short story

Darkness

“I love you.“

The tingle deep in my body when I look into her eyes has never stopped over the past few months. Pure happiness floods over everything I should be worried about. At least for a tiny moment, because the worries always come back to the surface. They have to, otherwise it would be dangerous.

I look at the clock. We probably have another hour, so we should get moving in thirty minutes, maybe twenty to be safe. That’s a lot of time. And it’s almost nothing.

She strokes my hair with her hands and I put mine on her waist in return, gently rubbing the area around her bellybutton. The blanket on our bodies forms a safe and warm cocoon around us. Still, the outside world manages to sneak up on us in the form of my thoughts.

“It will be settled after today. I will marry your brother.”

“Shhhh.”

She never wants to talk about it, pretending to live in a perfect world where our little moments together are all that matters. I envy her for that. And it drives me crazy.

It must have shown on my face, because she gives in with a sigh, still smiling, unwilling to give up her happiness.

“At least he’s my brother. That’s a good thing. We won’t lose each other. Ever.”

She comes closer and whispers with a grin: “It’s our free pass.”

It’s not, and she knows it.

“Doesn’t it bother you that you have to share me with him?”

“Maybe I care a little about sharing your body.” She brushes her fingers teasingly over my breastbone. “But I know I’ll never have to share your passion.”

That last sentence is so sweet, and she is so sure that everything will be fine, that I almost tear up. Maybe she’s right. The important thing is that I’ll never lose her. And with this marriage, she will be in my life forever.

My body is shaken by my love for her and I whisper it to her and she whispers it back.

Then someone opens the door. Our heads shoot into the air and all I can think is: It’s too soon.

I love you.

The words still linger in the air when the shouting starts. As people flood into the room, I lose her touch. They push themselves between us, all familiar faces but none of them look me in the eye. There is my father, flailing his arms. Her father, screaming louder than anyone else. Her brother who is supposed to become my fiancé today. Mothers, siblings, other relatives, more than should fit into this tiny bedroom.

The tears of joy I almost cried in her arms suddenly come to light as tears of dismay. They flow all over my face, blinding me. I can’t see the room or the people, and I can only imagine her amidst the chaos.

Someone hands me a blanket and wraps me in it when I don’t do anything with it. It’s only then that I realise how naked I am. I didn’t feel naked before. Not with her.

I can’t care that my breasts brush against the coarse fibres of the blanket. The other blanket, the cuddly, soft one, is wrapped around her body. I still feel its touch on my back and thighs, even more than the memory of her hands on my body. Suddenly she’s infinitely far away.

Will I ever touch her again?

That’s the last thought I can form before a whirlwind of fear hits me. Mortal fear. It clenches my waist and squeezes my organs so tightly that I am sure to throw up. But my gastric juice stays where it is, boiling in my stomach. Everything is spinning around me, faster and faster, and my chest gets beaten with what feels like thousands of tiny fists. I try to protect myself by wrapping my arms around my body, almost losing the blanket again. It doesn’t work. The whirlwind is coming from within; its centre is right at my core.

I hear voices, but I can’t understand them. Her voice is there too, almost louder than all the others. Some of her words reach my brain. They sound agitated, desperate, and they don’t make any sense. They still don’t when my fear finally lets through entire sentences.

“She forced me. She’s a pervert. I never wanted this.”

Everything goes dark and all I feel is astonishment as my legs collapse under me.

The darkness is still there when I open my eyes. My hands grab something soft that I am lying on and a scratchy blanket covering my body. I’m not naked anymore, which fills me with both relief and shame, because it means someone else has dressed me.

I almost smile as I realise how surreal this feeling is, when I should be thinking about how I can’t see anything. The surreality helps me to stay calm.

My hand brushes over the soft, slightly mouldy smelling thing and then reaches a cold, rough wall. I have to get up on wobbly knees in the process, but finally I find a switch. Nothing happens for a long breath, then there’s light and I stay blind until my eyes get used to it and I can take in my surroundings. There is a mattress on a dusty floor, and a pile of boxes next to it. It is a basement room, no doubt, but it’s not one of my family’s. Am I in a relative’s basement? Or even hers?

