Tenderness

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 27 of 145 · 20 per page

• From Middlesex (2002)

  What was I to Desdemona but another sign of the end of things? She tried not to look at me. She hid behind her fans. Then one day Tessie had to go out and Desdemona was forced to baby-sit. Warily, she entered my bedroom. Taking cautious steps, she approached my crib. Black-draped sexagenarian leaned down to examine pink- swaddled infant. