It’s a simple day for Toni, right? She’s back at work, she’s had her surprise lunch with Mallory, that Greg told her to indulge in. She somehow got to join a private members' club, for people who like food and drink, and simply enjoy the pleasure of it, not the status and money. And now she just has to knuckle down, back at her regular job. That’s all she has to do, right? Life is going to be normal—as normal as it can be for Toni—until Friday when she gets to see her friends, and her boyfriend, again. Right? A normal day back at work for Toni? Right!?!

---

I walk into the office building and the headache pills seem to have stopped working. I don’t know why exactly, they should be strong enough. I don’t feel too awful, just the effects of last night, and an intense week and a half, or so, catching up on me. It could also be the lighting. It was overcast outside and there was no glare, but the lights in here? They’re intense.

I make my way up to my floor on the elevator, with my head bowed and eyes closed, looking up each time the doors open. Not my floor.

Then it does get to my floor. I’m looking up. Greg is standing there.

“My office!” he says.

“Greg?” I say.

“Go to my office!”

I shake my head. I have no idea what’s wrong with him. Sure Irene, last night, said she wouldn’t report on either me or Mallory to Greg, we’re now members in that restaurant’s private club, so it’s not done. What else is there? The bill wasn’t huge. I saw a copy. I even have a copy!

I walk into Greg’s office and sit myself down. He has two chairs set out.

After a few minutes Mallory walks in. She looks brighter than I feel. She’s even giggling.

“Oh no! We’re in trouble!” she says, in an exaggerated tone.

I laugh too.

Greg storms in, launching the door closed behind him.

“What did you do?” he asks.

“Are we late?” Mallory asks.

“At the restaurant?” Greg continues.

Mallory looks aggrieved. “What you told us?” she says. “Or what Toni told me you told us. And I know she didn’t lie.”

“I know something happened!”

Mallory has less resting bitch face now and more of an active bitch face. “Were you watching us?”

Greg looks like he’s biting his tongue. He’s staring at us.

I reach in my coat pocket and take out the receipt from yesterday. “I assume you need this, and it’ll probably be easier than requesting it from the restaurant. Their record keeping might not always be the best,” I say, sliding the receipt across Greg’s desk.

Greg picks it up and examines it. Checking it two or three times. “I assume you got the oysters and steak, Mallory?” She nods. “A lot of bread. One or two snack plates.”

“Thank you, Greg. We had a great time,” Mallory says. “I assume everything is in order.” She’s looking ready to stand.

Greg glares at Mallory. “Did you pay for the drinks yourself? On a separate bill?”

“We didn’t buy a single drink!” Mallory says.

Greg shakes his head. “You’re not good enough with words, Mallory, to have that attitude. Tell me what happened and there’ll be no issues.”

“There should be no issue,” I say. “We did what you said. We didn’t order a single drink in the restaurant. We did get some complimentary drinks, among others. But they were given to us. And Mallory wants the same work from home setup as me.”

Greg slaps the desk. “That’s how you negotiate, Mallory! There’s no contention, yet. No need for fists, and Tony offered up something to pique my interest. I’m the boss! For now! We’ll consider your work from home, if you’re clear on what happened in the restaurant!”

“Some men thought Tony should dress more femininely, and they’re right. And they wanted us to experience what Simon could come up with, so arranged for us to taste whiskeys—on their dime—while they got drunk and said we could work for them as secretaries if we passed their blowjob based interview style.”

I’m back in my wallet again, getting the membership card to the restaurant. “This should answer your questions, Greg. I’m guessing you got told you wouldn’t be getting a report. And didn’t expect this...”

Greg takes the card from me, looks at it quickly, then hands it back. “You too, Mallory?”

“Mallory Toni,” Mallory says.

Greg nods, and I can’t read his face. “OK. No negotiation, now. You had your fun. Tell me from the top...”

So we do, me urging Mallory, at first, then both of us picking up memories the other has forgotten. We leave out the details about Mallory’s father, only saying he’s a member who hasn’t been there in years but he hadn’t told Mallory anything about the place.

Eventually Greg is satisfied, and a quiet has fallen. He sits back in his chair. “You said these men gave you their business cards, do you have them?”

I nod and hand over the business cards, looking at my wallet again and thinking I really need to get something prettier than my old and worn, imported leather football one. Although I do quite like it.

Greg laughs, looking at the cards, before handing them back. “Those guys want membership, badly,” he says.

“Yeah, that seemed obvious once we were clued in,” Mallory says.