Suddenly, her face fills my mind and slowly, what has happened sinks in. 

We are over.

I won’t marry her brother.

There is no happy ending.

If I’m lucky, they send me far away to marry someone who couldn’t get a normal wife, or they even let me work in the countryside under the strict guard of a distant relative. If I’m not so lucky, they turn me in.  I can’t think further of what might happen then.

Do I regret what I have done? Wasn’t the passion, the feeling of freedom and the honest, pure love between her and me worth all the consequences?

Only I’m not sure about the honesty and purity anymore.

I love you.

She said it too. I know she did.

She said all the other things too. The things that could save her and condemn me even more. I can still sense the joy those three words used to fill me with, but now they taste bitter. A little film is running in my head, again and again starting with the door of her bedroom bursting open. I keep seeing her grab the blanket that covered our nest of love and cover herself with it, leaving me naked in the middle of our screaming families. The tears come back and also the whirlwind in my stomach. There’s fear, shame, grief. I fall back onto the mattress and imagine her lying next to me; in a world where she hasn’t made herself the victim and me the pervert.

A key turns in the door. Someone is coming to tell me what will happen to me. They probably won’t tell me, what’s going to happen to her.

I love you.

Did she really say it? Did I ever mean it? Does it matter anymore?

It has been a long time since my last story post. Now I’m determined to finish this project in my own time. I  have finished this story that I started months ago – definitely the most difficult yet – and I want to keep going. Not on a every week, I can’t keep up with that, but every second week. Let’s see how this turns out! I’m very excited for Letter E which will be more hopeful again and probably one of my favourite stories.

CHAOS

ALPHABET SUPERSET WEEK 3

A storm rages through my life. It’s coming from within, swirling around my organs, catapulting fire through my veins. And it follows me everywhere I go, even now as I enter the hall next to my parents and sit down in the same row as every week.

We are greeted by the other people already sitting there. Mum does most of the talking, but there are always some questions directed at me.

“You look so pale. Are you eating enough?”

“Would you like to help with the cake buffet next week?”

“Are they really hosting a drag show at your school?”

I try not to show anything of the storm while I answer.

“Mum makes sure of that.”

“Sorry, I can’t. The day after I have this big maths test.”

“What? No, not at all. The drama club is doing a variation of As You Like It, so they are playing with gender roles.”

Of course, the last question is the most interesting for everyone. It is for me too. I stood in front of the announcement poster for ages. But while I was intrigued, everyone around me stops and stares at me in shock.

“How awful!”

“Those poor children!”

“Why can’t they choose something more traditional?”

My heart begins to beat faster. I feel the need to react, but I don’t know how.

“It’s Shakespeare,” I say mechanically. No one seems to hear me.

“It’s so obvious that they are targeting children.”

“Those teachers should get fired immediately.”

“You are right. How can our children grow up to be healthy adults if they are surrounded by this … chaos?”

That’s Dad. His words sting in my chest, but I would never admit that. I’m not even sure why they’re bothering me.

Before I can think about it, a new person joins the group. Every other voice except His falls silent in an instant. I try to avoid His gaze and the same time don’t dare to look past Him.

“There’s no need to panic,” He says. “We can fight this if you are strong. But these fragile children are depending on you, so each one of you” – He glares into every face that surrounds Him – “must step up and fight for them. The enemies are growing by the minute.”

Then He leaves us alone again. They all look after Him in awe before settling down on their seats. My heart pounds, shaken by the storm. I hope it will survive the next hour.

There’s singing and praying, which is mostly okay and sometimes nice, and then there’s the sermon. He takes the microphone and speaks. They always talk about how calming His voice is. Maybe I would agree if I felt differently.

“I have just heard how frightened some of you are because of what is happening in our own neighbourhood. Let me give you hope.”

