It's a rainy midday and Matthew sits in his car in an empty parking lot, reading old journal entries on his phone.
"I was such a petulant, entitled shit," he says.
"Mmm," says Counterpoint, "You've gotten a little better."
The past is a numb limb, attached but alien and remote. Matthew prods it and feels nothing. He considers amputation.
My mother has a lot of questions. No, I'm not gay. No, I don't want to be a woman. No, I am not interested in transitioning. Yes, my wife knows.…
Wow, is my first thought, it's so light. The next is, there's no way this is going to fit. The weirdest thing about what's happening is that…
T emping feels right. Not good right, but appropriate. Like: it is right for a leaf to be attached to the branch of a tree, fluttering in the…