The room smelled like sweat, skin, and something sweet—shea butter, maybe. The air conditioner rattled in the window. Outside, a dog was barking as if it were announcing something. 

Inside, though, Elle lay on her back with her hair stuck to her cheek and the sheet damp against her thigh. Simone sat at the edge of the bed with a cigarette between her fingers. 

She hadn’t lit it. She just held it there, like her mouth was waiting for the staleness to return. 

A long moment passed. The dog outside quieted. 

“You okay?” Simone asked, not turning around. 

Elle snorted softly. “You’re not supposed to ask that after.” 

Simone didn’t laugh, but something in her shoulders softened. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t.” 

Elle shifted again. She glanced around the room, letting her eyes adjust to the soft glow from the lamp on the nightstand. There were two mugs on it—one chipped, and the other read FEMINIST KILLJOY in faded pink letters. Next to that was a prescription bottle of Estradiol.

There was a bookshelf with titles that Elle, sadly, couldn’t see from that angle. There was a record player that was covered by a blue scarf. The floorboards were hardwood and had been stained and scratched in some areas. 

The sheet was cool, gray, and new, as if she decided that she deserved new linen. Elle had noticed that there were no mirrors in the room. Just a painting of a bird mid-flight, where she’d imagine one would be. 

Elle looked back over at the bottle, then said quietly, “I’m sorry.” 

Simone glanced back. “For what?” 

Elle shrugged. “For crying.” 

Simone let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh. “Shit. Honey, you’re fine. I’ve cried over season finales.” 

Elle chuckled. “I guess so,” her teeth were white like that fabled picket fence. She fiddled with the sheet and eventually pulled it over her breasts. “Did I ever tell you my name?”

“Liza?” 

“That’s actually not bad. I tend to get Ashley or Maria. Elle.” 

“Ah,” Simone got up, put the cigarette in the chipped mug, and laid beside Elle. She wrapped her arm around. She could feel Elle tense up, but ultimately sink into the warmth of her body. “That’s a cute name.” 

The dog barked again, but softly this time. A police car passed by. Red and blue lights blinked through the blinds, followed by the melting wail of a siren. 

“Thanks,” Elle replied. Her eyes traced the wings of the bird. “Why don’t you have any mirrors?” 

“Hm?”

“You don’t have any mirrors in your room?”

Simone shrugged. “Haven’t found the right one yet.” 

Elle didn’t say anything. She stared at the painting. The bird was a dove. The sky behind it was an orange-purplish sunset. There was nothing else except for those two things.

Simone reached over, fingers brushing the edge of the sheet. 

“Can I?” She asked, her voice softer now. 

Elle hesitated, then nodded. Her chest rose as the sheet fell. 

Elle let out a breath as Simone traced a finger over her areola, pink and pale like the inside of a seashell. 

“They’re adorable,” she whispered. 

Elle blushed, but didn’t look away. “I used to hate them,” she said. “I always wished they were plumper. Now, I look at them and think, maybe they’re just right.” 

“They are.”

Elle tucked her chin in, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks.”

Simone stretched her storklike body and let out a yawn.

“So, how long?” Elle asked. 

“How long what?” Simone propped herself up on her elbow and faced Elle. “How long have you been on E?”

Simone thought, “More years than I can count,” and Elle chuckled. Simone stopped twirling the cigarette. “Thirteen. Started when I was twenty-six.” 

“Geez.” 

“You got it lucky, honey.” 

Elle raised a brow, “What do you mean?” 

Simone sat up. “I mean that you’ve got more trans people around you than I did back in two-thousand-and-whatever-the-fuck. You don’t have to go through psychiatrists. You don’t have to meet some stupid fucking scale.” 

Elle’s eyes stayed on Simone’s face. “I mean… it doesn’t feel like much has changed. I still had to talk to a psychiatrist for two years.” 

“Shit.”

“He kept asking me, ‘How do you know?’ and I was like, because when I was three, I told my mother, ‘The big man messed up.’ And when I was thirteen, I saw this photo of Elizabeth Taylor and said, ‘Why wasn’t that me?’” 

Simone nodded, but she didn’t respond; she just focused on Elle’s black hair. The room settled into softness. She reached out and squeezed Elle’s hand. 

“How long have you been on E?” Simone asked. 

A realization crept in for Elle, she still had a long way to go. “Two.” 

Elle looked into Simone’s eyes. “Look, I was just asking because… well, I really need to meet more people like you. The older girls. I feel like I don’t meet enough of you.”

Simone chuckled. “You make being thirty-nine sound like an award.”

“Thirty-nine?” 

Simone shot her a look. “Don’t be surprised.” 

“I mean, I’m not… really. I thought you were like forty-two.” 

Simone sighed, leaned back, and chuckled, “Oh, God.” 

Elle sat up and smiled at her. “But, in like a hot way. You’re insanely beautiful.” 

“Eh, it’s not like I’m getting any younger, so thank you.”

Simone kissed Elle. In that moment, something pulsed through her—electric, quiet, almost painful. She tried to keep it together. She wanted to cry—the kind that comes with realizing that your being is being loved.

Don’t you fucking break down in front of this girl. 

She placed a hand on Elle’s cheek. Soft. Warm.

Neither of them said anything. 

They just lay there, holding onto one another like even one breath would make the spell break.