Mum lets out a sigh, as if this little statement had lifted a huge weight from her chest. I don’t really want to listen, but of course I do.

“There are people who try to scare you by telling you how complex the world is. How it has so many dimensions you’ll never be able to grasp. How it’s different from everything you’ve ever learned; and how you’re wrong to believe and act upon the values you’ve known all your life. These people want complexity in their lives so badly that they havestopped believing in the simplicity that God has given us.”

The world around me is peaceful, orderly. It’s cosily anxious instead of an unimaginable mess. Because they feel what He says. Because they know that what He says is true. I can’t say that for myself, and I’m ashamed of it.

“We all are created as either men or women. We are meant to mate with the opposite sex, and bring new children, boys and girls, into the world. Everything else is chaos.”

“Chaos,” Mum mutters beside me. “The chaos is spreading.”

I can feel it. It’s filling out my body and it’s even more chaotic than anyone could ever preach. Because I don’t know who I am. My fist clenches and only manages to relax when I let my mind wander away for a few precious seconds.

Until, to my utter horror, He looks me straight in the eye. 

“So I particularly want to speak to all the children, teenagers and young adults here in this room: Don’t be blinded by the false promise of adventure and excitement. What begins as fun turns into doubt and ends with a whole forest of sin taking root in your soul. Don’t let them plant that dangerous seed of doubt in you.”

Does He know? I struggle not to squirm under His gaze. There is doubt inside me, more than I ever thought would fit in my body. It feels awful, like it’s eating away at my insides. There is no sense of adventure or excitement or fun, not even in the slightest. All I percieve is pain. It lingers as His eyes continue their journey down the hall.

“Don’t let them frighten you. You are stronger because God is behind you. There are millions of people next to you. They can’t hurt you. You are not alone.”

All I hear is: You are alone. You deserve to suffer. God has abandoned you.

My eyes burn. A tear makes its way down my cheekbone to dry in the corner of my mouth. Then there’s another one and then many more. Still, my back is straight and my eyes look forward. Don’t move, don’t attract attention. Don’t attract His stare again.

But of course, that doesn’t work for everyone. Mum always notices. I can more feel than see her looks on my face. There’s surprise. Worry. Horror.

“What is it?” she exclaims far to loudly.

I just shake my head, still looking rigidly to the front, even though my eyes are so flooded I can barely see. She rummages through her handbag, then pushes a handkerchief into my hands. I use it clumsily. It only helps a little.

“What happened?”

There’s panic in her voice. The caring type of panic. I can’t tell her because then it’ll turn into a different kind of panic. The disgusted, hateful one.

She grabs my chin to make me look at her, then something hits her. Her fingers let go of my face and clutch my hand instead.

“You know someone, who’s been caught by the agenda,” she hisses, finally lowering her voice. “Is it one of your friends?”

I’m physically unable to answer.

“Is it Sarah? Is she a lesbian?”

Then she inhales sharply. “It’s Abraham, isn’t it? He always seemed a bit off. Don’t tell me that he wants to be a woman.”

Abraham’s uncle, sitting two rows in front of us, turns his head and I instinctively shush her.

“It’s not that”, I manage to say, my voice a complete mess.

Now she looks confused. “Then what is it?”

She has no idea. And I dread the day she finds out about the storm.

“It’s got nothing to do with that”, I lie. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Maybe I can lock myself in my room soon enough when we get home to have more time to think of a believable story. I hate the storm for making me lie. And that almost makes me dissolve into tears again, because hating the storms feels like hating myself much too much.

The rest of the sermon doesn’t reach my brain. It sounds like a distant murmur, the prayers that follow like a swarm of bees. An angry one, circling around me and waiting for the right moment to attack. And I can’t shake off the feeling that the most dangerous bee is sitting right next to me, still holding my hand and not in the least bit finished with our conversation.

