I let Abby tell me about being misgendered at work while I take slow, continuous sips of my drink. “They slap wrists but, like, nothing happens,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “That’s construction for you.” “That sounds fucking horrible.” “It’s fine,” she says. “Like they say, it gets better.” Does it? I hope it does. For Abby, at least. I find it a little devastating that people can become this inured to cruelty.