Greg shakes his head. “That’s not it. The firm they’re with... A very old finance firm. It handles extreme wealth. Money few of us could even dream of, certainly not you. Going back generations. To move up the business, and to handle the wealthier clients, their staff are set challenges. Given finance people it’s usually about behaviour. If they were set a challenge to join that place, as a member, then someone obviously doesn’t like them. Or thinks they need a big lesson..”

“They were assholes,” Mallory says.

“They do need a lesson,” I say.

“Are you OK to work today, Mallory?” Greg asks.

“It’s a Wednesday. Of course,” she says.

Greg makes a lifting motion with his hands and points towards the door, with one, while indicating for me to stay sitting with the other.

As Mallory leaves he looks at me. “What did you learn about Mallory?”

“She’s nice. Fiery,” I say. I don’t know what Greg is looking for and don’t want to volunteer anything not necessary.

“What style of work?” he asks.

“Finance, technical detail, statistics, data. All that, definitely. She said she’s not a qualified accountant, and she didn’t go the full analytics route, but took an interest in both. She blogs explaining baseball stats. She says she has some readers. I think that’s right...

“She has a good knowledge of a lot areas but not deep enough in any one area to commit to something. I think ‘translating’ as it were, technical details, would work.”

“Do you know her blog?” Greg asks.

“I do not... And if I did I wouldn’t tell you. I don’t know it, though, so there’s no point trying to cajole it out of me.”

Greg writes something on a notepad. “Is your home tidy enough that we could set up your work from home today?”

I think for a few seconds, running around my living room, mentally, and my kitchen. “Yeah, sure. It could take me a day or two to get it setup, but to have movers? Or deliveries? That’s no problem.” I wonder when I’ll get to see Tim, as I’m saying that. I can imagine him helping me with building the desk and chair. I think I’d just watch him, though. And maybe hope he notices me watching him. We could both get sweaty...

Greg nods and keys in a four-digit internal number into the phone. Holding it to his ear, after a few rings, he says, “Yeah... Tony... Yeah. No problem with it... This afternoon..? I’ll tell them. And to let you know one of the fashionistas might be complaining about makeup... I don’t know, Therese! I’m not a woman. It’s under her... Yeah, ‘their!’ I don’t believe Toni minds me referring to her as a woman. At least among people... Yes! I know! ‘As she’s ready..!’ I’m hanging up now... No, I’m really hanging up... Call Ben then!”

Greg does actually hang up. “HR is the worst invention in modern business. People say they’re corporate cops. They’re not. They invent rules as needed to justify their own martial law. The problem is we don’t pay you enough to tolerate the bullshit and they barely pay me enough to get results. It’s an unhappy balance. Give people money and time off, and a little respect—something that works their grey matter, or skills—then everyone’s happy. You don’t need one of those useless fucking MBAs to realise that! Work in a fast food restaurant for two weeks and you’ll discover that! If you’re in fast food you have none of that. Poor fuckers!”

I’m touching my finger beneath my eye, where my cheekbone disappears towards my nose, and realising Greg did see I was wearing makeup. Just a little, beneath my eyes, as I was not looking too great as I dragged myself out at the alarm. “It’s just a little BB cream,” I say.

“BB cream? What’s that? I know about concealer, it’s heavier than foundation...”

“It’s a lot lighter, really light coverage, if you have good skin. Which I guess I do because for years I just washed it and didn’t wear anything... But if anyone—”

Greg has obviously picked up on where I’m going with this as he interrupts, “If any of the dressed up weapons give you issues you can try either, ‘I’ll stop wearing it if you do,’ or, ‘I’m sure HR would be happy to deal with your concern.’ Do not fucking send them to me!”

I can hear the tiredness in his voice as he swears. “You need a holiday, Greg.”

“I’ve got a big day coming up. Important milestone.”

“Retirement?”

“Ha! You’d be floundering if I retired. No.” He reaches into his desk and pulls out two packages. “This is what you’re doing until we find you a project. I will find you a project. Hopefully by the end of the week, or the start of next week. For now though I want you taking notes on some of the interviews we’ve done. You don’t need to know what particular industry or business question it’s for. This is adding value, picking up little details others might not notice.

“This afternoon you’ll be organising your work from home setup. Another bit of martial law! Ha! Supposedly you’ll sue me if you get a sore wrist from the wrong kind of mouse. Would you do that to me, Toni?”

I laugh. “Maybe not you, personally, Greg,” I say. “Maybe...”

“Take the headphones and case. They’re expensive. And now you’re a member in the mob boss’s restaurant go wild on the business’s private stock. That disappears as soon as it’s bought. And Toni..? Eat lunch. And drink water. For your skin, at least. You won’t always be young and pretty.”