We sing one last song and then we are done. Mum chats a little more and Dad brainstorms about how to intervene in my school play. I don’t care any more. I’m too deeply involved in the chaos left over from today’s outburst of my inner storm. So I let myself be guided out of the building, past the door that’s guarded by Him. The fear settles, the chaos remains.

Beginning

ALPHABET SUPERSET WEEK 2

It’s a special afternoon, but I don’t know that yet.

All I know for now is that Lia and I are sorting out the mailbox and, while we are at it, everything that is lying around in our home office. She’s very motivated, I’m not so much because there’s some research I’d like to do privately. And I feel bad working on something with her when I have secret plans.

Of course, I can’t tell her any of that, so I try to keep up with her questions and with her demands for this folder and that folder. I usually think of myself as organised, but next to her I’m a chaos queen.

“What is this?”

I look up and immediately recognise the Post-it note she has torn from the back of my last pay slip. The letters, carefully drawn in black marker, shine through the paper.

1. Lia

2. Kaleb

3. Psyche

4. Everyone

5. Looks

6. Bureaucracy

And after number seven there’s a smiley face.

I’m in charge of the budged; Lia doesn’t usually bother with this kind of document. At least when it doesn’t get in the way of her tidying up. Still, I must have known it could happen.

The plan is simple, but very complex. Nobody was to know until it was their turn to be involved.

Step 1: Tell Lia. Opening up to anyone else first would feel like a betrayal.

It was to be carried out on 5 July, the day after her birthday. Now it’s barely June and she’s freaked out because things are stressful at work and Kaleb’s struggling at school and she really wanted to plan a nice birthday party for herself this year. I could – maybe should – tell her that I don’t remember, or make up some kind of believable story.

But I have already lied to her too much in the past year, just by accepting that she called me her husband. She deserves the truth. Not just before anyone else, but now. Or maybe it’s not about her at all, but about my desire not to be the only one to know.

I throw away my mental timetable. The clock starts ticking for each step.

Step 2: Tell Kaleb. He’ll understand, I think.

“Let’s sit down,” I say, settling on our little sofa by the office door.

She’s already going through the next pile of papers and seems confused, when she looks up. Maybe she would have forgotten she even asked if I had just ignored her question. Too late now.

“What’s up?”, she asks, more curious than suspicious.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” Anything could follow that sentence. I feel guilty, but I don’t have any other words right now.

She finally sits down next to me, looking as worried as I had feared.

“It’s nothing bad” I rush to say. “Actually, it could be good.”

Why am I relativising it? It is already good because it is my identity.

Step 3: Go to therapy and let myself be guided through the process. Not just for mental health, but also because it‘s required by law.

“So,” I say to gain time. How do I start? Why didn’t I plan this? Because I thought I had another four or five weeks, of course.

Her face is one big question. I have to say something.

“Do you remember when we went shopping in this tiny Italian town?”

“Portofino,” she says, looking more confused than ever.

“Portofino, yeah.” I fall silent again. Why did I start with that memory? It’s not the moment of realisation (which doesn’t really exist). I knew back then. It was just a normal, except above-average nice day pretending to be a man.

“What’s the matter?”

I can’t give her answers as quickly as she needs them.

“I really liked it. Shopping with you. Especially in that boutique. The one next by the water.”

“Me too.” Her face lights up.

It makes me realise how I sounded. A lot like “I secretly bought you that dress you liked so much.”

There was a dress. And she liked it a lot and I liked it a lot. It was green with some blue stains, with a tight waist and a wide skirt that ended just below the knees. She looked gorgeous in it, but decided not to buy it because she didn’t know when to wear it – too casual for a wedding, too elegant for a garden party.

As she stood in front of the mirror, letting the skirt fly around her thighs and weighing up the price against the use, all I could think about was how it would feel to wear it myself. I had no intention of buying it or wearing it in public. My thoughts couldn’t go that far back then, just after I had discovered the truth about myself. I simply wished I could try it on without being weird. I could see how much stronger and more confident Lia felt just by wearing that piece of clothing. I longed for the same. But I knew, all I would feel was insecurity and shame.

