My Cardboard Balcony

To The Beautiful Souls by Belinda Roddie To the women who shave their chins and hide their estrogen in tiny bottles and needles in their purses - To the men who look at themselves in the mirror and feel discomfort toward the flesh that rises from their chests, and each night just wishing that their voices would drop a little further, a little faster - To those who get tired of being called "sir" or "madam" when neither of them works, and who hate having to see "Mister" or "Missus" on the mail sent to their door - To those who walk outside in a skirt and lipstick one day, and in a tailcoat and tie the next, who simply want others to respect them in both identities, or all three of them, or all four of them  - To those who have seen the binary not as a balancing beam, but instead as a tightrope they cannot straddle, or a railroad track where if they stand in the middle, a train will bowl them over - To those who have

"What's your name again?" She winced, noticeably, but I don't think because she didn't like me asking. "It's Rachel." I smiled. "Right. I figured. Sorry." The waiter passed us two glasses of wine - one white, one red. Rachel took the red. "I thought it was Rachel," I said, "but I was second guessing myself. I remember seeing you for the first time..." "My hair was a lot shorter," she sighed. "I know." "And I hadn't shaved." I grinned. "I remember that, too."