The woman sitting across from me sighs and sets down her drink. “Okay, ask what you want to ask.”

My mind races. There’s a lot I want to ask, but I didn’t think I’d have a chance this soon. Would I be better off playing coy? “What do you mean?”

She rolls her eyes and leans forward, her low-cut dress displaying more cleavage than I’d have expected to see this early on a first date – not that cleavage has been that interesting to me as of late. “I mean that if you were interested in me, instead of what you think I can do for you, you’d be staring more.” She sits up. “It’s okay, really. It’s an occupational hazard of matching with newbies on Gendr. Sometimes you get someone who’s interested in exploring their new bodies, other times you get people with questions. Clearly you’re the latter. I don’t mind; I just don’t want to waste either of our time on pretense when I can give you what you want right now.”

My shoulders slump, and I adjust Chelsea’s dress. My “date” has clocked me precisely and accurately. But, as she said, that means there isn’t a need to waste either of our time anymore. I lean over, pushing the unfamiliar long hair out of my eyes. “Does this ever… feel normal?”

My date’s eyes widen. “Wow, going right for the throat there.” She leans back, thinking, then answers. “I have to admit I’m not used to that phrasing. Usually I get, ‘does this get easier’ and I can say that it just gets different. But normal is a bit of a horse of a different color. You see, it happened to me when this body was eleven, so all of this,” she gestures up and down her body, “would have been a change for whoever was in this body at the time – I just happened to have sixty years of life as a man first instead of eleven years as a girl. You, on the other hand, switched more recently into a body that was already, what, twenty-seven?” I nod. “So you’re experiencing things for the first time that would be normal if you’d grown up in that body. As to whether that’s going to ever feel normal for you? I think that depends on how normal you make it.”

TWO HOURS AGO

If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it properly, I decide. Hair, makeup, dress, everything. I don’t know how to do this, but I seem to have kept some of Chelsea’s muscle memory, so maybe I can rely on what she was used to.

The shower and dress are the easiest parts. Not that I’m comfortable in Chelsea’s body yet, but I’ve done both of these before. This dress is fancier than the other ones I’ve worn from Chelsea’s closet, but the principles of putting dresses on remains somewhat consistent, at least.

I decide to go for hair next. I’ve been doing Chelsea’s hair simply – brushed straight and put into a high ponytail – but that doesn’t seem right for a date. I cheat a little and look around Chelsea’s apartment and in her phone to look for pictures of her dressed up. I find a couple that have the same hairstyle, and do my best to imitate it. I don’t do a terrible job, but I’m sure Chelsea would have done better.

Now for the part I’m least confident in – makeup. From the pictures I have and the feedback I’ve received from friends and coworkers, Chelsea tended to wear a lot of it. I haven’t been putting on much, but maybe tonight is the night to change that.

Ten frustrating minutes later, I change my mind. The muscle memory’s kicked in, but none of it seems right – like Chelsea’s body would know what to do if my mind gave it the right instructions, but I’ve lost the manual. I do what I’ve been doing and stick with lips and eyes. Hopefully the bar’s a bit dark and Doreen won’t notice or won’t care.

NOW

Doreen can tell I’m not content with her answer. She tilts her head at me. “You asked about normal. Has anything felt normal, or started feeling more normal?”

I think for a minute. “Only the experiences that I think are fairly universal regardless of gender. Eating, drinking, watching television, reading, things like that. Chelsea’s tastes and preferences in food seem to be different than mine, and she doesn’t have my allergies – which I’ve taken full advantage of – but catering to those tastes hasn’t been as difficult for me as picking out the right shoes or figuring out makeup.”

“So the things that feel abnormal are just the things that are new? All the things that are new?”

“Uh… I guess not? After the first time, sitting down to pee didn’t feel abnormal. Neither did having to spend more time washing my hair, although that’s a pain in the ass. Some of the, er, body sensitivity differences still don’t feel great, because I’m touching someone else’s body without their consent, but they feel like part of the body I’m in.”

“So the normality of the experience is related to its familiarity and comfort?”

