There’s a bend in his nose on a worker’s face, pallid, wide, the eyes sad, longing. But he is posed, sitting on a simple chair, his right hand buried in his pants pocket, the other dropped loosely in front between his legs; your eyes move up and see a suit jacket, buttoned, over a vest, buttoned, the dress shirt, the tie, barely loosened, around his neck, her neck, the tie that can be pulled tightly to snug out her breath and she imagines it cinching further to close the loop, to pop her body off like a dandelion stem, leaving just her head. Her head is most valuable because that’s where she knows doubtlessly that she is indeed “he”—her head is the unarguable forum, her head holds the truth where nothing is minced. It is where the future is kept and it floats there, separate from the body, the neck tie dangling, and like a child’s balloon she imagines being released from an empty, little hand and swept up, elsewhere, away, while rising, above.
He was no longer she, in many ways. And while it is, yes, most important for one to be oneself in one’s own consciousness, the change to he comes with the ancillary desires to have “he-ness” in the world, to mesh somewhere, to be interdigitated, to be part of a collective and to move forward within it. To live.
And then, while living, you’ll be living amongst other people. And at first the curves and angles may not joint right, may unfortunately cubist the puzzle. The beginning hope is to have an empty bottle and to then fill it with the right colored sand in the right places, to create shape and design and determinate beauty, to create the hoped-for, because when she became he life required planning. To live one good day as he, now, and to let that day lead to tomorrow where he will try to again live one good day because he is certain of the placement of his “he-ness” in the world but can’t yet give up getting through just tomorrow, he can’t yet think about being in the rest of his life.