The Chance Encounter
I can only assume. But it’s as if she had a unique sense, a way of finding the people she needs. Smelling them out like a shark smells blood kilometers around.
As soon as she entered my field of view, it struck me. Yet, she was far away, barely visible, seen between a raindrop and a distant passerby. But she stood out, as if painted with a color never seen before in the world, an alien color.
It was a dark rainy fall afternoon. One of those days that are so remarkable by their drabness, where the world reminds you how grey it can paint itself. I was in the pub, at the table facing the window giving on the street. On the street, few people shuffling quickly to avoid the cold rain, few bikers rushing to the end of their ride. A walking street, so no cars.
Inside, the light was on. A very warm light. Slow day. Not much noise.
I was staring outside, phasing out, dreaming, being here and there. Taking a look at the activity outside, and being ashamed of invading other’s privacy. My eyes quickly passing from the world outside to the world inside. I was pecking at my drink more than drinking it.
Nominally, I was there to get work done. Flee the totalizing power of the distraction machines, I had the book I needed to read in front of me, I have yet to open it, 15 minutes in.
Each time a female figure entered the field of view, my eyes were on them, a millisecond. Seeing the diversity of clothes, way of walking, makeup, body shape. Drinking in the way of being. After this instant, my eyes drift, ashamed. But where did my eyes drift to? I don’t know.
Most people came into the street from that one corner. The building was hiding the exit stairs from the metro station. Each time a train poured out its cargo of travelers, a new group appeared in the street. Each clump of people moving in the street was the proof the railway system was still functional. People like clockwork, metric gauge.
Between two of those groups, she came into sight. I saw her. Like all the other female figures, my eyes slid toward hers. But she was looking at me, smiling. How could I tell? I couldn’t distinguish features from this far, yet it was obvious.
My eyes drifted instantly, like all the other times. But her image persisted. I was confused. What was that? It made no sense. Yet, the heart was beating noticeably faster. It felt like fear, cold sweat, but also excitement. Maybe? Words are not good at that kind of things.
She was still there, I wasn’t looking at her. Markedly not looking at her. Yet I could feel her physical presence. She was outside, quite far in fact, but present, in my neighborhood. I was like the lamb who saw in an instant the wolf sneaking by. Not seeing it, but deeply aware of its presence.
It’s as if she didn’t just enter my field of vision, but entered my consciousness.
Was it love? My conscious thoughts kicked into gear. I had to understand. Suddenly I was absolutely terrified, before I asked the questions, I knew the answer, I didn’t want to know it. I kept asking questions, the questions I knew were wrong, desperately trying to postpone the inevitable moment where the actual truth would have words to describe it.
Do I know her from somewhere? Well she definitively was cute. I would remember. Her clothing was amazing, perfectly dressed. Was it lust? Yes, but not "I want to bang her". So love? No, it felt as if I didn’t need to know more about her. In fact, as if knowing her was a threat to my very existence. In any case, I saw hundreds of cute women before, and not once did I have any further thought about them.
Then it dawned on me: She looked like me, or I looked like her. It was that. Those were the words for the truth I feared. All the other women, they were so comfortably unlike myself, I could build a wall between them and me. But her. What I saw was myself: the same way of walking, the same body shape. Just the clothes, they were worn differently.
I’m thinking about how I look now. I can barely move my eyes toward my body. And I remember. I remember what I had to go through to buy the rags I put on my body. I remember the wall between me and the women’s clothing shop section.
I half see my reflection in the window. My bald head, shitty 3 days beard, and I feel disgusted. I remember now. It was disgust. This is how I felt as a teen. Looking in the mirror was pain itself, every time. Now I don’t feel disgust. I grew numb to it. But what I see in the mirror is not myself. Maybe the bad guy from some Belgian comic book. I remember now, it’s just that the feeling disappears in the sinkhole as soon as I stop looking. But now it’s as clear as day. It’s obvious, the memory is there. The invisible is visible. This is the world where my eyes drift when not looking at women. Like a veil, a lie that covers most of my experience as an embodied person. A section of my life I wasn’t allowed to look at, that is now plain as day.
I hear the door of the pub opening, the little bell sings. It’s her. She’s here. She’s here for me. I know it. I don’t want to see her. I know exactly what I will see, I know it’s going to change me forever. I look in the other direction.
It doesn’t mater, I don’t need to see her to know where she is, her wooden heels clack against the floorboard, only three steps from the door to my seat. She’s behind me, I feel her presence. Her coat radiates the cold wet from outside.
— Cheers Nicola, it’s time we finally meet outside.
I turn to look at her. She radiates happiness and joy. And yes, she’s exactly as I feared. We are both the same person. The same face, the same body, she’s taller, but because of her heels.
She is this part of my life that is always invisible.
— Hello, do I know you?
— You should remember me, you can now.
I remember. Since puberty, I talk to her regularly. In fact, since my very first wet dream. We are intimate. I share her body. Each time I leave my room, it’s her body that I take. A damaged, unkempt version of it. I promise her, each time that I will take care of it later. But it’s always later, I’m always distracted, I’ve always something else to do, always a good reason.
At first, I didn’t understand. I hated bluejeans as a kid. I hated every single dressing article in menswear. I hated having to dress up, pretend to be a man. I saw my body hair grow, my face changing, it was a nightmare. Barely survived that. I saw a poisonous mushroom grow on me, giving insufferable pain. I saw my hairline recede.
Nightmare after nightmare, my body going in a place I didn’t want to go. Each cloth I put on myself, an insult. My dresser, an altar to my shame.
The only relief, those brief moments with my true self, as her, in a world where I had agency on my shape, on my body. I had lesbian dreams. Not her, someone else, would tell me how cute of a girl I was, she made me feel the parts of my feminine body I only had then. Sometimes I dance, I dance furiously, I take control over every muscle of my body, as if no‑one is looking, no care in the world. It reminds me: I have autonomy, I have agency over my body. But the music always stops. I always find myself dressed like a man.
Tears in my eyes.
— Yes, of course. What a fool I am.
I am about to sit up, but before I do, she places a chair close by and sits by me, she removes her coat. Warmth radiates.
— If you are a fool, so am I. But it’s time now. You idiot, you’ve already finished this book, remember why you came here.
I turn on my phone, the screen shows a phone number, the one of a therapist, one I know will understand my difficulties and give me the right tools for my freedom. I need to call to book an appointment, I know they have a spot for a new patient.
— Why do you leave me each time? Why didn’t you push me to do this earlier?
— We are the same person, I always was with you. You say "seek people you want to be like" and you only fell by chance on someone you actually wanted to be like. Thankfully, you immediately understood that. Just call the therapist, we’ll finally be free.
I press the dial button.