“No! Well, yes. Some of the choices being Chelsea feel right, and others feel wrong, and I can’t explain fully what the pattern is or why!” I realize I’m starting to raise my voice – a very Peter move rather than a Chelsea one – and I take a deep breath. “Sorry.”

We finish our drinks in silence while waiting for our food to come.

TWO WEEKS AGO

I finally install the app Marti recommended. I’ve stalled long enough. Chelsea’s young and single and it’s time to try to get her out there a bit.

At first, it looks like any other dating app. Name, age, gender, sexual preference, etc.

Then some of the questions get strange, like “What’s your gender condition?” Thankfully, there are prompts to help me through it. I learn by navigating that I’m considered Stable (as in, my body doesn’t change more than a normal person’s body does; apparently there are shapeshifters and were-people on this app), and I’m a Swap (as in “body swap”, versus “permanent body alteration” or “normal”). For “mental status”, I’m an “unchanged” instead of “identity change”, “memory alteration”, or “personality change”. There are even options for fluid gender identity and preferences or preferring certain other body stabilities, mental statuses, or types of change; I leave those alone for now.

The app also asks “How long have you had your current body/mental/emotional state?” There are options ranging up to more than fifty years. I choose the shortest option, “less than one month.”

After my profile’s created, I close the app. This whole process has been exhausting; I can get Chelsea a date tomorrow.

NOW

“Let me ask you something,” my date says as we begin our main course. “Whose dress are you wearing tonight? Yours or Chelsea’s?”

I look at her, confused and grumpy. “What’s the difference? I’m Chelsea Cunningham. This dress was purchased by Chelsea Cunningham and was in the closet of an apartment leased to Chelsea Cunningham. So it’s mine, and it’s Chelsea’s.”

She tilts her head slightly. “Is it though?”

I swallow a piece of my chicken. “What do you mean?”

“You talked about the apartment belonging to Chelsea, and the dress hanging in her closet. Do you remember signing that lease or buying that dress?”

“No, I’ve only been Chelsea for two months.”

She shakes her head. “Almost right. Whose body are you in right now?”

“Chelsea Cunningham’s.”

“Not yours?”

“No.”

“Great, then please raise your right hand and wave at me.” I wave, then stop. My date smiles, like I’m a student who’s finally learned the lesson. “You told me you’ve been ‘Chelsea’ for two months, and that you’re in her body, not yours. But when I told you to raise your hand, you raised that hand right there, the one you just identified as Chelsea’s.” She takes a sip of her drink. “You asked me if this will ever feel ‘normal’. What parts feel abnormal? Specifically?”

I shrug. “I mean, all of it, really. Having long hair that gets in my eyes, doing makeup, wearing clothes that feel weird to me, interacting with Chelsea’s family and friends.”

“Remind me again how you feel when you’re outside all that? When it’s just you and you’re not doing ‘Chelsea’ things?”

I sigh. “Fine, I guess? I still need to remind myself which restroom to go into in public, but it’s not like I forgot to sit down to pee or wear a bra after the first week.”

“Okay, so what I’m getting at here is that what you’re uncomfortable with isn’t the body you’re in or even the resources you’ve been given, but acting out the choices someone else made. You’re not Chelsea. You never have been. You’re not Peter anymore, either, obviously, but not being Peter doesn’t mean that you have to dedicate your live to the memory of a person who’s no longer inhabiting your body. If you don’t like having hair that gets in your eyes, cut it. If you don’t like Chelsea’s clothes, get new ones. The body you’ve found yourself in is the one you have; it’s yours, not someone else’s. That’s the key to feeling ‘normal’.”

“But what if we swap back?”

“Woman, you don’t know why you swapped in the first place! You have no idea if, or how, or when that could ever happen! Don’t waste the life you have waiting for the life you left!”

I try to reply, but I can’t. I don’t know how. It’s true that I’ve been trying to live Chelsea’s life, but… “I just feel like everything’s falling apart; I wanted to find a way to hold something together…” Tears start coming. I can’t stop them.