I stand with Greg looking at me, walk towards the door and feel the need to turn around, Greg calling me ‘pretty’ like a loudspeaker in my mind. “Thank you, Greg,” I say.

“You’re doing really well, Toni. I’m happy for you, as both my employee and a person,” Greg says.

I don’t know why but I walk out of Greg’s office feeling a thousand feet tall.

As I sit down at my desk I realise I’m still hungover.

My laptop is booting up as a woman approaches me. “How much were your nails?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, incredibly tired, eyes almost blurring, certainly given the conversation with Greg. I feel drained, and somehow elated. “Less than fifty bucks,” I continue. “But I got my eyebrows done too.” I have to add the eyebrows part because she’s thinking I spent fifty bucks on nails.

She zips her mouth shut. “Your secret is safe with me. You look amazing! And you’ll look better when you’re ready... To... You know..? Be yourself!? I’m telling you, girl. Don’t give a fuck what anyone says. The real women have your back! That’s exactly what you are! You’re gorgeous! You need to know that.” She’s put emphasis on the ‘need’ in her words, as she she walks away, almost strutting, beaming lasers into anyone who looks at her as she passes them.

As my laptop finally wakes I look through the staff directory, seeing if I can place her. Eventually I come to a name; Megan. That’s her. Hired straight from university, from what I recall. Something unusual for this place. Typically people do a year or two with a smaller business then try to move up; getting stuck in Greg’s madness, with his ‘tests’ to escape his insanity.

I unpack the headphones and plug them in, going through my emails—nothing important. Apart from one, linking me to a directory with the videos I should watch; I load them up and start watching, a notepad next to my laptop, me taking extensive notes.

Before I know it it seems I’ve skipped the morning break, and my stomach is rumbling. I go to kitchen, and it’s mostly empty. There’s a couple of stoves, proper industrial stoves, an array of cutlery including sharp knives. microwaves, plenty of generic oils, salts, and sauces in one of the massive fridges, along with people’s food in tupperware. In the second fridge are my chicken thighs and veggies.

I get down to preparing things, cleaning as I go. I realise I probably don’t actually need as much of this food as I brought. Yesterday I was sent out for lunch, and I don’t know what will happen later in the week.

The kitchen also has an industrial boiler, and a bean to cup coffee machine, with dire warnings of what will happen to any employee who uses the milk frothing attachments without cleaning them printed on the front of the machine. I imagine whoever typed up that message was channelling Greg as they wrote it. And in one fridge is both sparkling and non-sparkling water, ‘When you take one replace it!’ With my meal ready I sit down with a bottle of the sparkling water.

As I take my first bite I realise I am actually quite hungry, but in a strange way. It’s not necessarily a nutritional hunger, I ate really well, yesterday, although my noodles, with chicken thighs and veggies, is hitting the spot, it’s a hunger for, I don’t know, success? Growth?

As I’m halfway through my noodles a few people have come in. They’re preparing their own food, mostly using the microwaves. Therese also comes in, and waves as she spots me. She comes over. “Finish your food while I have a coffee, then we’ll get to your place and get you all situated.” She’s smiling as she walks to the bean to cup machine and bashes in her drink, a straight, double strength, black coffee.

Sitting down, opposite me, she says, “I don’t know why people go the cafés in the building, or farther. These are free, here... Well... I do know. People want to get away from work. They’re expensive though! I could never justify a $5.50 coffee no matter how much money I had. It’s wasteful!”

“I’m becoming acutely aware of finances, with my life, well... Taking off?” I say, and I know I can’t live at the same pace I have done for the past ten days, or so, no matter how much fun it might be. Either for my bank account’s sake or for my own health.

“How are you doing, Tony?” Therese asks. She takes a sip of her coffee.

“I want things to move fast, as well as, you know, taking my time. I don’t know how to explain it. There are some things I want right now, immediately, and some things I just want to appreciate.”

Therese grips onto her coffee with both hands, and leans in towards me. “If you want to go talk in private we can? Or if you just want to hint at things, or even say nothing, that’s fine. Or just eat.”

I nod, finishing off my noodles, considering things, while Therese sips at her coffee.

“I think I need to speak to a therapist, and I want to start on hormones. Soon. Like, yesterday.”

Therese laughs. “And miss your lunch? I heard you had fun.”

“Maybe not yesterday, then. But that’s the thing. I don’t know how if I have time to fit everything in and still keep myself healthy.”

