Retransitioned
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I saw him across the room, and my blood ran cold. I knew when we split up that I would have to avoid all the places that we loved to go to together, and to avoid mixing with people that we knew as a couple, but it seemed to me this was not one of those places. He was not interested in art before he met me, so why would he be at the opening of that exhibition?

I turned away and moved behind one of the hanging panels. I did not want to appear to be hiding from him. But I had to trust that my drastic change of appearance would be enough. Surely even if he met me face to face, he would not know me? After all, he knew me as Celeste. Now I was back to being Matthew.

I buried myself in looking at the art. Art does not look back. I find that most people at an exhibition like that spend more time looking at the lookers rather than what was supposed to be looked at. From that point I decided that I only had eyes for something that could not see me.

But it did not work. I caught his eye. I turned my gaze but not in a way that would seem deliberate. It meant that I did not see him approach until he was standing beside me, staring at the same painting.

“It’s an interesting piece,” he said – a simple way to strike up a conversation.

I needed to say something, and decided that I would drop the tone of my voice, which was naturally high, but not as high as when I had been Celeste. I said – “Yes. Interesting.”

“I am sure that we haven’t met, but you have an appearance similar to somebody I know, or knew. Do you know Celeste Dougan?”

I could have said “no”. But I was Matthew Dougan. It seemed better to follow another course, which I did without enough thought.

“That is my sister,” I said. “Although I don’t see her much these days.” I never see her. Not anymore.

“I wonder if she ever mentioned me?” he asked. Then he thrust out his hand. “Conrad Garrison”. He introduced himself. I had to shake his hand. I did it more firmly than I would. I looked at his face. I found that hard to do – to look into his eyes. Instead I focused on the space between them.

“Matthew Dougan”, I growled, as manly as I could be.

“Perhaps Celeste mentioned me?”

“Like I said. We have not been in the same room together for so long I cannot recall,” I said, trying to be clever with myself.

“I was in a relationship with her,” he said.

“Oh, I see.” Was that what it was? It was certainly headed that way. But it was the end of Celeste. She was a lie, and you can only carry a lie for so long. It had to end, and with her any thought of Con had to end too. Collateral damage.

“She broke it off. I don’t know why. Things were getting serious.”

“She’s a woman. You know women. Flighty – right?” It was the kind of thing a man would say to another man, and I was a man, so I said it.

“She was troubled. I should have been more understanding. I should have been the person she could open up to.” To my relief he looked away, back at the wall.

“Don’t beat yourself up, pal. There are plenty of women out there.” I was going to move away – not without saying something, but for some reason I was transfixed. Somehow in profile I understood why I had been attracted to him, and why I still was.

All the thoughts hit me as I stood, trying not to tremble. His hands on my smooth body, his tongue in my mouth, his eyes devouring me. I lived for the moments I was with him. I loved him, and for that reason I wanted only the best for him. That was not me. I had to let him go. I had to.

“Is it a man or a woman?” he said without turning.

“Sorry?” This was unexpected, yet not. He had found me out.

“The painting. Is that a man or a woman?”

I did not even look. I said – “Does it matter?”

“It does to me,” he said, still looking at the wall.

I followed his glance. It looked like nothing. A mess of colors and squiggles, like the inside of my brain. Just bright confusion, inducing nausea like motion sickness.

“It’s a woman, I think. A distressed woman. Very distressed and perhaps even suicidal.”

“It would be easier to see that she was a woman if her hair was a little longer,” he said. There was not even a head visible in the painting, but it was now clear that he was not talking about that at all. I reached up and ran a hand across my full scalp of short soft hair.

“Hair grows back.”

“I hope so,” he said. “And where are her breasts?” He was pointing at the squiggles.

“Bound up. A surgeon has been booked, but to be honest, I don’t think I can go through with it.”

He turned to me. He said – “A surgeon is the answer, but not here.”

He reached across and touched me, right in the middle of the gallery. Even through the bandaging I could feel that touch, as if it were electricity. I felt faint. But more than that, I felt like a woman again.

Right there in front of everybody, Conrad Garrison took Matthew Dougan into his arms and kissed. It may have appeared to be two men kissing, but it was not. I was not Matthew Dougan. I was Celeste, again. I had de-transitioned, and in that moment, I had re-transitioned. Love will do that.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2022

1000 words

Celeste is back, but I will need to grow my hair!