Crumpled boxes of tobacco, the kind
that
come with papers. Cans of Coke and lager,
ringpulls
popped. Ripped shreds of Rizla
and
Gold Leaf. Filters. The unexpected light still on at home.
The
walk through town on Friday night,
taxi
rank queues swelled by rugby crowds.
The
Metro station closed for renovation,
realisation
coming far too late.
The
walk to the Pink Triangle
to
catch cabs at a less-attended rank.
The
tent in the square by the Centre for Life:
the
Ladyboys again.
The
hunt through your bag for a hair tie.
Coming
up short. The thought
of
cis eyes gazing, cis mouths gawping
at
the spectacle of colonised trans bodies.
‘You
can hardly tell, can you?’
‘What
does it mean if I fancy one?’
The man who tried to walk beside you,
strike
up conversation. Fear. The way
your
steps got quicker, how you slipped
deliberately
between the groups of smokers,
the
two men pissing in the alleyway you switched down.
How
you remembered you’d told him
which
bar you were going to.
Your
relief when you found it too crowded,
too
renovated, not the dive it was,
a
hotel bar without the benefit of bedrooms,
full
of gaping wallets
and
curated beards.
The
way the ultraviolet light
lit
up the cotton shielding your breasts
on
the dancefloor. The adjustments
you
made in the toilet.
‘I
hate it when the credits end, and there is only silence.’
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