An Antique Scar

Content Warning: Mentions of disordered eating, body monitoring, and violence against trans women.

We met at the start of lockdown in New Jersey.

I remember being sick. Sick and tired. Sick and starving. Sick and self-assured I could get away with murder, or at least a good masquerade. Quarantine was barely a word yet, but Spring Break was edging into something unnaturally long. Twenty was a terrible age to be home alone. Fresh off my first heartbreak with none of the caloric intake to keep me sane, I was hysterical. The early morning quiet of my pink bedroom walls were one thing, but the dark nights of my sad soul were quite another. I needed an escape just as badly as I needed a good breakfast plate.

Usually, I would’ve found release with the Creeps and Creatures of the internet. But as a young trans femme, the online dating scene felt exhausting and ironically — quite binary in its abuse. It left me with two options: either make a dating profile on a regular dating app, exclude my gender identity, and hope that whatever Cis-man I meet just so happens to be down for a diva with a d-ck. Or, I could put myself on a deviant dating app where publicizing my transness was practically a prerequisite for sign up, and every pervert in half a mile could have access to me. 

And at that point, I was sick of perverts. I couldn’t stomach how comfortable they were talking to me like I was a piece of meat. No, at least meat gets put at the front of the menu. The perverts would treat me like I was fish. Decent, but not exactly a first-choice kind of entrée. Meanwhile, they weren’t even worth the diner date they couldn’t be bothered to offer me. And the sad truth is — I didn’t want sex, I didn’t want money, and I sure as shit didn’t want dinner.

I just wanted to know what it was like to be treated like an innocent delight instead of a guilty pleasure. Just once. Just for one night, and then I’d be desperately good the rest of my life. So, option one it was...

“I hope you know I don’t expect anything of you though. There’s no pressure here.” Arkadius, or Arky (as he’d put on his profile) — assured me over the phone. He was on his way. We’d been FaceTiming and texting for a few days, but this was officially our first time meeting. I could tell there was something about picking me up this late that made him uneasy. Not the act, of course, but the optics. I was a nice girl getting into a stranger’s car, and he was a college boy picking up a pretty girl on the corner of the street.

He wanted to make sure I didn’t feel cheap.

Already, an improvement.

“No, I know.” I reassured him while checking myself out in the bathroom mirror. Again. My lipstick was crimson c-nt, and my perfume was quite literally Sweet Like Candy. “The fact that you’re even saying any of this is so thoughtful. It tells me everything.” I know I’m not supposed to admit this, but I had no problem betting on my face card.

A graphic tee and a plaid, pleated skirt was how I decided to dress my gamble. The skirt was red and black, and stopped right above my rail-thin thighs. Okay, they weren’t that thin yet, but they were certainly on their way. The black tee I wore said Girls Run the World in big, white bold letters and had a little red heart above the ‘i.’ I tucked it into the skirt accordingly because I thought grungy girl-power paired well with whatever preppy, schoolgirl schtick I was serving.

I’m here — read his text. So I lied to my parents about my whereabouts (and my who-abouts), and hurried out the back door before my mom could clock either my outfit or my story. Outside, the frost of fleeting February was still melting over the start of March. The chill casted a shadow over me the farther I went down the block. One second, I’m freezing my flat chest off in the dark and the next second, I’m sitting shotgun in a dimly lit car.

“I turned on the seat warmer for you.” Arky’s voice was like a big, awkward hug upon impact. It wasn’t deep so much as it was nervous and nice to listen to. “I hope that’s alright?”

“No, yeah, that’s fine.” I didn’t know much about cars, but I could tell his was nice and that he took care of it. “It’s perfect! I’m freezing. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

I noticed his grey, zip-up fleece sweater. It was North Face in brand, but it was the look on his face that made me avoid his gaze head on. I’d been able to oversee it’s blue just fine over FaceTime, but in person I was all girlish guts and high-stake hormones. While he was dimples, brown hair, and the post-shower smell of clean boy cologne.

“So you tell me where to go because I don’t really know this neighborhood,” he said. “I’ve been nearby to visit a friend, but I’ve never actually been through here.”

“Well, I don’t drive. Remember?” He hadn’t. "So your guess is good as mine. Sorry...” I laughed.

“No, it’s fine.” He smiled. “You’re fine.”

And so I was. Originally, we were supposed to go to the mall. But at the mention of it, Arky’s parents got capital P paranoid. P as in pandemic. P as in potentially life-threatening. P as in public spaces are best avoided during a potentially life-threatening pandemic. So our date was to be strictly car bound, or so I assumed...

“Hey, I was actually thinking we could go to my mom’s store. If that’s okay?’ He asked once we were on the highway. “She gave me the keys and I figured it was better than just driving around aimlessly. But it’s up to you. If you wanna just keep going, we can.”

