Faces About Town

She was pregnant. I couldn't hazard a guess as to how far along, but the bump was there, quite noticeable, and as I watched her sashay in front of me, I admired her ability to pull off three inch gold heels while toting around another human being inside her.  Her minidress was skin tight, black pleather, with a neckline lower than the slinkiest camisole I own.  I was at once horrified, impressed, appalled, and slightly awed. Horrified by the thought of the pain of the heels on a pregnant body.  Impressed by just how good she made it all look.  Appalled by the trashiness of the look and by my attraction to the whole ensemble.  Slightly awed by her total confidence and style.  Someday I want to be as self-assured as she is.

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She is the only one I can count on to get things done.  When everyone else ignores my emails and phone calls, she systematically finishes the tasks on my list, sends me an email letting me know everything is complete, and does so with a smile and a funny one liner. 

She tells me, offhandedly, that she is transitioning to becoming a male.  When she's not at the office, she goes by William.  Suddenly a whole lot of recent changes in her appearance become more clear to me.  "But what about here at work?" I ask.  I haven't decided yet, she tells me.  Flummoxed, I smile and move on to my job-related requests.  Later, I am full of questions.  Does she want me to call her William?  Do I call her he?  What does she want me to do?  Can I ask her these questions now?  I totally want to do the right thing, but I just don't know what that is.

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Checkout lane 4, fancy grocery store in the suburbs, one of those stores with the sushi counter and bottles of disgustingly real ginger ale.  In front of me, a little girl is holding onto the shopping cart, a cart shaped like a race car, as if it will sprout wings and fly away if she doesn't hold onto it.  I smile at her, slightly jealous that those carts didn't exist when I was her age.  She's beautiful, brown hair all in tangles, big brown eyes, and elfin ears.

She says something to me in a quiet voice, but I can't quite hear her. 

I squat down in front of her.  "What, sweetie?"

"What's your name?"

"I'm NGS. What's your name?"

"Grace."  She has two fingers in her mouth and she's talking around them in a whisper. 

Still squatting, I lean in closer to her.  "Are you helping your mom shop?"  I nod and glance in the direction of the frazzled woman dealing with a cartful of groceries that would feed our household for a month.

The mom smiles at me.

"Yes."

"I bet you help a lot," I say, knowing in my heart she probably drives her mom crazy, but hoping that today was a good day for them.

"I always help," she whispers to me. 

"I bet you do."

Just then the cashier moves her race car cart and Grace follows it.  "Bye Grace."

She smiles at me, a shy, quick grin, and then her mom grabs her hand, and they are gone.