Fiction – Bump

To those who accuse me of immoderate desire, I say look at the oil executives. Look at the Gold Rush. Look at all the women who want a ring and romance and lifelong commitment, and then look again at me.

- By Morgan Thomas

To those who accuse me of immoderate desire, I say look at the oil executives. Look at the Gold Rush. Look at all the women who want a ring and romance and lifelong commitment, and then look again at me. Me, I just want a person to dance the two-step with on Friday nights, a person who won’t mind if I wear a shirt with maroon sequins or, occasionally, a strap-on pregnancy bump. In return, I offer a woman who can get by on little. I keep myself spotless. My car and my nails and my résumé, I polish. I polish myself until I shine.

The first thing that drew me to Len was that he had worked to be where he was and would work to stay there. Born on a cattle ranch an hour outside Gainesville, he’d made partner at an Atlanta law firm, the firm that had once represented Coca-Cola against the state. He wore a suit and tie to work even on casual Fridays. He had no southern accent. On our first date, I asked him about the accent. He said, “I did away with it.” Like it was nothing, doing away with a whole part of yourself. When I talk about polish, this is what I mean. Representing Coca-Cola is reprehensible, and I’ve told him that, but still, I admire his dedication.

When I told him, on our third date, that I was trans, he said, “That makes no difference.” Another reason I love him. Not like my Nana, who had a conniption, said I was risking my job and her livelihood in the bargain, since she counted on me to take care of her. And I did lose that first job. I made mistakes. I worked a miserable job for six years just for the health insurance. But a year ago I got a part-time job, a better job, and here I am.