One night during this period, a chilly May Wednesday, a party-hard co-worker pal from Long Island invited Vera to a rager out in the ass end of Brooklyn, and Vera went because fuck it, it’d been a long time, and she laughed when she walked into the party in the middle of the night, because it was in a house! When was the last time she’d even been in a fucking house! She had changed into a rainbow-coloured dress after her shift that was both form-fitting and flowy, and she felt silly and beautiful. She did shots with her pal, said hello to some dude in a top hat and a beard, and some tall boy with lime-green hair who was also her height (she so appreciated people her height …). She smoked on the porch, told loud, intentionally unfunny jokes, shot-gunned a beer in the backyard because fuck it, and everything was hilarious, and everything was warm, and the boys here were like … paying attention to her? And didn’t seem to think she was disgusting or a joke? It was nice, it was. Lately, she’d begun to get scared of that, both because she’d noticed boys in a more sexual way lately, and because of those momentary moments of passing, where she at once luxuriated in the rare positive attention while still being always on guard. Vera’d said to her pal on the way over, “They know you’re bringing a tranny to the party, right?” The pal made circles with her hands and said, “Girl, you’re not the only one in New York City, okay? You’re not in the boonies anymore; you’re fine.” Vera took real comfort in that. That was a nice thought. Humbling, even. Like. What did that one fridge magnet say? Don’t be humble—you’re not that great. Something like that. Vera was drunk. Like drunk-drunk. Vera hadn’t been this drunk in a long time, but as this night wore on, she realized, oh shit, I’m drunk. She fell on her ass. She laughed. She bowed to a crowd that was dancing, everyone hooting. Outside, she shotgunned another beer and pumped her fist, and a guy said, “Not bad for a woman,” and without missing a beat, Vera belched a mushroom cloud into the guy’s face. She went back inside to dance and fell on her ass again and said to the hooting crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, your host!” which didn’t make any sense, but anyway. Then there was a large blank patch in her memory, which kicked in sometime much later, with Vera on her knees in an upstairs bedroom in front of a penis going in and out of her mouth. It belonged to the boy with lime-green hair. The thought she remembered was: I don’t like this. I hope we can stop soon. Maybe we can do something else. Her body was moving mechanically, seemingly outside of her control. The boy wasn’t forcing her per se; she was actively sucking while he was thrusting.