Step 4: Tell everyone else and demand that they call me by my chosen name and use the right pronouns. Friends, relatives, colleagues, neighbours. I didn‘t realise how many people I know until I started making lists in my head that I didn’t dare write down because they would look like to-notify-if-I-die-lists which would probably upset both Lia and Kaleb if they found them.

“I’m not ashamed anymore,” I say, completely out of context for her.

“Ashamed?”

“Yeah, it has been there for a long time. But I don’t want it anymore.”

She remains silent.

I really don’t like big talks. No wonder this was so easy to procrastinate on.

“I am who I am.”

It sounds stupid as it comes out of my mouth. But in her confusion I see a suspicion, just a small one. Probably, deep down she already knows already because of all the time, energy and love we have spent on each other.

“I’m a woman, Lia. I’ve always been.”

Now it’s out, and in an ideal world that’s everything it needs to keep living our lifes, only better. In the real word she moves away from me, not out of disgust or fear, but out of pain. It hurts me that my identity is hurting her.

“Why did you marry me?”, she asks. “I married a man. At least you let me believe that.”

There’s another stab in my chest.

“I didn’t know then. Something was strange, but I thought, it was normal to feel lost in your own body.”

Step 5: Change my appearance to fit my self-image.

Again, there’s silence until she breaks it.

“So how long have you known?”

“A year.”

“And when were you going to tell me?”

I don’t want to throw my carefully crafted plan at her. Because it doesn’t help her now, that I intended to spare her emotions until after her birthday.

“You always were at the top of my list”, I say instead, pointing to the post-it note that somehow ended up lying under the desk. She stands up, looks at it and then puts it back where she found it.

Step 6: Deal with all the bureaucratic and medical stuff. Change my name legally. Start taking hormones. Have surgery if I opt for it.

“I have to clean the bathroom.” For anyone, this would be completely out of context, but I get it.

She likes to clean while she thinks. Even though I don’t want her to leave until we are all settled, I know I have to.

“I’ll make dinner later.”

Of course this is not about sharing chores equally. But I really want her to know that I’m still the partner she knows and can rely on. She doesn’t answer, but rushes towards the door.

“Oh, you’re home already”, she says as she steps out into the hallway.

I freeze. Then I turn my head slowly.

“Dad?” Kaleb is standing in the doorway, looking as pale as I feel. “You’re trans, Dad?”

This was not written down, not even thought of in any plan. We stare at each other for a long moment.

Finally I manage to say: “I’m trans.”

“Wow.”

That’s all I get from him. Then he disappears into his room, acting like a teenage cliché by slamming the door and putting on loud music.

A smiley face looks at me from my pay slip.

Step 7: The struggle is worth it.

He will come around eventually, they all will. Kaleb will call me something else as proudly as he calls me Dad now. Lia will realise how wonderful it is to have a wife. Each step of my plan will come true.

This was only the beginning of my happy ending.

Adventure

ALPHABET SUPERSET WEEK 1

Her hand squeezes mine and my heart jumps. I can feel how soft her skin is, except for the fingertips that are sore from pressing the guitar strings. I like to think that they’re sore from love because it was that night by the river, when she wouldn’t stop strumming, sometimes dissonantly but with so much passion. It was that night that our love sprouted.

I realise how cheesy my thoughts sound, but I like that. A lot. Perfectly cheesy. I mouth these words and I can’t help but grin. I’m grinning a lot these days.

Our eyes lock and hers fill with curiosity.

“Why are you grinning?” she asks.

“I don’t know,“ I say, grinning even wider because I perfectly do know.

My happiness runs over and I start to giggle. She starts giggling too and we squeeze each others hands tighter and look into each others eyes deeper and there is a bubble of emotion stretching all around us. I’m so happy that it almost hurts because no giggling, no laughing in the world can absorb so much love to keep my body from exploding.

