I said to myself, Maybe one day I’ll find a place to put all of this commentary. It would be economical. I can’t refrain from making stories out of the raw materials that come my way, three people sitting contentedly in padded office chairs, leaning into each other under photographs of three dudes with surfboards, hyacinth leis covering their scars.

THE END

I sat on a bench outside the yoga studio, happy to be in a neighborhood with seating that didn’t send up spikes after fifteen minutes. The Witch texted that the Strawberry Moon was rising. We were leaving the hex’s astrological quartern.

The seeds are thrown, the seal is ’orn, the door is shut, the house, a hut, she wrote. Of course. Ending my hookup arrangement, buying a pair of shorts, and taking a yoga class certainly could not explain my sense of well-being.

That night, I went through my gratitude list and uncharacteristically included many people: Blithe, Aiden, the Witch, and our many Operatrixes.

“Blithe still passes much of the day inside the Womb, a sleeping bag on my floor. He orders American Chinese food and then explains to me how it does not resemble anything cooked in Chinese provinces. Some days he speaks to his adoptive parents, and some days he won’t answer and then they text me asking about him. Often, I resent him because I went through that stage all on my own, I mean except for you, but obviously, you couldn’t be there with me every moment, except you always were because you helped me reshape my thoughts,” I said to Sophie during our appointed hour.

“How beautiful, to give that experience to another,” she responded.

A new vase of water lilies sat near the edge of the table and I had no fantasies about smashing it.

“Ya, you right.”

“Maybe there’s a way you can try to tell him about some of the advantages of being trans, so that it’s not just a dark hole to fall into.”

“That reminds me of what the Witch said when she moved in.”

Sophie smiled. “What did the Witch say?”

“She came in to see the apartment, and she stood out on the back steps and said to me:

You trans, you make the mirror see its error.

You take the shame, cast it out.

You husk nuts waiting for your return and there it comes,

Curling over the fields as serpent’s love.

I bow to your truth.

“And she bowed, asked me about the dimensions of her bedroom and the dryness of the kitchen, and left. I didn’t know if she was making fun of me or not, and I would never have asked her to move in if the perfect ceramicist hadn’t backed out at the last minute.”

Sophie was trying really hard not to laugh.

“Oh yes, the mythical ceramicist. Okay, so that’s how the Witch would phrase it. What about you?”