with hope when I start to speak. It hurts, doing this to him. I don't deserve to put myself first, but I have to.

"I don't feel comfortable," I force out.

Alfred stares at me. "Comfortable with what? With me?"

"No." I sigh; it feels as though he's kneeling on my chest instead of between my spread legs. "With . . . me."

Alfred's brow furrows deeper. He doesn't understand. How could he? Only one with a dark past of their own can begin to understand the shadows of another.

"Is this about your eyebrows? I told you, they look fine, Artie. Better than having none at all, or a unibrow—"

"No." I sit up, my back against the headboard. "I don't—it's not about my eyebrows. It's about who I am. I don't want to be this person anymore. I'm not comfortable as who I am right now, Alfred. Alright? That's my problem. I don't want to exist like this anymore."

Alfred stares, and stares, uncomprehending. "Arthur," he says slowly, "are you telling me that you want to kill yourself?"

Softly, I reply, "If I stay like this for another year, I . . . I might kill myself. Yes."

Alfred cups my face in his hands, brow low on his eyes. "Stop saying that. What does 'like this' mean? Staying 'like this'? Not wanting to exist as yourself, as the person you are . . . what does that mean? Who else would you be?"

I lean into the warmth of his touch, and I say the words slowly, quietly, for the first time ever to myself and to someone else:

"I want . . . to be . . . a lady."

Alfred's grip on my face tightens, fingers rough on my jaw. His gaze is like ice. "What the hell," he says, low and hard, "are you trying to do to me? Why are you screwing with me? I asked you what's wrong, and now you're joking with me about this goddamn trannie bullshit—"

"It's not bullshit," I snap, fury hot in my chest. I pull on Alfred's arms, trying to make him stop touching me.

Alfred jerks away, stands and starts pulling his clothes on. Both our erections are gone. His progress through our bedroom is angry, intense. "If you think you're going to tear this marriage apart because you have mental issues, you're even more fucked in the head than I'm thinking right now. I'm going out to find you some therapist to talk to. They'll show you how stupid and twisted this is." He stops in the doorway, looks back at me as he flips down the collar of his shirt. "You're a man, Arthur Kirkland Jones. You were born a man, and you'll die a man. I love you because you're a man. You're going to go off, change yourself into someone else? That will make you a stranger. You will be a murderer, some demented bitch of a false woman who killed my wonderful husband. I will never forgive you."

I stare, open-mouthed. I can do nothing else.

Alfred stabs me with his eyes one last time before turning, storming out of the house. I hear the front door slam and his sports car snarling down the driveway.

I am faced, once my astonishment fades, with two options.

Stay, and be forced into therapy, fall into an even deeper depression, and deal with this new version of my husband, he who hates what he does not understand.

Or. . .

Fifteen minutes later, I am packed. I take a taxi to the farthest stop possible, and ride the bus out of town. I don't lift my gaze from my lap; I want to be lost, lost and unable to be found. I don't speak to anyone. I don't do anything but sit still, using Alfred's money to take me away, away, away.

"Sir? Excuse me, but this is the last stop."

I blink blearily; I hadn't realized I'd fallen asleep. I feel like I've only nodded off for a second, but the bus windows are dark with night. The bus driver is addressing me from the driver's seat, eyes polite but impatient in the overhead mirror. He wants me off, so he can go home. I can't blame him. I only wish I could do the same.

Alfred is there. Alfred has become the enemy. We must stay away from him at all costs. Away, away.

I stand stiffly, holding my suitcase, and exit the bus. The driver tells me goodnight. I repeat it, feeling hollow. But only when the bus drives away do I truly realize my mistake. It's a dark, cloudy night, and I wouldn't recognize this place even if it was day. I turn slowly, fear rising in my chest. I am alone . . . but I suppose being alone is better than being found by—

Suddenly, I'm blinded by headlights. Terror crashes like lightning. The silhouette of a broad-shouldered man appears, and hestartstowardme.

I drop my bag and run.