She leans her forehead against mine and suddenly I´m calm again. The corners of my mouth drop because I can see her eyes even more clearly now and they are so beautiful that I could drown in them. Maybe, I think, my thoughts aren’t perfectly cheesy after all, but way over the top cheesy. Too much to be healthy. But they still feel good.

“We should go,“ she whispers.

I nod reluctantly. She lifts her head and withdraws her hand from mine, which leaves a small feeling of emptiness. There is energy in her movements as she stands and grabs her jacket and shoes. Her face is turned away, but she keeps talking.

“I think we should take the route over the hill. I know, it’s more strenuous, but we’re already a bit late.”

I don’t mind being late. To be honest, I don’t mind being so late that there’s no point in coming at all. But of course, I can’t say that because it would destroy her expectations of this becoming the most fun night of the week. Only, I’m not a good actor and she’s not stupid.

When she turns around to me her expression changes from excited to confused to worried.

“What’s wrong?”

Shame washes over me. It’s so dumb.

“Nothing,“ I lie. “I’m just –”

Because I don’t know how to finish the sentence, I shut my mouth again. I can’t even explain to myself why exactly I’m still sitting there as if I was glued to the spot. Part of me expects her to get annoyed, to tell me to pull myself together, because, honestly, that’s what I want to tell myself. But all she does is sit down and take my hand again.

“Are you nervous?”, she asks softly. “Are you even afraid?”

She knows me. How can she know me so well when it has been only four or five weeks since we first spoke to each other? I manage to nod, the shame still burning just behind my forehead. There is no reason for any fear. I love her, she loves me, this is normal. And there is no one there tonight who would ever think otherwise.

But there will be mutual friends at the party, which means everybody will know. And there will be my brother, who wouldn’t tell my family if I asked him. But that would feel even worse.

She smiles and all I want to do is melt my body against hers and hug her tightly and let her hug me even tighter until we both forget our plans and this conversation and are just two people in love. But her arm, connected to mine by our hands, makes sure we keep enough distance to talk.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not,“ I bring myself to say.

“It is. I’ve been there. Almost all of my queer friends have been there, and I guess most of yours too.”

Memories flash through my mind. My friend shaking with nervousness while telling me about his male crush. My flatmate carefully mentioning that she was trans, as if I wouldn’t want to live with her if I found out. But this was different. It wasn’t about me then. I was just the recipient of the news, the noble straight cis woman becoming an ally.

Still, I ask: “Have you?”

And I feel relief when she says: “We have. It’s normal.”

Then I ignore her distancing arm and pull her into a tight embrace, plant another kiss on her lips – how can a kiss taste so sweet! – and tell myself that I can overcome any silly nervousness with her on my side.

I am not entirely convinced by this, but I withdraw from the hug and get ready myself. She deserves a happy evening, not one with a fearful girlfriend hesitating to leave the closet behind. Nothing bad is going to happen tonight.

We cross the courtyard to get our bikes. She stops before climbing on hers, then moves closer for a brief moment to brush her lips against mine, then down my cheek until she reaches my ear.

“You look beautiful,“ she whispers and I smile.

The weight lifts a little as we ride through the dusk. The wind blows our jackets up and my hair into my face. And it takes most of the shame and anxiousness with it, up into the air and away. The giggles start again in my chest. I love the wind, the cold in my fingers, riding right behind to her. Has it been like this before? I can’t remember.

I have been in love before. There has been sillyness, a world painted all in pink, illogical pride as we walked hand in hand, wanting to scream into the world: Look, I have a partner. They are so perfectly wonderful! But it never has been a woman and somehow that makes everything different.

There’s hardly any traffic and we are making good progress. So we allow ourselves to slow down a little as we pass through the park. I ride alongside her and hold out my hand. It feels brave, almost as brave as the moment barely three weeks ago when I reached out for the first time ever. She touches my fingers with hers, so gently that we can both pull them back easily if we need to. Yet, it feels powerful. Not just because I love the touch of her hand, but also because I know that everyone can see it. It makes me feel insecure and bold at the same time. And as if I could make an important political statement with just an act of affection. It’s scary, but it’s also empowering. Part of me longs for the stares, for people to recognise how special we are.

