Leopoldine Core - When Watched - Stories

After a half hour of keeping her eyes on her hands and the backs of other people’s heads, the fizzy feeling of anxiety diffused. Miranda let her gaze drift back onto the man, wanting badly to confirm his continued interest in her. And there it was, beaming like a lit candle in a dark, dark room. He looked a bit like Jack Nicholson, she realized, with his boomerang eyebrows and wide cat grin.

It occurred to her that he could be high or drunk, but he didn’t look it. Then she considered the possibility that he could be a thief. And it would be easy to steal from me, she thought, lacing her fingers together on her lap. But the truth was that she enjoyed the feel of his burning gaze, regardless of whatever sat lurking behind it. Who was he, this man who could stare and stare? He was filthy but handsome. It’s obvious, Miranda thought. Anyone could see it. Well not anyone, she thought, commending herself for being able to take anything — and anyone — out of context. His context was just a lot of dirt and probably a very sad story. Miranda wondered what had ejected him into the wilderness of Manhattan. Then she imagined him emerging from the shower with a towel tied at his waist, clouds of steam gushing around him. She admired the look of him all clean in her mind: hair combed, nails scrubbed, his blue eyes electric against the pink of his cheeks.

But what if he’s stupid? Miranda thought. This was not impossible. Often people radiated a smartness that simply wasn’t there. And certainly this would be worse than him being high or drunk or a thief. She let the unhappy thought twirl in her mind a moment. Then she let it go. She was getting better and better at letting things go.

When the meeting was over everyone stood in a circle to pray aloud, holding hands. Miranda stalled a moment, clearing her throat, then took his grubby hand in hers. She said the prayer softly so as to hear his voice. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,” came a high, funny voice. “Courage to change the things I can. And wisdom to know the difference.”

When their hands parted they looked at each other. She had a crush. It was shocking. She cleared her throat. The room had grown loud like a cafeteria, everyone chatting and collapsing their chairs.

“Hello,” she ventured.

“Hi,” he said.

“I’m Miranda,” she said, hating the sound of her name, how desperate it seemed to sound in any context.

“Drew,” he said with a nod.

In a soft voice, feeling embarrassed, she said, “Do you have anywhere to go?”

He paused. “There’s a place.”

Miranda nodded, admiring his vagueness. There was a certain dignity about it. “Do you want to go for a walk?” she asked.

Again he paused. Then, without answering, Drew gathered his things: a backpack and a smaller bag with handles, both blackened with filth. He followed her as she left the building and in the streetlight they walked alongside each other in silence.

It was late August. A cool breeze stroked them from six different directions, reassembling their hair.

“Are you a Christian?” Drew asked.

“No,” Miranda said, laughing a little.

“So what’s your story?” he asked, which made her nervous.

“Well I’ve been sober for a couple years but I just started going to meetings. I mean… I haven’t spoken yet.”

“Why not?”

“I guess I don’t know what I’d say.”

“You don’t have to know.” He paused, walking a little slower. “I mean, you do know.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, I think…” He scratched his jaw. “I think the thing in your mind is the thing to say.”

Miranda was quiet. Then she said, “I like that.” It was so easy to imagine him clean because, in a way, he already was. His mind was. And the fact of his filth relaxed her. She wasn’t worried about her clogged pores or the murky scent of her underarms. She felt very civilized, almost queenly. The dreamy feeling mounted until she was drunk with it. “Do you want to come over?”

He looked stricken when she said this. They had stopped walking. The stiff look of caution first softened around his mouth. It took a moment. Then the old grin grew in its place.

Miranda said nothing. She only faced him with the wide, emotional eyes of a silent film star. She hoped he didn’t think she was whorish. Because she wasn’t. She thought about sex constantly but she hadn’t had any in a while.

“Alright,” he said. “Okay.” He was smiling widely now. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” But she wasn’t sure. She pin-balled between arousal and revulsion, which fascinated her. It made the two sensations seem like old friends, sizzling together in one pool of wanting. Yes, she thought to herself as they mounted the stairs of her apartment. No when they walked into her living room. No again when he set his bags down on the floor. Then Yes when she made him a sandwich and he ate it. Yes when he said her apartment was nice. Yes!

It wasn’t a nice apartment. He was being kind and it felt good. Her last boyfriend had called her apartment a dump. The day they broke up he looked around and said, “Fucking dump.”

“Can I use your shower?” Drew asked.

“Of course .” She fetched him a yellow towel and he disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door.

He was in there for a long time. Miranda unhooked her bra and yanked it out from under her shirt. She smoked three cigarettes in a row, then cleared the candy wrappers from the windowsill by her bed.

Finally the door opened a crack, his face peeking through. “Is there something I can wear?” Steam poured from the door.

“Oh. Sure.” She looked around, stumped, then settled on her silk robe, beige with navy polka dots. He took it uneasily, which made her laugh.

Drew walked out looking very uncomfortable and sat on the couch. Miranda joined him and smiled sleepily. She liked being sleepy, how it felt vaguely beer induced. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“I feel good,” he said, nodding. “I don’t know about the robe though.”

Miranda laughed. Drew looked nervous and that relaxed her. She felt almost predatory. “You look great,” she said. “I mean you looked great before but now I can really see you.” Without hesitation, Miranda took his wet head in her hands and kissed him. It was a forceful, passionate kiss. Her hand swam over his thighs and then between them, where it froze and was retracted.

A horrible, breathless silence fell over them.

“I couldn’t tell if you knew,” Drew said.

“I didn’t,” Miranda said, stunned. “Of course I didn’t .”

“Are you mad?”

“No.” Miranda shook her head. “That’s not it exactly. I just…” She got up and walked to the other side of the room, her arms folded. “I’ve never kissed a woman.”

They stared at each other. A disturbed expression was quietly building on Drew’s face. “I’m transgender.”

“I feel fucked up,” Miranda said. “Like I’m seeing things!” She walked back over to the couch and sat down, staring at Drew with open horror. “You look so much like a man,” she said.

“I know that,” Drew said. His pained expression was now morphing to one of pure anger. He marched to the bathroom and shut the door.

In seconds he emerged in the same dark rags, zipping up his fly.

“What are you doing?” Miranda demanded, but Drew said nothing, crossing the room and bending for his bags. “Don’t go,” Miranda pleaded in a new voice, a child’s voice, grabbing Drew by the arm. She hated when people left. She hated when anyone left.

Drew turned his head and stared.