I wasn’t an idiot. I knew second locations were synonymous with the killer’s address. But Arky wasn’t what I would’ve considered dangerous. I knew dangerous; I’d flirted with it on multiple occasions, and let it call me precocious and hot. It was older and meaner, and lacked all the softness in Arky’s eyes. “Your mom owns a store?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of like an antique shop.”

“Like, actually?”

“Yeah, I help her out with it all the time.”

Killer be damned. “That’s so cute. Okay, let’s go!”

What started as highways and open roads swiveled and swirled into a narrow drive with pine trees on either side. It wasn’t forest full per se, but it was still dense enough to give off the fantasy that we were getting lost in the woods. And between the trees, we bonded over little brothers and how it felt to be the first-born children of immigrants. Arky spoke of going out of state for grad-school, and I spoke of New York like my going there was fate.

I told him about my adolescent love for Lana Del Rey, and how I’d come to outgrow it because I was trying really hard to refrain from self-objectification these days. He nodded like he understood, but the seriousness on his face was enough for me. He talked about how he’d spent the year prior helping a local democrat’s campaign. How he’d done a lot of community service through it, cleaning up used heroin needles and old condoms off the city streets of Trenton.

We spoke about our shared hatred for the current president. His policies. His cult.

About the vulnerability of minorities in America.

“Especially trans women,” he added.

“Right.” I said this without the faintest flicker of façade. As if girls like me didn’t end up in ditches for omitting less every day. Like I said: I wasn’t an idiot. I just wanted him to keep looking at me that way. Once he parked the car, I could see myself through his gaze. Or at least the version of me that made saying everything I had to, in order to get here, okay. What difference did the details I’d kept out make? Who is really all that honest on a first date? He knew me well enough, didn’t he? At least enough to ask me out in the first place.

“You look nice by way.” He said with newfound familiarity. “Sorry. I meant to say it before, but I really like your outfit. The plaid skirt thing suits you.”

I couldn’t have baited a better compliment from him if I’d tried. “Thanks. They’re like my whole signature if I’m being honest. Major wardrobe staple, even in the cold. Clearly...”

“Yeah, it definitely looks good on you.” He nodded. “You’re bringing them back.”

“I didn’t realize they ever went out of style?”

“Well, not on you.” He looked up and down my body, or the lack thereof.

I kept my legs crossed coquettishly and just shrugged. “I try.”

He then got out of the car and opened the door for me. And then did it again when he pulled out the keys, hit the lights, and moved to the side so I could walk in first. Wind-chimes announced our arrival. His mother’s store was a trove of treasured trinkets and well-kept baubles. Calling it cozy would’ve been cliche, but the lighting was commercial ready, and the whole room was islanded into small aisles. It was all so cottage cute and well-crafted. The smell of cinnamon and pine coated the walls. A certain level of care had gone into where everything was shelved and how intricately it was all situated in relation to itself. No corner was left unfilled, but there was still enough room to walk over the floorboards and not feel like a safety hazard.

In the framed photos, white people who were now either very old or very dead — posed for the camera, preserving the idea of a carefree youth. Towering beside them was a big, bookcase filled with preloved publications from bygone eras. They were the kind of books that nobody checked out at libraries anymore. A lot of 9/11 stuff; I wondered how they ended up there. Likewise, the art pieces were all just as vintage as the old-fashioned lamps and the shelves of fine China. A few of the paintings were odd and avant-garde (all squiggles and half shapes), but a lot of them just had that Norman Rockwell, vintage Americana charm. There was a big, grey portrait of Ms. Monroe hung right beside a colorful sketch of Audrey H.

“Do you like that one?” Arky noticed how it caught my attention.

“Yeah, it’s really pretty.” I half-sighed. “I love Audrey Hepburn.”

“I don’t know too much about her, but my mom likes that Marilyn one too.”

“Oh, Marilyn’s everything.” I made sure not to look at him when I said this. Instead, I focused on them as though they were the patron saints of femininity and I, but a humble believer.

“Also, that short story you wrote was amazing,” he suddenly said.

“Thank you...”

“The plot twist was so well done.”

Humility could go straight to Hell. I’m not sure if it was the ambience, or the fact that my art was being recognized amidst a grotto of pretty things, but I looked at him immediately. “My Intro to Fiction class really liked it too. I had to read it in front of everyone last semester, and they kind of lost their shit at the ending. It was easily one of my proudest moments like, ever.”

“That’s awesome,” he said. “She killed him at the end, right? The guy in the car?”

