The door clicked shut. Robert flinched and held his breath, listening for movement in the other room. He didn’t want to wake Jon up. Not hearing anything, he stepped away from the door. Stretching the skin of his cheek flat and jutting out his lower jaw to examine his pores, he leaned into the mirror. Robert peeled off his shirt and turned to the side. He frowned at the silhouette of his breasts in the mirror. Twenty years ago those breasts had been for sale in every gift shop in Key West—a mermaid on a postcard, two for fifty cents. Robert had paid $8,000.
He brushed his hair, counting backwards from one hundred. The bottom six inches were haggard and frizzy. Pulling a section in front of his face, he counted four split ends. Time for a haircut. Numbers were so important to his daily routine; just right and he could emerge from the bathroom looking like a woman. He watched in the mirror as he shaved his underarm. Electrolysis had taken care of the hair on his chest and back, but there was something about shaving armpits and legs that made him feel connected to all the other women who performed this daily ritual.
The bedsprings creaked from the other room.
“Dana? Are you done yet?” Jon called out.
“What do you want?” Robert let a tinge of annoyance sneak under the door.
“I need my slippers…”
“Get them yourself!”
“My stomach hurts. I had surgery. I almost died!”
“Oh hush, will you. I’ll be out in a second.”
Robert turned back to the mirror. He couldn’t go into the bedroom without clothes and make-up. Large but deft fingers picked up a bra from the back of the chair, slid the straps over his shoulders and hooked the clasp. He kicked off his boxer briefs. Robert pulled a large beige lycra gaff out of the dresser and stepped into it, drawing it over his thighs, feeling it pull his penis close to his body. He tugged up on the waistband, pulling it flat over his hips to his belly button. It smoothed and defined the lower half of his body. Robert turned to the side again, placing his hand on his stomach. He straightened his spine, seeking a reflection that would confirm his femininity.
“Dana!”
"Hold on!” Robert shouted, slamming the bottom drawer. He put on blue shorts and a tight tan and white striped tank top. Pulling compacts and tubes from his make-up bag, Robert took inventory of the day’s tasks. He was going to the car dealership at 3:00, which meant an extra layer of foundation to hide the afternoon stubble that would return along his jaw line. Robert spent the next few minutes retouching his face, angle by angle. Years of practice made the task nearly automatic. He trimmed a few stray nose hairs, tossed his long, blonde ponytail over his shoulder then attempted a smile.
Assessing her reflection, a disappointed sigh escaped Dana’s lips. It was hard to be a 50-year old woman; age continued to take its toll. She was rarely satisfied by the results of her morning routine anymore. She crossed the bathroom, looked over her shoulder one last time and stepped into the bedroom.
“What did you want, Jon?” Dana asked, trying to establish a better tone now that she was ready. Jon was still sitting under the canopy of the bed surrounded by messy piles of paperwork. He took off his glasses and looked up at her. Even after twenty-two years, Dana had never let him see what happened on the other side of the bathroom door and she always eagerly anticipated his first reaction.
“Never mind,” he said smiling, his eyes twinkling. “Come sit down.” He moved a stack of papers then patted the empty spot on the bed. Dana knelt on the bed, tucking her white shoes beneath her.
“What is it?” Dana asked.
“I think I’ll take today off of work. We can go down to
Dana leaned back, slightly annoyed, imagining the things she would have to do before she could be ready to go to the beach. Waterproof make-up, different underwear, waxing, a bathing suit, not to mention what she would have to bring along. She clutched at the edge of the bed as she slowly resigned herself to the idea.
“What do you say?” Jon asked after a pause.
“Why not,” Dana sighed, standing up slowly and turning away.
“Well, it’s settled then,” said Jon, his voice already muffled by the closed bathroom door.
In the mirror, her under-eye skin was puffy. Dana burst into the bedroom.
“You know what, Jim? We’re not going to the beach. I’m tired of you making decisions without really caring how I feel. You act like you’re the only one who works around here but you’re not. Do you know how much time I spend in that bathroom every day just so I can look good enough to go out in public? I’m done pretending it’s okay. I’m tired of it. We’re not going to the beach today. We’re staying here. And if my make-up runs, you’ll just have to deal with it.”
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