Metro-Nymph

(Warning, contains scenes of prejudice within the themes of ASD and intersexuality)

Zara observed the crowd with the clinical fascination of a zoologist. The splatter of rain took the people by surprise, triggering a bizarre ritual of newspaper shields. A moment later, when lightning forked across the darkening sky, the odd behavior became clear. Perhaps the storms in this city are stronger than those back home? The crowd scrambled in a herd-like exodus for cover.

Lacking any protection from the deluge, Zara allowed themself to be swept along into the steamy warmth of a crowded cafe. The door swung shut, sealing out the storm while dampening the city’s usual cacophony to a muffled din.

Sensory overload hit Zara from every angle—the screech of utensils, the chatter of a dozen conversations, and the scent of fried food, each a mini-explosion in their head.

The cafe, with its mismatched furniture, exuded a SoHo aesthetic, marked by a chalkboard menu and stained wood countertops. Another crack of thunder boomed outside, loud enough to silence the cafe. In the absence of the usual clamor, the sizzling of the kitchen grill and clinking of washing dishes were starkly audible.

Zara glanced around, self-conscious, thinking all the eyes were on them. The other patrons were staring out the large windows, distracted by the unexpected storm.

Keeping their head low, Zara carved a path through the forest of chairs.

Zara slid into an empty booth near the restrooms, hastily blotting rainwater from their shirt with paper towels. Finding the dispenser empty, Zara sidled up to the counter, avoiding the guarded glare of the businessman on the corner stool.

The espresso machine’s high-pitched hiss pierced through the clatter of plates and cacophony of conversations. Zara winced. A sign pulsed, advertising “Megastar Soda”. Annoyingly, the timing for the sign’s pulse changed every fifth flash. Zara had to look away. 

They waited while the cashier finished his phone call. The incessant chattering frayed Zara’s nerves. Zara tugged at the too-tight cuffs on their shirt. Their skin prickled where the label rubbed her neck. 

Finally retrieving a fresh stack of towels, Zara turned to find a couple sitting in their booth.

All the other seats were taken.

Zara bounced nervously on their toes, glancing around the busy cafe, muscles tense, before sidestepping into a server carrying a precariously full tray. Zara spun to let the server pass, but collided with a patron, squeezing ketchup onto their plate. The viscous red liquid splattered the side of Zara’s shirt.

Face burning, Zara stepped back.

The sizzling grill, chatter, and scent of wet people closed in on Zara from all sides. Seeking an escape, they spotted the restroom—a confined space, but at least a muted one. Several patrons watched them pick the toilet with the least scent of waste. Zara hated being perceived.

In the restroom, harsh fluorescent lights highlighted Zara’s reflection in the streaked mirror. Their face relaxed—mask neutral. Zara replayed the social interaction with the cashier, analyzing where communication had failed. The randomness of communication perplexed them.

Water bloomed the ketchup stain into crimson ladders. The sensation of wet fabric clinging to skin made Zara wiggle. They wished only to strip bare and disappear.

They closed their eyes against the washed-out blue lighting. The world tilted. Zara gripped the edge of the sink, struggling to steady themself amidst the sensory onslaught. This body, this place—all felt fundamentally foreign. With building panic, Zara wondered how long they could keep up the illusion of fitting in. Zara recited prime numbers. The ordered sequence soothed their racing mind.

The restroom door swung open and a broad-shouldered woman with fiery auburn hair entered. Her face nearly matched her hair as she confronted Zara. “You’re in the wrong bathroom. This is for ladies only.”

Zara’s gaze faltered, momentarily retreating inward as the sudden confrontation unleashed a surge of nervous energy. They instinctively closed their eyes, a temporary retreat, as they processed the unexpected social encounter.

A toilet flushed and an elderly woman with permed blue hair shuffled over to wash her hands, shooting Zara a nasty glare.

“It does not matter which restroom I use,” Zara replied calmly, gesturing to their stained shirt, then the sink. “This room simply smelled less unpleasant.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Zara continued, “there is no better alternative, among humans, conditions like mosaicism, androgen deficiency, among other conditions, result in non-binary sex characteristics—a third gender.” Zara wished they could find simpler words to describe intersex conditions. The argument only seemed to further agitate the woman. Zara continued, unable to think of another way to exit the situation. “Roughly 1.7% of the population.” Zara looked at the lady’s hair. “Nearly the same proportion as redheads, but less than—“

“Well, you’ve clearly got an Adam’s apple and men’s clothes, so you don’t belong here.” She stepped closer. “What’s your name, pervert?”

