This version of himself was the only one whose future felt unswallowed by rolling blankness, the only version that felt livable, and it was something new; this vision was of someone else. And at some point this vision began to beat out not just the reasoning of the architect that some people were never happy but also the reasoning of the blogs and his friends that his old life might coexist with the new.

In the end, he’d thought, awakening on a couch that spring at the Arnold house after a party, dreading work, groggily shifting his cold body under a ream of old blankets, you don’t just want to become a girl; you want to become a different person. (Though then he spiralled again: But doesn’t everyone want to become a different person? Am I really a girl— La lah la lah la lah.)

David had brooded on this a while now. Then, the other day, the bandana’d trans woman said, “Hey hon? You’re probably a girl. I think you know that. That’s not your problem anymore. However you get there? It’s however you get there.”

“What’s Karaoke from Hell?” asked Iris, nodding to a flyer as she brought new drinks to the table.

“It’s karaoke but with a band. Like an actual band. They have a drummer, guitar player, keyboards, everything.”

“Oh my God, I have never desired anything less.”

“You think that, but I come here for trivia and you get five extra points if you drink a Jersey Turnpike.”

“Don’t tell me what that is.”

“A Jersey Turnpike is drinking the bar mat.”

“I hate you so much.”

“Hey, be nice to your U-Haul driver!”

They ate, left, bought a pint of rum, and walked to Lola’s under the still sodium light. As they waited in line, they heard a guy say to a woman, “See, in the eighties, people liked this music. Everyone loves this stuff now, but it’s at a distance. We all thought it was actually good.” Inside, in the bathroom, David changed into a fake velvet zip-up top. They ordered Cokes, and then poured in rum under the table, watched music videos projected on a floor-to-ceiling screen.

“I can’t believe I’m about to dance to this,” said Iris. She took a big drink, her eyes just above the rim of her cup.

“Um, excuse me, it’s ‘Maniac’!”

“You’re lucky I have to be nice to you!” she hollered and rose from her seat, and they danced and Iris let loose a little as David shrieked and spun her, and between the two of them, they made a pretty big space in the crowd.

Soon, they were back at the table, panting. David’s top had unzipped from the bottom and his scrabbling hands behind his back just made it worse. “Can you fix this for me?”

Iris clucked to herself, carefully refastened him. “You’ve got a lot to learn about being a woman, kid.”