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It was almost dusk and I did not get any looks out of the ordinary that I could tell from passing motorists and pedestrians. After about 20 minutes, I made it to the store. I thought I was a mess from the storm but looked in the window of the store for my reflection and was pleased that my wig actually looked better after the blow-drying it received. I walked into the store, and the manager I talked to a few days before was at the front counter. She asked if she could help me. I told her that I had applied there a few days ago and wanted to show her what I looked like dressed so that she could get a better picture. She asked my name and I told her. She got a smile on her face and said, "Wow, you look different today. Are you going out tonight?" I told her that I had only dressed to come see her and then I was going back home. I also told her that I walked from downtown to see her. She seemed much more interested now and told me that she would keep me in mind and thanked me for. As if I gave a flying fuck.I just want to go back to bed, close my eyes and pretend that the rest ofthe world doesn't exist. Instead I'm expected to function normally, asthough all I had to contend with was a slight head cold.I reach for my jacket. The cigarettes and matches are still inside. It'snot much of a silver lining, and too much has happened in too short aspace of time for me to hope that it might be a turning point.The pressure in my bladder reminds me that some tasks have to be seen toregardless of circumstances. Trying - without very much success - to yankmy eyes away from the womanly curves of my waist and thighs, not tomention the unmistakeable lack of anything dangling from my crotch, I goabout my ablutions.*The mess hall is deserted, apart from the long, Formica-topped table whereSuki Tatsukichi has laid out a breakfast for two of cereal, toast,marmalade and coffee. I eat sparingly, my appetite dulled both by thewarning I've been given and the intelligent oriental eyes.
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