Zara blinked rapidly, tilting their head in confusion. “My name is Zara Salmacis.” They averted their eyes.

“Is that a stage name or something?” the lady scoffed. “What does your birth certificate actually say? Mine clearly states I’m female, just as God intended when He created Adam and Eve.”

The conversation was branching, making it difficult for Zara to keep up. Seeing the woman’s anger, Zara felt compassion and fear. They wished only to find common ground. “Historically that myth stems from the dual Semitic deities El, a male-gendered figure and the female-gendered Asherah whose worship led to—“

“There are only two sexes—male and female. Anything else goes against nature.” The lady stepped closer.

Zara counted the fillings along the lady’s lower jaw, three on the right, one on the left, likely a bridge on the front. She likely slept on her right side and didn’t have adequate brushing habits.

The blue-haired lady kept her eyes on Zara as she finished washing her hands. The hand dryer roared to life, making Zara flinch and cover their ears.

“Please, I came to this city to find openness, safety.” Zara took a step forward.

The redhead blocked Zara’s path with an outstretched arm. “I’m getting the manager—we’ll see how ‘open-minded’ he is about letting freaks like you invade women’s spaces.” She turned to the older woman. “Go find the manager. Tell him there’s a pervert in the ladies’ room.”

“You don’t understand,” Zara said. “Surely you don’t want me to disrobe? That can’t be normal.” Zara tugged at their collar and put out a hand to create distance from the woman. Her breath was a mix of coffee and rot. It made Zara feel ill.

The elderly woman’s shouts about a “pervert in the bathroom” were muffled by the closing door.

The lady shielded herself with her phone. Her tone grew bolder as she regained some unearned courage from the device. “Say hello to the camera, perv. By tomorrow, you’re going to be internet famous for your crime.”

Zara moved toward the door again, but the redhead stepped in the way. Unfamiliar with conflict, Zara clenched their fists and stepped back towards the corner.

“I’ve got you now,” the lady said. Her voice shook. She shuffled her feet, but didn’t close the distance between them.

Zara reached for her zipper.

“I’m Valerie Dixon. I’m recording this for the police. This pervert, whose stage name is Zara Salmacis, was caught in the women’s toilet at MetroMingle cafe. Don’t be confused, he is a man in the woman’s toilet.”

Zara backed fully into the corner, glad the older lady wasn’t still there. “I’m neither male nor female.” The hand dryer roared to life again, triggered by Zara’s shaking, making them cry out. 

“He’s a pervert and a kiddie fiddler.”

The room plunged into darkness, an eerie stillness settled, broken only by the murmurs seeping in from the cafe. Zara’s fingers fumbled for the zipper, a desperate urgency seized them in the blackened void.

***

The lights in the cafe dimmed suddenly. A brown-out. Greg turned away from the faltering cash register and toward the toilet. He wasn’t the only one.

For a moment, everyone’s breath was pulled towards the back corner. It was gentle, like a breeze that raised the body hair—ghostly and void, empty and silent.

The thunderclap shook the entire cafe, blowing open the ladies’ toilet door.

Pans clashed in the kitchen. Someone screamed.

A purple glow seeped from the restroom, then dimmed black.

Nearby patrons leapt up or huddled together, eyes wide.

Dust drifted down from the rattling ceiling tiles.

Greg hesitated only a moment before rushing to check the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t have to comp any meals.

He knocked sharply before pushing open the door. “Hello? Is anyone hurt in there?”

He stared in confusion. He could see the stalls were empty. Perhaps the blue-haired lady had a condition causing her to hallucinate the altercation? She grabbed her jacket and left after screaming about a pervert. Surely, the old lady was just spouting nonsense. Social media was making people see things.

Stepping into the bathroom, Greg’s eyes went wide. Scorch marks blackened the wall and floor. A pile of clothes was in the corner by the hand drier.

Greg’s mind reeled. Had the cafe just hosted an impromptu magic act? Or was something stranger at play? Ball lightning?

Looking around the damaged, empty room, Greg wasn’t sure what to believe. His head spun through so many variations of how to apologize to the customers. Could he file an insurance claim for a lightning strike?

Greg prodded the pile of clothes. It appeared to be an empty human costume with a long zipper down the back. He flipped it over in morbid fascination, struggling to understand it. But upon seeing the empty face-shell and the shallow scratches across the old floor tiles, Greg let out a low whistle. 

“I’ve seen worse in the gents’ room,” he thought.

Shaking his head in wonder, he got to work cleaning up the mess.