Doreen isn’t unkind about this; she walks around the table, pulls up a chair, and gives me a tight hug. She doesn’t say anything; she just holds me as tightly as she can without looking out of place and lets me make the next move. I look at her, Chelsea’s eye makeup running down my face. “Everything’s already fallen apart, hasn’t it.” She loosens her hug and nods. “I need to focus not on holding things together, but putting the pieces back together the way I know how.” She smiles sadly and nods again. She goes back to her seat and we finish our meals in relative silence. I had other questions, but they’ve all collapsed in the wake of this much bigger question.

I open Chelsea’s purse to pay for my half of the check, and Chelsea’s ID catches my eye. I can’t be Peter, and I don’t know how to be Chelsea. But maybe…

“Doreen, I’d like to start fresh, if we can?” She nods. I hold out my hand. “Hi, I’m Ellie. It’s nice to meet you.”

She reaches past me and embraces me in a huge hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Ellie,” she whispers in my ear. “Please call me again if you need me – for this or for a real date if you’d still like one when you’re ready.”

I thank her, put my ID back in my – Ellie’s – purse, and walk to my car.

TWO MONTHS AGO

The sound of a glass hitting the table shakes me from a dazed state. A bartender has placed a drink in front of me. “This one’s on the house, honey. It looks like you’ve had a rough night.”

When did I get to the bar? I turn my head to look at the bartender, and immediately things feel off. My hair has the wrong weight, my eyes are filled with tears, and everything just looks different – a little higher up? “What?” I ask the bartender, startling slightly to hear a higher voice than I expected coming from my throat. I reach to touch my neck, but stop as I stare at my nails, painted a dark red color. I stagger to my feet, nearly tripping over someone else’s heels that I’m wearing. “Sorry, I just need to use the restroom for a second.”

The bartender reaches out and grabs my arm as I start to walk away. I try to pull out of her grip, but either she’s terribly strong or I’m weak. “You shouldn’t forget your purse, miss,” she says, looking directly into my eyes as her other hand pushes a black purse toward me. I’ve never seen this purse before, and have no idea why I’d have a purse with me, but I don’t argue and take it. The bartender points toward a door. “The women’s room is that way,” she says, placing an emphasis on the gender as though I need guidance about which room to go to. Which is good, because I do.

Okay, get it together, Peter. Whatever’s happening is weird, but there has to be some explanation. I look in the mirror and gasp. My face has been replaced by that of a woman in her twenties. She looks like she came to the bar for a night of dancing, or maybe a date, but her night didn’t go the way she planned – her makeup is ruined and her hair is out of place. Her dark blue strapless dress still looks fantastic, though, even as it feels uncomfortable on the unfamiliar breasts I’m just now becoming aware of. I open the purse in my hands, looking for what I’d need to fix the mirror woman’s hair and makeup, before I sigh – I have no idea what I’d need to fix this, or how I’d do it. Five minutes ago, I was a forty-year-old lifelong bachelor; the ways of makeup and hair are a mystery to me. I check the ID in the purse, matching the face in the mirror to the name Chelsea Eleanor Cunningham. I wash Chelsea’s face to get the most obvious makeup residue off, and hope the darkness of the bar will help me – her – avoid standing out.

Walking back to the bar, I’m more self-conscious of Chelsea. I stumble in her heels multiple times. While her dress fits, I’m uncomfortable with how the fabric feels on her curves. I’m very aware of men’s eyes on her body, her legs, her ass, her breasts. I sit back at the bar, and Chelsea’s drink is gone. As I look around for it, the cute and freakishly strong bartender comes over to me. “I dumped your drink. Trust me, you wouldn’t have wanted it.” She pours me a fresh cocktail and warily eyes my confused look. “You know…” She pantomimes… sprinkling something over a glass? Slumping over? No, I don’t know, and I tell her.

She sighs, and calls over another bartender. She whispers something to him, something about “tiger” and “break” that I don’t quite catch, then she comes out from behind the bar and sits next to me. “Your drink was spiked, that’s why I got rid of it.”

