From the moment I stepped onto the bus, there was something about me that didn’t sit right with you.
You couldn’t put your finger on it, but I knew what it was from the start, from the way that you looked at me.
You heard my voice as I greeted the driver. As you eyed me up and down, searching for my curves, you decided that I was, indeed, “a woman who was trying to be a man.”
And I think that’s what got your goat. I think you didn’t like that I had the nerve to stray outside of what you thought I ought to be.
I took my seat, and after I did, my partner – a masculine queer who, shocker, you also didn’t care for – sat next to me. You crinkled your nose at us, as if we smelled vile, as if we were…
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