Bellies

by Nicola Dinan

and pretended to understand Judith Butler.

me in 9th grade

then plucked some stray hairs in between my eyebrows the way that Mum once told me to. A few years ago I’d found a pair of tweezers on my desk from her. I’m not saying you have to do it, Tom. I’m here to give you the tools, but I’m definitely not saying you have to. No shame either way, but just in case you wanted to.

We’d moved through the city like friends. The most he did out of the house was shovel food onto my plate, affection buried in soup and grain.

Poor fucking Tom. Stupid fucking Tom. It’d all be a good play, wouldn’t it.

There’s an edge of humility to his unjustified confidence, and I find all of this extremely charming. I don’t know why. Patriarchy, I guess!

We eat a dim sum lunch in a shabby restaurant. It’s filled with Chinese people, which means that we trust it.

I contemplated a non-Asian meal, but Asian food in New York is excellent, and Cindy feels faint if she goes too long without noodles or white rice.

but it was about that time you said you wanted to transit.” “It’s transition—”

“I have the right to turn trauma into art,” I muttered, the words feeling emptier out loud than in my head. “Oh, come on, that’s so pretentious.” Rob laughed and rolled his eyes. “You think you’re some fucking Sally Rooney, do you?” “Is Sally Rooney trans?” Jamie asked. Everyone fell silent.

Cass, like many women our age, thinks fingering soil and watering shit will bring her peace.

And although the room feels submerged in grief, and the bed and lamps and books and bodies float weightless underwater, his body is an oxygen tank, a life raft, a buoy.

“You’re smiling,” he says. I am confused for a moment, and then I understand. “I’m smiling. You’re smiling.” “I’m smiling.”