“Are we talking only morphology or also psychology? Like how female rivalry always trumps female solidarity?” I sit down at the other end.
“Only morphology for now.”
“When puberty hit me at twelve, I was nowhere near ready,” I say. “In my head, I was still a child, but my body was becoming that of a woman, and I resented it so much! I resisted it, too.”
“Resisted? How?”
“Where do I begin? I spent hours in the bathroom, wallowing in self-pity. I bound my breasts, so they’d be less visible. I even considered suicide.”
He cocks his head. “Was it that bad?”
“Worse.”
I go on detailing all the big and small things I hated about my excruciating metamorphosis from girl to woman. Jonas listens intently without interrupting. His dark gaze grows so unexpectedly and uncharacteristically warm that I don’t know what to do with it or with myself.
It also occurs to me that after talking for twenty minutes with this macho, I’ve shared more with him than with Peter over the hours and hours of conversations we’ve had every evening at the bar.
How can that be?
Peter is such an open-minded, sensitive man! We have so much in common! And I trust him. I have strictly nothing in common with Jonas. Nor do I trust him. Nor am I in an exceptionally chatty mood tonight. I came here instead of going to the bar precisely because I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
Then why am I opening up like this?What’s going on here?
Well… Jonas is asking questions. And I’m answering them. And he isn’t interrupting me with his own stories. He’s just sitting here listening to me. It’s really that dumb.
“You were fortunate in your misfortunes,” he says when I’m done with my inventory of woes.
“How so?”
“Your parents didn’t overreact.”
“My dad traveled a lot for work at the time and knew nothing of my tribulations. As for my mom…” Realizing something, I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait, what did you mean by overreacting?”
“They could’ve told you that you might be a man trapped in a woman’s body, and that there was a way to permanently fix that.”
I picture my mom saying such things, and it makes me smile.
“What?” He surveys my face. “Is your mom abigoted male chauvinistlike me?”
The idea wins him an amused snort. “My mom is a meek, self-effacing pushover, too accommodating and eager to please my dad, too financially dependent on him to express strong opinions.”
“Terrible!”
“Worse than terrible. She won’t even dare to form one. Her comfort zone is a place with the least amount of risk and responsibility as she can possibly have.”
“That was harsh. And”—he squints looking for the right word—“needlessly condescending.”
“Was it? I don’t think so.”
“Do your parents get along?” he asks. “Do they love each other? Does your dad treat your mom with respect?”
“Yes,” I reply honestly.
“Has your dad ever done anything to hurt or humiliate your mom, be it privately or publicly, on purpose or simply because the entitled scumbag never stopped to consider the devastation his lack of self-restraint would cause his family?”
It’s my turn to survey his face. “Are we still talking aboutmydad?”
He looks away.
