That all the women Vera’d dated over these years were trans like her—it wasn’t exactly intentional. Yet, see, often in her daily life, certain women would touch Vera without asking and a wormy ripple would begin in her body. It didn’t happen with her own kind; it didn’t happen with men. In her job, women touched her a lot, and she’d learned to ride over those moments like speed bumps. It was what it was. Did it matter whether she blamed Iris for this? Vera thought no, what utility was there in that? But she did hope that if, one day, she did want to date a woman not like herself, Vera could overcome what lived in her body and open herself to let that happen. One day, maybe.

Funny thing was, she and Iris did still text now and then. Iris would say things like, A trans woman at work sued our insurance to get electrolysis and won! She and Vera would like each other’s posts on Instagram. Once, Vera and the sweetie took an Amtrak to Philly and Vera sent Iris a picture of a man snoring in the lounge: These things: Still ridiculous. News at 11. What Vera hoped? She hoped Iris was happy. It seemed she now had a husband, who was by all indications sweet and kind. They’d been married some years now. They lived deep in Queens. Vera also hoped that Iris was good to him, and if so, that he knew nothing about Iris’s past. Vera could never tell another breathing creature how replete her bones were, how full of undirected forgiveness.

ENOUGH TROUBLE

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow,
for tomorrow will worry about itself.
Each day has enough trouble of its own.
—MATTHEW 6:34 (New International Version)

1

Thank God it stopped raining. That’s Gemma’s first thought as the car enters town. It’s a humid summer night. Gemma grew up here in this town of 8,000 people. She has not returned in years.

She’s come to see a girl named Ava, a shy, tall beauty from St. Vital, who Gemma met when Ava was visiting the city in spring. Gemma has a good feeling about her.

Gemma has twenty-six dollars to her name. She is a professional drinker and a sloppy hooker, and she no longer has her room in the city, a big third floor on Langside. Her friends had offered her many favours, and as a result, Gemma now has very few friends. Gemma’s future is a black box to be pondered only days at a time, but right now, she has a good feeling about Ava—a feeling a girl either does something about or lets needle her until she dies. And Gemma needs somewhere to stay. And from all Gemma’s seen, Ava is generous, and Ava is kind.

The rideshare drops her off at First and Stephen. Gemma steps onto the shoulder, crunching on gravel, and then she leaves the road. A train’s horn sounds in the east; there’s a lull of cicadas. She ambles through still-wet prairie shortgrass with thin waves of skeeters rippling around her arms. The train’s horn sounds again, farther away.