“OK, let me think. And if you’re ready to go I’ll grab my things and you grab your things, then we’ll meet in the lobby and get a car to your place. Are you sure you’re ready to have everyone come into your apartment and get you all setup? There’s no rush if you need to prepare. It can wait! Which is my problem, not yours.”

I tell Therese I’m sure.

I gather all my things and go down to the lobby. Eventually Therese joins me, apologising for the delay as something came up in her office, then we’re getting a car to my place, both of us in the back seat, casually chatting, at least after a few minutes. We hit on her wedding, somehow. I didn’t realise I had an interest in weddings.

Therese and her girlfriend are getting married. They just want something small, at least as far as traditional ceremonies go. Sure, lots of people, but in a bar they know, that’s willing to set aside one of the rooms for them, and have dedicated bar staff. They’re building their own playlist for the music, and getting a friend to DJ for people’s requests. The ceremony will be in the morning, with just a few, close people, then it’s a restaurant they both like for a meal before the trip to the bar and the dancing. It sounds like a real celebration for two people who are entirely comfortable with each other. I can’t even begin to imagine my own wedding. I never contemplated it before, but now I’m thinking do I want the big, white dress wedding? Is that even who I really am? Am I a woman who can actually marry a man?

Before I know it I’m keying the code into my door and we’re taking an elevator to my floor, where I let us both into my apartment.

I set my things down and Therese sets her things down, both on the coffee table in front of my couch.

“Do you want a coffee? I only have instant or a drip machine.”

“Are you a big coffee drinker?” Therese asks.

“Some, a little... It’s not a massive deal for me,” I say.

“A water would be fine, then,” Therese says, as she’s unpacking her laptop and dialling it into her phone’s wifi.

I’m back in with a water for each of us, and sit myself down on the armchair.

Therese begins explaining my new phone to me. It’s a dual sim phone, with two partitions of storage. I can keep my personal phone on it, and my work phone, and still keep the two separate on a single device. It’s mostly already setup, but she does transfer my personal details onto it, and all my photos and apps. It doesn’t take too long. Then she calls me from her work phone, with the work directory built into the office side of my new phone, explaining how things will appear depending on the origin of them. I think I get it, and she has a print off of my number for me to put in my wallet, and my purse.

I do show her my frog purse, which she oohs and aahs over. The words, ‘very cute,’ coming out of her mouth.

She’s explaining some of the setups the business can do with hormone treatment, and with therapists, and I’m explaining that I have some friends looking for a suitable therapist for me, friends who know my story, when her phone rings. It’s the people delivering my work from home setup.

We both go to the front door, telling them the code. There’s three of them. All big burly dudes, or sort of burly, powerful, even if one is wiry. You can tell he’s able to carry things all day long. One of them stays in the truck to avoid parking fines, and the other two begin carrying boxes up to my apartment.

Eventually it’s all delivered and I say, “I didn’t realise there’d be this amount of stuff. I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get it put together.”

Therese laughs and says, “You’re not setting it up! That’s what these guys are for, aren’t you?”

The men laugh. “Health and safety keeps our business going. Can’t have you pretty office dwellers breaking a nail.”

I quickly look at my nails, realising they are painted and these guys know nothing about me. Therese slaps my hands down from where I hold them up in front of me, staring, and laughs at me.

“How does Toni’s apartment rate on apartments you’ve delivered to?” she asks.

“If we could get a water from a fridge it’d be a full 10/10.”

I quickly leap to my feet. “Oh shit!” I say. “I’m sorry! Do you want a Coke Zero, or something? I think I have a Sprite or two, as well, with sugar.”

“12/10 apartment, Therese!” the wiry guy says. “Water is fine, really. Thanks, Toni.” He knows my name. “Even tap water.”

I get them two chilled waters after arranging a few more things in my fridge. They don’t even pause to drink them, just sipping as they go, while thinking, and making, and screwing—with small drills—occasionally looking at printed diagrams. And hefting bags of screws. The two look like they have a secret language between each other. Just moving around each other, knowing what the other needs, with the occasional instructional grunt. It’s quite beautiful really. Even sexy, somehow. I even notice Therese watching. And she’s gay!

The first thing they put together is the floor length mirror. It’s a simple, pine surrounded mirror. A long, rectangular pane—with the pine encasement— on a horizontal swivel, set atop a pine box with two deep drawers in it.

“We’ll move this one, fellas,” Therese says. “I assume the light you need to bounce is in your bedroom workspace?”

The two men look like they want to object, but I nod at Therese, and they back down after I open the door to my bedroom and they catch a glimpse of, well, a mess, at the end of the room.