The narrow bikelane beyond the park’s boundary forces us to let go of each other’s hands. Once again, all I see of her is her back and the sticker on the back of her helmet. It seems to be queer-affirming in some way I don’t yet understand.

That’s the other thing preoccupying me. There is a whole world of queerness that I cannot begin to understand. Loving her makes me part of it, but it doesn’t really feel that way. I have known plenty of queer people, but never have I seen myself as one of them. Now this incredibly colourful, adventurous and – more often than it should be – dangerous world is open to me. Am I an intruder? Do I really belong there just because I fell in love with a woman?

As the hill gets steeper, I fall back because I am too much lost in my thoughts to pay any attention to physical activity. After a while she notices and waits for me.

“Can we push?“ I ask, as I come closer. “I’d like to not be all stinky when we get there.“

Of course she says yes and then I have her next to me again, because they have built more space for pedestrians than for cyclists. She tries to deflect my thoughts, which she probably still suspects somewhere around my parents finding out about my non-straightness.

“It’s only a few weeks until the Pride parade”, she says. “Did you know that it’s the city’s 40th anniversary this year?”

I am grateful for what she is trying to do, but the comment forms another ball of shame in my chest.

“I’ve never been to Pride. Not even with queer friends,“ I confess.

She seems strangely excited. “Then I can take you to your first one.“ Her eyes twinkle, then fill with uncertainty. “That is, if you want to go with me.”

“I don’t know.”

I feel her disappointment. It fuels the growth of this ball of shame.

“What’s stopping you?“

I can’t answer this question with an empty phrase because I don’t want to hurt her.

“It somehow feels like an initiation ritual for being part of the queer community. I don’t feel ready for that. And I definitely don’t feel worthy.”

She laughs, grabs my waist and pulls me tight, which stings a little as her bike gets crushed between us. Warmth grows over the shame. She loves me so much that she doesn’t care.

“No one has to be worthy”, she says, still giggling. It’s the way her arm rests on my waist that prevents me from feeling laughed at. “If you want to be part of the queer community, then you are.”

“Am I queer enough for that?” I can’t hold back the question.

She stops us, turns to face me and smiles boldly.

“Well, at least you are about to give your girlfriend a very, very hot kiss.”

Then, we are in the middle of it and everything melts into a blur of sensations.

When we finally pull apart, our eyes lock and there is so much passion in just that gaze, that it feels like an elongation of the kiss.

I love you, I think; not quite ready to say it out loud, but very ready to admit it to myself. Why wouldn’t I want to be queer, when it involves loving this woman?

And then I understand how to cope.

“It’s an adventure.”

Confusion washes over her face.

“You set me up for an adventure.” I smile at her. “It’s like Bilbo and the search for the ring, or the wardrobe that leads to Narnia. I have the choice to stay out of it. But I guess that would be boring.”

She grins. “Would it?”

As we continue our way uphill, my thoughts do a zick-zack dance. I fall silent again, unable to express them. There is a world full of every colour of the rainbow, of people freeing themselves from heteronormative expectations, of endless ideas about love and identity and even more ways expressing them. I am able to set foot into it – or I’m already half in the door, if I’m honest. How priviledged can one be? It’s a big adventure. Standing out, fitting in, broadening the own horizons. Getting to know many more kinds of queerness and feeling as part of a sometimes celebratory, sometimes suffering, but always strong community.

At the top of the hill, I squeeze her hand once more. It gives me courage. Then, we get on our bikes.

“Ready?” she asks, sounding as if no would be a perfectly acceptable answer.

“Ready. Let’s give those party people something to gossip about.“

Our bikes shoot downhill and once again the wind pushes cold into my face. I can’t stop grinning. Maybe she won’t have to wait any longer than tonight before I am ready to tell her how much I would love to accompany her to the Pride.