(some names and identifying features changed)
layla’s hands cradle my face. through her dark curly hair i catch a glimpse of a magazine cutout on a wall – a national geographic photo of a hunter approaching a wounded deer. wearing camoflage pants, the uniform of a killer, the hunter extends a hand towards the doe. it inches closer–seemingly against its own interest–while the photographer pins the two adversaries in place. i’m puzzled at the photograph until layla leans closer, her dark curly hair obscuring my view.
“i don’t know what you mean, girl. friendship and desire? there’s no difference. you can technically desire your friends. like, you desire to be friends with them.” she speaks emphatically, her hair bobbing with each sentence.
“don’t be silly. you know what i asked. that’s just wordplay,” i snap back. i’m thinking relationship small-talk will ease the tension i feel, but–
“stop moving,” and my face freezes again. layla reaches for the eyeshadow palette, and she begins colored powder over my eyelids again. for the last hour or so i’m shocked i ended up in layla’s apartment, the bedroom of a biology student that i barely knew before that day. i always knew of layla, the only open trans student in our small, close-knit college… but we never had anything in common. not until i asked myself the same questions.
nervously i remember sending the first instagram DM: “hey, i had some questions about gender, i hope it’s not too invasive but i was wondering if i could ask you about transitioning?”
a few heart reacts later, i was in her apartment, feeling her makeup brushes against my skin. she shows me the ingredients to her beauty on a cluttered desk.
makeup and clothes and wigs and a jewelry box … necklaces and earrings and nose rings and studs and crowns and tiaras … highlighter and lip gloss and face paint and beauty blenders and eye shadow and makeup palettes, green blue red hazel purple white … half-smoked joint and curling iron …
“okay, you can look now,” layla says. she gestures to the mirror nailed to the wall, next to the national geographic photo. i turn my head. and something clicks –
something in my head rings like a bell–
& in her darkened bedroom i am beautiful. wearing layla’s dress i see the silhouette of a girl, and i suddenly realize i wanted her to make me more beautiful, i wanted her brushes again, i wanted it all, and i’m about to express this, “layla, i–” her lips crash into mine. i’m cut off. she’s on me. i don’t understand. something taut and greedy is painted on her face. the difference between friendship and desire was there between her legs.
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