A Small Bouquet of Flowers

Damn, why is everyone staring at me like that? Or am I just imagining it? No, I’m definitely not. That guy just scanned me from my shoes all the way up to my face, and when our eyes met, he smiled — and it felt way too smug, like he figured something out, like he read me like an open book and knew exactly why I was here. And I had no idea what to do with that reaction — look away? Smile back? Pretend I didn’t notice? Or just melt into the asphalt right here, surrounded by these bright yellow lilies that smelled like spring and the promise of summer?

My fingers twitched around the bouquet, the stems slightly damp and cold against my skin, and I clutched them tighter than I should’ve, making one of the buds tilt dangerously to the side. I suddenly wanted to cry again, like on that first day I woke up in this body. And on the days that followed, when I realized my world would never be the same again. It felt like an eternity had passed — exactly a year, to be precise — and I kept telling myself I was “moving on,” even tried not to think about the past. But now it all felt fresh again, like it was clawing back to the surface, touching the part of me that was still a man — lifting it up and showing it off to that man, to the world, showing what I was becoming… or maybe already had become.

— You gonna take the bouquet? — the florist’s nasal voice yanked at my ear, almost physically turning my face toward her. She was watching me with a cautious look, like she knew too, though I knew damn well it was all in my head — and really, who the fuck cares anyway. A wave of frustration and anger surged through me.

— That’s none of your business who it’s for! — I snapped, and instantly realized she hadn’t even asked that awful question that had been stuck in my head the whole time. Shame flushed over me — for snapping at a woman who was just doing her job, for lashing out so sharply, and for the way I kept confusing my inner mess with reality, like the whole world was watching my every move, every gesture, every too-feminine sway of my hips.

She flinched, looked at me a bit startled, but stayed composed, like she was waiting for me to either break down or start screaming. But I just shoved the money at her — too much — didn’t even wait for change, and nearly snatched the bouquet from her hands, rushing off like that messy bundle of lilies and chrysanthemums was hiding all my guilt, my shame, everything I didn’t want the world to see.

I made it home on autopilot, legs numb, like I was carrying not just the flowers but the entire year I’d lived. I shut the door behind me, walked into the kitchen still in my shoes, and shoved the bouquet into the first vase I saw, letting the stems sit all crooked — like I didn’t want them to look perfect, like I wanted even the flowers to feel out of place, just like me.

Then I sat on the stool and stared out the window, at the reflection of my face against the sunset sky — delicate features, soft cheekbones, lips that still felt like they belonged to someone else, and those fucking eyes, full of that distinctly feminine confusion.

— For me… I bought them for me… — I whispered, turning my gaze toward the flowers, and without even noticing, gently touched a petal with my finger, like I was testing if it was real, if it could be felt — like it was proof that I was still alive. Even in this body, this new, ridiculous, too-soft, too-exposed existence, where suddenly it mattered that someone, anyone, would give you flowers.

They stood in the vase a bit awkwardly, too colorful, like they were trying too hard to be cheerful — more than my inner weather allowed — and yet… their scent, the way the light from the window hit the yellow petals, made things feel… quieter. Not better — no, I wouldn’t call it that. It was more like a physical kind of silence, like when a spasm in your chest finally lets go, and you don’t know why it eased up, but suddenly you can’t ignore how your breathing slows, deepens, how the tension starts to drain from your neck and shoulders.

And in that — in the very ease of it — there was something offensive. Something shameful. Because, goddammit, I didn’t used to need anything. No flowers. No vases. No looks thrown over someone’s shoulder. I knew who I was, and even alone, I was whole — because loneliness, when you’re a man, it’s about choice, about strength, about freedom. But now… Now this loneliness is nearly unbearable. It’s not about strength anymore — it’s about need. I am need.

— What the fuck is wrong with me — I muttered, leaning an elbow on the table and pressing my forehead into my palm. — Am I really turning into someone who needs attention? Who needs someone to notice her, to say she’s beautiful, to hug her for no reason? Someone who buys herself flowers just to feel like she’s not completely alone?..

Tears welled up again, but I pressed my lips together. No. I’m not letting that happen again. Enough. And still — that thought itched inside me like a splinter I couldn’t pull out: I really am… a woman now. A real one, with a body that shivers from cold and from someone’s gaze. With breasts that make it hard to lie on my stomach — but that I touch now and feel not just as shape, but as part of me, responding with tenderness and a kind of aching I never had before. With a slim waist that a belt wraps around, and I physically feel that I can be held, squeezed… protected.

I got up and walked around the room, like I was trying to shake off this new, sticky knowledge. I still had my heels on, and I could feel the shoes rubbing at my heel, the slight trembling in my calves from the fatigue, the way the curve of my spine had become part of my walk, not just posture. All of it — not clothes. This is me. This is mine now.

— Bullshit — I breathed out, staring into my reflection in the dark window glass. — Just hormones. Just tired. Just…

But my chest already felt warm from the scent of the flowers, and I felt… different now — better than before that trip to the flower shop — and there was no denying it.