“Yeah, she did. She was expecting him. He just didn’t know it.” It was then, and truly only then that I realized sending a flash fiction piece about a girl posing as prey just so she could catch a predator, to a boy I was about go on a date with within a few hours was — a real choice.

“Cool.” He grinned, all genuine and gentle. “You’re a really talented writer.”

Let me translate the flutter in my empty stomach: the date could’ve ended there, and it would’ve been worth all the risk. Not because he liked my writing, he wasn’t the first boy to do that, and God knows I much preferred praise when it came from a female perspective. But to be intellectually valued by him? To be seen and heard by a boy that I liked just for once? I’d never felt anything like it.

“Hey, do you wanna see something cool?” He asked. “It’s in the back but I promise we can keep the door wide open, and you can sit right by it too.”

“Yeah.” I laughed. “Sure.”

The back room was all plaster and plumbing pipes with a big, folding table on the right, covered in tools and cleaning supplies. It was very bunker-esque, but with wide white walls and static fluorescent lighting. Yet true to his word, Arky kept the door open and let me sit on a stool beside it. He then pulled off the sheet that covered the something cool and revealed a big, cherry Grandfather clock in the center of the room. It had a polished, gold pendulum that swung side to side. And much like our date, the hands on its face were edging closer to midnight. It was the kind of antique you only see in old movies.

Was I Audrey? Was I Marilyn?

Or was I just Cinderella severely out of her depth?

“Does it work?” I tilted my head as if staring at it in thought. “Or is it just decorative?”

“Oh no, it totally works. We actually used to—”

The wind-chimes hissed, and it caught both of us off guard. Someone entered the shop. “Stay here.” Was all Arky said and then he went out front. 

“Yo bro, this place is sick!” Danger laughed. I couldn’t see it’s face from where I stood by the door, but I knew Danger well enough to sense it even without sight. It didn’t sound too old which was always good, but it had no business being here. “You guys have really nice shit!”

“Thanks man,” Arky feigned amusement, “but we’re actually closed right now.”

“Oh, are you?” He laughed. “My bad. I was on a walk, and I saw the lights, and thought: yo, why not, right?”

“Yeah. You can come back any time man, but I was about to close shop.” Arky insisted.

“Word?” Much like my date, Danger was white and male. “When are you guys usually open?” Danger lingered and moved about as though he only half heard everything. “Oh shit, you guys got a lot of nice things in the back too. I’d love to buy one of these paintings...” I could feel Danger floating about the aisles, tracing my footsteps.

“Are you like, alone here?” Danger asked.

“Yeah. And I need to close up. Now.”

I was well tucked and out of view, but Danger was drifting closer to the backroom with each lazy, round about step. His nearing voice made me look through the crack, and that’s when I caught Arkadius stepping back. He stared at me, and I stared at him staring at me. I realized he was putting himself in between me and the threat. Me and the danger...

“But like I said...” Arky told him. “You can come back tomorrow.”

Danger thanked him and then slithered back to wherever he came from. I exhaled, and Arky returned to the white room all flushed face. As if he’d done something wrong here? “I’m so sorry about that. I should’ve locked the door behind us.”

“No, it’s fine.” I assured him. “You’re fine.”

“Yeah, I know. I just didn’t want him to see you. Not you-you, but you know...” He shook his head. “I didn’t want you to feel unsafe.”

“I know. I noticed. I appreciate it, I...” I needed to get home. “Is it okay if we leave? Sorry! I’m having such a nice time with you, but it’s getting kind of late, you know?”

“No, of course. We can go whenever you want.”

I nodded. “Is there a bathroom I can use first?”

“Yeah, right behind you.”

Squatting over the toilet, I peed out all my apprehension and looked at the time on my phone. It was thirty after one. Danger had come and gone. And here I was, alone with a boy I’d chosen with such care. What I felt then wasn’t guilt, but something worse — delusion. Hope. I fixed my hair, reapplied my lipstick, and told the girl in the mirror that her one night was over.

It was time to be good for the rest of her life.

Back to her bedroom.

Back to the deviants.

Back to the dark. 

Before I could step back into the shop, however, Arky stopped me with that same look. “Hey, you can say no. And I hope you don’t mind me asking, but — can I kiss you?” If I could do it again, I would’ve said yes. If only for the experience of knowing how he tasted. But in that moment, I was worried he’d try to touch my chest and feel that there was nothing there anymore.

I laughed. “Is it okay if we just save it for next time?”

Afterwards, he drove me home and said he really enjoyed tonight.

A week later, we were still FaceTiming, and he kept saying he could really envision a future with me in his life. That we needed to go on a second date, that he needed to see me again...

The next night, I told him I was trans.

He never spoke to me again.

So much for feeling like a delight.