I furrow Chelsea’s brow, wondering how it looks on her face. “Why would someone spike my drink? It already had alcohol in it.”

The bartender gives me a long look. “Everything okay? You’re not feeling funny or… out of place?”

I laughed despite myself; Chelsea has a pretty laugh. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

She barks out a laugh, a short and sharp sound that’s mismatched with her soprano voice and short stature. “What? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ sort of thing? Please,” she snorts. “I’m a bartender, babe. I’ve heard it all.”

I roll my eyes. A Shakespeare-spouting bartender may pull in the tips, but I doubt she can help me with my situation.

“Okay, look, your problems are your own, and I’m not going to intrude,” the bartender starts, “but you look… uncomfortable with your situation, and I’ve seen people like that before. I’m going to give you a card with some information, some of which might be helpful now and some of which might be helpful later, because ‘girls’ like us have to watch out for one another. I’m on break right now, but if you need something from the bar later, my name’s Marti.” Her sarcastic tone on the word “girls” piques my interest. Even if she could tell that Chelsea was acting out of sorts, it’s weird that she’d get so close to what’s going on. I notice that she’s put a business card of some kind on the table between us. I reach out with Chelsea’s arm, take it in her hand, and put it in her purse.

I settle my bill and leave so that I can return Chelsea home. I feel like her imbalance is because of my discomfort in her body rather than any drunkenness on her part – maybe the one drink was all she had. I take a set of car keys out of Chelsea’s purse and press the “unlock” button. A car’s lights blink, and I head to the car.

Chelsea’s body fits easily behind the steering wheel. I turn the key and take off her heels – the last thing Chelsea needs is for me to wreck her car because I don’t know how to drive in her shoes. I look at her phone and ID to plot a route to her apartment; it’s a short drive. I drop Chelsea’s keys a couple times as I fumble through them, trying to figure out which one opens her door. I work it out, get to the apartment and lay down on the bed. I remember the card Marti gave me. I pull Chelsea’s body off the bed and walk over to her purse to get it. I take advantage of my uprightness to remove Chelsea’s dress and put on something more comfortable to sleep in, then look over the card in bed.

The first side I look at is the back. It’s blank with handwritten text: “If this is all new to you, girl, you can call Terry for help or text me with questions – Marti”. Below it are two phone numbers, one marked with a “T” and one marked with an “M”. I turn the card over. It’s a simple business card advertising a dating app called “Gendr”. “For people trying to find themselves in a confusing spectrum,” the slogan says, on a background that transitions from blue to pink, with a woman’s silhouette on the blue side and a man’s silhouette on the pink side.

NOW

I wake up the morning after my date with Doreen feeling refreshed and look in the mirror. There’s a lot Doreen said that I need to process, but one resonated with me the most. I’ve spent two months living someone else’s life, Chelsea’s life as though it was a loaner until I got back to mine. That won’t work. Before that, I also lived someone else’s life, the life of a man named Peter. That won’t work, either. I don’t know what happened to Chelsea, or to Peter, but I need to start living my own life, Ellie’s life, whatever that means.

I open my closet and give it a once over. The first group of things that need to go become obvious – shoes. I’m going to be a woman with coordinated outfits, not perfectly matching ones. I don’t need a unique pair of shoes for each dress.

After depositing shoes in a box to give away for an hour, I look at the hole they leave in my closet. In time, I’ll come to fill that hole, just as I’ll come to fill the holes left in my life by these changes.

But I can only fill the holes by clearing out the clutter that fills them, and that’s going to be a one day at a time process.

I open my phone; the Gendr app is still open from when I used it to identify Doreen earlier in the evening. I close the app; I should figure out who I am before trying to meet someone else. I find the number for Chelsea’s salon. I stop just short of pressing the button to call it, then delete it. Instead, I call the number for the salon Peter’s sister used. “Yes, I’d like to make an appointment for Ellie Cunningham. No, I’m a new customer. Why am I changing hairdressers?” I look in the mirror for confirmation, then answer, “Because I’m ready to look like someone new.”