Me and Therese lift the mirror, carrying it, then setting it down inside my bedroom door so I can stand at any distance to see myself from the bottom of my bed.

Of course the first thing I notice when I walk into my bedroom are the clothes scattered everywhere; on one half of my double bed, and across the couch in my bedroom that was left by a previous tenant. There’s dresses, tops, jeans, skirts. Shoes, panties, pantihose, bras... All my work-out clothes that Steve bought me.... There’s my sexy date night dress hanging up in the dry cleaning packaging hanging outside my wardrobe. There’s even makeup and pink razors on the night-stand next to my bed.

Thankfully Therese doesn’t say anything and we’re quickly back into the living room, sitting down again.

“Are you thinking of joining the gym I mentioned at the meeting?”

“How do you mean?” I ask.

“I saw all your work-out clothes. A lot of new purchases. I can send the email from here if you want.”

I’m a little taken aback, I hadn’t even thought about it. This feels normal, somehow. I’m Toni, now, not Tony. Right now there doesn’t seem a difference. “I haven’t had time to think about it, to be honest, those were just... It’s a long story. I’m not sure I even have the time to go to a gym”

“You need to use your holiday time, Toni. You have a decent amount built up. Enough that it’s actually a problem, or could become a problem soon. We do expect people to use it. You’ve used very little since you started working for us. It’s getting to the point we’re going to be instructing you to use the time, with no choice in the matter. Especially if you carry it over into yet another year.”

I stroke at my nose, thinking. “I guess I really never had a reason to take time off, or a desire to go anywhere, or do anything?” I realise I’ve never felt pressure in work. Nor have I felt pressure in my life. It was all a blur. Or maybe more a fog? Downcast? Drizzle? The shits?

Therese seems to consider this. “Has that changed in the past few weeks?” she asks.

“Yeah, I guess it has. But it feels like my career is beginning to take off in new ways. I’m not sure I want to risk it by not being available.”

Therese clicks her tongue a few times. “Do you mind if I step into the kitchen to make a few calls?”

I shake my head and Therese says to give her those few minutes.

She spends a lot longer than a few minutes, longer than thirty minutes, even, occasionally stepping out to point at her phone with a grimace; she’s waiting on more calls.

After about forty-five minutes, maybe a little longer, she’s back into me, sitting down. “You owe Greg a favour, if you go ahead with this. He yelled at my boss. Apparently he was a right A-hole to her, but not enough she’s taking it out on you. You’re approved for ad-hoc time, if you formalise that you’re seeking medical treatment for something with me. It’ll never be recorded what that treatment is, until it becomes necessary for something in work, i.e. should you wish to transition in work—which will not be an issue, by the way,” Therese says, seeing the look on my face. “Even then it’s not a medical issue. Not in this state, although you do have some extra equality laws protecting you.

“All this means is there’s a record that you’re facing a serious medical issue. And need time, as allocated to your holiday time, to deal with it. Ultimately it’ll be up to Greg to approve it, and track it. That’s why he yelled at my boss. Apparently, to quote him, or the report from my boss on him, the words were, ‘Give the fucking kid whatever the fuck they fucking need!’ Or something like that. He was angry. Sorry about the kid part, those are his words.”

I simply nod, it sounds like Greg. I do feel like a kid, with people arguing. Not that my parents argued. My sister did, but they shushed her, with patience. But this feels like what being an actual child is like. People calling me an idiot.

“He also gave a, something along the lines of, ‘She could be really important to us in a few years time, do you want them, and our hard work, to have fucked off before we reap the fucking benefits!’ And then there were some slightly personal insults directed at my boss... Questions of her ability to function... She doesn’t typically deal with Greg, that’s what I’m for. I felt it necessary to call him in though as she was being stubborn.” Therese laughs at that, seeing the look of horror on my face; her choosing to inflict what sounds like actually angry Greg on someone.

I shake my head, or more rattle my brain about, hoping it slots back into place. “What are the consequences for me?” I ask. “For Greg? For you!?! You didn’t need to do this!!”

“For me? Nothing. This is my job. Toni, really... This is my job. I’m good at it. Don’t doubt that!” Therese smiles. “For Greg? People already call him an asshole. The downsides for you are there’ll be some record you had a medical issue. I’m sure people will be able to put 2+2 together when and if they track the timeline of your transition, should you transition, but there’s no official record of that. We don’t have access to your medical reports. Obviously I know but it’s not written anywhere. Other people will know but there’ll be nothing actionable. Will people remember in the long run? Not if Greg is right...”

Therese sees me looking a little shocked, at least that’s what I feel she’s looking at.

