Her hair was tied up with a head scarf playing the role of a headband. She wore satin pajamas and a warm smile stretched out on her face. That smile puffed her cheeks up and showed in the dim light of the room her blush. She applied it daily, but this was unlike the others in the way that she didn't apply any today. A wonder that was.
She sat in between the legs of me, feeling around for any presence of masculinity. I shrugged my shoulders when she asked me why I had breasts, wondering about that myself.
Perhaps a birth defect, her husband had pronounced breasts, could you imagine? I could, they appeared starting in adolescence. "Why?" She asked me, "Why are you different from the others?" her questions reached the edges of my brain and I could only shrug. I had assumed she knew, I assumed that everyone knew that they were not fighting or shooting at a man, but a woman.
She found some areas flat and concave while other places were too curvy, and only a nonchalant look on my face. "Do you mind it?" I questioned her and she frowned. Soon she became sad and I could only comfort her with my hands, with my mouth, and with my quiet word.
Delighted, she was to meet my hand and mouth when all had crashed down, but she retreated into herself when the joy was washed over with regret. "Why?" I questioned this time. "Are you not satisfied with what we have created?"
"We cannot create anything, and that's wrong." She said with a voice crack, my eye twitched.
"I don't believe that it's wrong. You're mine, I am yours, what possibly could be the calamity? Is it my hair in dreadlocks? My face never powdered with makeup? My attire which isn't in the most feminine style?" I say, she takes in a deep breath and continues sobbing.
"No," She retorts. "It is that we are the same, and we could never be free from that. This isn't the role we're meant to be in! We're meant to be friends! Companions! And here we are in bed…" She sobs into her hands and my gaze is full of sorrow. We were meant to be friends? How could that be when we felt so strongly about one another?
I did not understand. "I do not understand, what could make me better for you?" I asked as she drew her hands from her face in a motion that resembled pulling her skin off. Was she that agonized to speak with me?
"It would be better if you were a man." She stated flatly between sobs and my face paled. A man was something that I was not, in fact I was a woman through and through. We have been happy, simply living together and there was no problem with it until this night. Until she called a man to her room and was met with a woman.
Then it had dawned on me like the morning light, all we could do was kiss.