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White Sweety Milk
4ef090
I looked at chips at my drug store. I held a tall can of soda in one hand and my prescriptions, already paid for, in my other. My second year on estrogen had come and gone, and while I enjoyed my journey it still felt, unfinished. My black hair was up in a ponytail, with spring rains ending and summer fully on us I was able to wear shorts and shirts again. Allowing everyone to see my glow in the dark, scrawny little white chicken legs.
Not that it mattered much. I was far too insecure to take off my sweaters or jackets, no matter how hot it was or how hot my best friend Sam claimed I looked without one on. I couldn't separate myself from a strange, lingering dysphoria. Shorts felt good, I told myself, it felt good to present feminine. Then again, it never really hurt to present masculine. But that was common right, nothing really fits anyone, right?
"Do you have work today?" Sam asked me, looking at the employee at the end of the aisle pretending to face products. It was supposed to be a college town, more liberal.
"Yeah, sorry," I said. Pulling a big bag of chips off the shelf.
"Was hoping to hang out," Sam said, smiling. Her smile always made me smile back. She wore a zipper hoodie like me, but that was always her style. Stoner, skater, low effort chill aesthetic. Her curled black hair hung over her left eye. Parts of it were dyed green and white. It was shaved down on the sides, down to the scalp. It was like a mix between a mohawk and an emo cut she saw online. She put her hands into my jacket.
"I'll be free after work," I said, as she leaned against me. "Just working the projector is all."
"You'll be working something," she said, smiling wide.
"Wh-whatever dude," I said, smiling back. "Why don't you get a job too?"
"I did, remember?" Sam said. "The afro-feminist liberty book store."
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