She leans forward on the couch she’s sat herself down on, leaning towards me, almost keeping the words quiet from the two men in here with us.

“Toni... As far as I know no-one at the LGBTQ group is trans, but they have dealt with issues mostly like this; the consequence and prejudice. It’s up to you. Personally I think it’s worthwhile, and I say that as someone who likes you. It was worth it for me, coming out about my sexuality. You have people in your corner. That’s what you want, and need. Now it’s up to you, if you want. As long as you, and I, and Greg, even Ben, are here that’s how it’ll be. You’ve impressed people. Just a little. I don’t know that for sure but you’ve got some people talking about you. Everyone talks about everyone but the people talking about you? That’s not me being HR. That’s me seeing a young woman—if you don’t mind me abandoning my HR role—who could do with a few breaks.”

I sit back in my chair, unable to de-tangle the thoughts running through my mind. “How do I do this?” I ask.

“You just tell me you have a medical issue you need to deal with, and need to use holiday time to deal with it.”

“I do,” I say, words coming out of my mouth with certainty. I do have an issue. It does have to be dealt with. Greg has been superb, my friends have been superb, Therese has been amazing. I’d like to see Tim, to have him hold me. I need time, and if I can get a little more of it it’s the best thing for me.

I uncross my legs and crouch forward, shaking my head slowly. “I can’t believe how lucky I am,” I say.

“It’s good you recognise that,” Therese says. “Now go get dressed, the lads are finishing up. We’ll go for a drink. One or two beers, or something. Please, no more! I have to save my big nights out, and I can imagine you’re exhausted, and I don’t want to be loading you into a car.

“Somewhere you feel comfortable. I’ll be clocked off, but I’ll still use the car service. I can drop you home if you’re ready to go home. If you need tomorrow morning off I’ll put it down as needing to put the finishing touches on your setup here. Is this all OK with you?”

I take a deep breath and stand. “It is, thank you.”

Then I’m walking into my bedroom, shakily, gently closing the door that looks out to my work from home setup that’s nearly completed.

I get dressed, a simple pale, ocean green, calf length, straight and heavy skirt, trainers, grey, opaque pantihose and a light, baby blue hoodie. I’m back outside in my living room after I’ve done my hair with dry styling products, in my new mirror. It’s not a showcase piece but it works. It’s simple. It didn’t cost a lot. I figure it won’t get noticed on review.

The guys working on my setup don’t even turn their heads when I walk out, dressed femininely, and go to the bathroom, with my heart pounding. I do my makeup, really taking time to look at my eyes before I apply my mascara. Then I’m back again, and ready.

“OK, we just need you to try your laptop in the dock, login to the wifi, and make sure your email is working,” Therese says.

I pick up my laptop and arrange it in the dock; the laptop set off to my left, on the stand, with a large monitor in front of me with a webcam on top, some speakers to either side, a printer/scanner on a little side table.

The laptop, as it powers up, detects the dock, and keyboard, mouse and speakers. There’s a lot of extravagant beeping from it after I log into the operating system, the laptop’s fan whining, as well as the fan of the dock.

Therese, standing by my shoulder, and as the laptop finally begins to calm down, says, “The password to the work wifi, the one we’ve provided, is on the router. It’s 5G, I believe. I’m sure you’re familiar with all this stuff...”

I check the password, a few times, still shaking, every so slightly. I login to the wifi, which is seamless, and then into my email, which I drag to the main monitor. There’s a few new emails I begin to click onto but Therese tells me to ignore them. “Any changes you need with the setup?” she asks. “Physically? Heights, comfort, anything like that?”

“Nope,” I say, after swivelling my chair to the left and right.

“OK, close down and stand back, I need to get a photo for our records.”

I feel a panic thinking Therese is going to take a photo of me at the desk, dressed as I am, but she waits until I’m standing back. She pushes the chair in underneath the desk and snaps a few photos with a flash.

“Everything’s great, fellas. Thanks,” she says. “You can take the last of the boxes.”

“Hang on!” I say, and quickly dart into the kitchen. I come back carrying a six pack, chilled, and hand it over to the wiry guy. “Thanks for all this.”

“Is this OK, Therese?” the wiry guy asks, but he’s already clutching the six pack, so I’m not sure what he’s asking.

Therese nods. He reaches into his pocket.

“Toni, this is my sister’s business. She’s just starting out. Started on soft furnishings and the like, sewing, that kind of thing. There’s plenty of people in the city who can do that so she wants to get into interior decorating. There’s a code on the back of the card, 25% off, minimum spend is $250. I don’t know what that is after the discount.”

