“They are helping me retrieve the parts of self that exist pre-colonially.”

“How do they do that?”

“Honestly, I don’t feel like explaining it to you right now.”

“Okay.”

The prickling shame of whiteness descended. I missed Aiden. I wanted to process white transness with him so that Blithe could be left in peace. I wanted other things from him as well.

“Have you heard from Aiden?”

“Yah.” Blithe sounded sheepish when he said that.

“Are you, like, hanging out with him?”

“I did see him the other day. Just for juice.”

“Hmph.”

I didn’t care that much. I longed for my library crush in a way that I could never have longed for R and our transactional encounters.

Blithe and I went to a taco stand and ate tacos with kimchi, tempura avocado, white peaches, smoked trout, and seaweed compote. We were both still hungry and got veggie burritos.

As we wiped our hands, I was compelled to say, “Blithe, I don’t want to make you teach me anything about your identity or mine. Just let me know if I can support you while you’re going through this.”

“Okay, Pen,” he said, resigned.

The next Thursday morning, I passed through the mirrored doors of Elemental, walked by the barista who used to be an actor, went up in an elevator with a group of people who didn’t seem to question their life choices with any rigor, and found a disinterested, possibly gender-nonconforming secretary who directed me to a waiting area. I sat down on a severe bench. A painting was hung above my head, and a mirror reflected back its depiction of the MGM lion, hungover, lounging by a pool with an empty champagne bottle. A rather melancholic choice.

The secretary summoned me to a board room with plush couches and lounging areas instead of a long, presumptuous table. A team of writers wore bright shirts with cacti and beer cans and satellites on them. They were mostly white cis dudes.

I was flustered by the array of seating options and sat down on the stool of a crushed blue chaise longue.

“Hey, man, I’m Honcho. So tell us why you want to be a Lines-crafter here,” asked a man with a prodigious beard and a captain’s hat.

“Well,” I said, noticing my higher range of voice, how I crossed my leg at the knee while the dudes splayed as if they were taking up space on a New York subway, “I really admire the inventiveness and the creative atmosphere here.” Fuck, I was too nervous to say what I meant. “My friend Blithe was a Lines-crafter—until he got sick—and he was always telling me about the freedom he had to create whatever he wanted.” Everything I said felt twisted and untrue.

“What do you think about art-for-art’s-sake?” asked a young Indian woman wearing a cape.