Right before the world went to shit, a thing happened with this girl I know. I’ve wanted to tell someone about it for a while, and I think you’re the only one who’d understand why it was important to me. You’re the only one. I have to put this somewhere, and then hope you hear it, wherever you are.

So.

Many years ago, when I was twenty-one, I met this woman named Cleo. Her style was a careful, curated mix, a curation I now can only describe as a trans dyke who takes pains to pass, but she’s still a dyke. She wore a long black hoodie with red trim and patches sewn on with dental floss. Bright red lipstick and a nose ring big enough to hurt somebody. She had black hair and green eyes.

This was during a time when I didn’t know anyone like myself. We were on a bus going downtown. She had a water bottle in one hand and was whispering into her phone in the other. I was a row behind, where I could watch her. She got off in Old Town, and I got off, too, and followed after her and said, “Hey!”

Her shoulders tensed before she turned. She softened when she saw me.

“Sorry,” I said. “Hi.”

“Hi? Do I know you?”

“Maybe. Sorry, this is weird. Are we sisters?” The internet taught me that move.

She finally smiled then. “I think we are.” She shook my hand, and it sent a cool bolt through my arm. “My name’s Cleo.”

“I’m Nicole.”

We stared at each other awkwardly. It’s age-old. You meet someone whose mould of pariah weirdo looks something like yours, and you try to reach out, but you’re on guard, because what if you hate each other, or what if she sucks—plus, what if somebody clocks the two of you together when on your own you would’ve gone undetected? That mode of thought was around more back then, partly because of gatekeeping bullshit and partly because of good reason.

Cleo said, “Do you want a drink?”

I sipped from her water bottle (vodka) and handed it back and she tipped it up. And her body visibly relaxed. Like I could see the electricity running through her veins.

Next thing I remember, we were walking over the Burnside Bridge. She asked, “How old are you?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you’re cute, that’s why.”

It was there, right there, that I knew I loved the sound of trans women’s voices. I remember the exact cadence of how she said it. The memory of this sentence would have me clocking would-be stealthers for years, no bullshit. The slight elongation at the end, the pitch-dip in the middle of the sentence. Not that we all talk the way she did. But some of us do.

“Are you saying you want me older or younger?”

She laughed. “Okay, that’s creepy. Let’s talk about something else.”