I look at the back of the card and it says, ‘TREY25.’

“Trey is you?” I say.

He nods.

“Thanks, sure, yeah. Of course! This place is kind of stark.” I look around. It’s busier with the work from home setup, but compared to Tim and Mouse’s apartment, even Jess’s—Sally’s is an old family home—it’s a young person’s apartment that no-one has ever settled into. It needs something. Something I’m not sure of.

For some reason I imagine living with Tim, then quickly push that thought from my mind, telling myself that’s stupid. Mouse is a better home-maker, anyway. Do I want to live with Tim? Could I imagine my life with Tim? I can imagine sex with Tim...

The wiry guy, Trey, smiles. “Thanks for the beers, and check out my sister’s website. She’s good.”

They both nod, the bigger guy taking two beers from the six pack into his hand while carrying the last of the cardboard boxes in his other hand, and they’re gone. Except there’s a stack of plastic packaging left sitting on the ground. Plastic packaging, with something soft in them.

“You’ve spotted that?” Therese asks.

“What are they?” I ask. They look like cushions.

Therese moves to then begins to rip into them. There’s hoodies, work hoodies, and t-shirts being thrown over the back of my couch. “I figured these might be more fitting to your circumstances, just to wear around the house,” she says.

She hands me one of the hoodies and I hold it up, then hold it up to my chest. It’s one of the work hoodies I’d gotten before, when I got them in the wrong size; from various business milestones, and projects. Except these aren’t in the wrong size. They’re the right size, and they’re the female cut.

“If you ever have to take a video call and are inappropriately dressed just throw on one of those. Maybe you’re in your flowery PJs or something?” Therese laughs. “A quick way to professionalism. I can’t work from home, not often, unfortunately, I need to be available to people. I’d kill to work in my PJs! Don’t you think HR would be more approachable if we were wearing something fluffy and soft?” She smiles at me, and I laugh. I laugh even harder thinking of Greg’s comments about HR as martial law, and what he seems to have said to Therese’s boss.

“Are you ready to go? Do you know where you want to go? You look ready for a drink? A pizza? Whatever you want... I don’t get to work from home but this is a privilege I’ve finagled my way into when settling Greg’s people into work from home setups. When he’s an asshole on your side he’s very good.”

“How off work are you?” I ask.

“Pretty much 100% but I can’t abandon all knowledge I have of that place, at least not that easily, I do have to do one thing, though,” Therese says, and goes to her laptop bag, taking a package out.

The parcel is rectangular, and hard, quite thin. Too big and thin to be a book, and too stiff.

It’s wrapped in what appears to be recycled, or at least pre-used birthday wrapping paper. She hands it to me and slings her laptop bag over her shoulder.

I open it. It’s a framed Harvard Business Review. I think it’s from the months I started working in the office.

In gold pen, at the bottom of the framed HBR are the words, “To Tony. From Greg.” And scribbled on the white matting are the words, “Sorry about the Tony part, but that’s all part of growth.” Along with two heart symbols, what appears to be a stamp of a Sonic, and a shark, along with the name, ‘Greg.’

“He’s such an asshole,” I say, laughing at the idiot. “A fucking Harvard Business Review!”

“That he is,” Therese says.

I settle the frame, with the pop-out stand, to the left of and just behind the printer/scanner, and ask Therese to take a photo. She says she’ll send it onto Greg in the car, which has been called, then asks me where we’re going.

We wait a few minutes outside my apartment for the car to arrive. When it does we hop in and Therese tells me to say the bar to the driver. He seems to know it, apparently it’s an occasional drive, for him, at least. Then we’re stepping inside Light Avenue, me feeling nerves that I’m now, in some way, crossing my work life with my... I suppose it’s my real life? I don’t know what’s real though. Which part of me is real? It’s all blurring together.

As we get into the front area of the bar Therese shakes herself out, mumbling something. I walk to the bar, to see if there’s any seats available, but there’s none. After about a minute Steph appears and seems to point towards the long bar, mouthing that she’ll open it.

I take Therese’s elbow in my hand and direct her where to go, sitting us up at the counter. She’s busy looking about, seemingly very interested in something.

Steph is soon standing in front of us at the long bar. “Toni! My beautiful! My favourite woman! What can I get you?” I feel a wave of relief through me at the normality of this—this is all fucked up though, right?—of Steph being kind to me, and her effusiveness, in calling me a woman. It’s sort of where it all began; me being who I am. And now people seeing the real me. Is this the real me?

Is that all it was? I had to be me? It’s ridiculous. Totally stupid, just being me. Is life this stupid?

I cross my legs, a little clumsily, as Therese sets her laptop bag down and takes her coat off. I do the same and rest the strap of my purse on the hook on the bar.

“Can we get two businesswoman drinks, please,” Therese says to Steph. “Corporate account, if you catch my drift? Clear, low calorie, packs a punch. Would knock men off their feet!”

“Oh! Toni! I didn’t know you were moving this fast!” Steph says, laughing. “How corporate?” she asks Therese.

“Big junior position night out,” Therese says. “Something of a graduation drink. But still something unofficial.”

“I catch you,” Steph says, moving to grab some shakers, and then some bottles, after loading the ice-buckets with ice.

Therese turns to me. “She’s senior, isn’t she?” she says in a quiet tone. “I vaguely remember her from my drinking days. She’s been here a while.”

“Steph’s the manager,” I say.

Therese elbows me with a quick popping out of her elbow. “I knew you were a mover and shaker,” she says. Then she calls out to Steph, “With a little kick!”

“A little kick?” Steph asks, pouring drinks.

Therese nods. “A little teensy, tiny kicky,” she says, with a gnarled looking mouth on her.

“You got it! If you take responsibility?”

Both Therese and Steph laugh, and soon two drinks are being settled in front of me and Therese.

The glasses are somehow clear, but the liquid looks thick. When I take a drink of it I feel air being blown out my ears, neither cool, nor warm. It’s a room temperature air, almost equal with my surroundings, and who I am. I even feel it out my nose. I feel my eyes bulge.

“This is fucking...”

“Dry!” Steph and Therese say, both laughing.

And at some point I forget what’s happening. There was a second business-woman drink. And there was a message from Trevor, who I gave my phone number to, via Steph. I wasn’t even that drunk, just clueless. Excited! It was the name of a therapist? A therapist who Therese didn’t recognise but said she’d look into. Steph explained what she knew about informed consent as I had my third, possibly fourth drink.

I told Steph, or maybe Therese... Maybe I told both, two times, what I would fucking do to those guys who put together the office. I think I involved detail. Was there a shot involved? I think I involved tongue with those guys? Either my tongue or theirs. Possibly both? Both of their tongues? And me? Oh I fucking would!

There was laughing, and another drink. Possibly a bottle? It had no label.

I either danced, or fell off my seat, I’m not sure. There was more laughter. I wasn’t the only one laughing. I think Steph sat down too. Did Steph dance?

I think Therese danced? Steph mumbled something. I definitely stumbled.

A woman from security argued something with two guys? Or three guys? It was Anna-something, from the first night I was in here. I wished I was as built as her. I told her that, and she took me for a smoke, and a glass of water.

Really I showed Steph, and Therese, my moves. Killer fucking dance moves. I was amazing! I managed two shots while dancing!

There was a fifth drink, or a third? Did we do double shots? I don’t remember. The bottle was taken away. Steph explaining to a bartender how to make it, asking for comments from us. I think I contemplated what numbers meant, aloud. Or how irrelevant they were. There was a sixth drink where the bartender was all on their own. I don’t remember it, not really. There were other drinks, I feel? I’m not sure.

I think Tim carried me home. Did Therese call him? Or was it Steph talking to him? I called him, trying out my new phone. And apparently, according to Steph’s words, “Someone’s wasted and needs a man taxi.” Why she didn’t get a taxi I don’t know, either way Steph is insisting she drives Therese home. Or someone drives her home. And Steph certainly can’t drive. They’re talking about definitely going home...

Tim is being all sexy but refusing to fuck me. I don’t know why but Columbo is interrogating him. Is Columbo interrogating me? He has a question for me? I don’t care though because I’m trying my best to get slobbery with Tim, who’s a stupid asshole and busy laughing. But I can still feel his tongue in my mouth, or is it my tongue in his mouth? Maybe I’m biting his ear? Did he scream?

I mock his girly scream as I try to unzip his pants, which he rejects. That’s fine. Pants are too complicated! Skirts for life, I scream, as he carries me, I think.

I feel light as air and someone’s undressing me. They’re taking my pantihose off, and my underwear. Men can’t unfasten bras but somehow he does. I’m a woman, I say. And he tells me to go sleep. And he refuses to play with my boobs. Eventually I get him to rest one hand there, on my tit, and I think he likes my naked butt squeezing into him. I reach back and give him a handjob, or at least I think I do. I hope I do.

I still feel him pressing into me, and I force myself to stay awake, struggling with his giant... Arguing I just want him to...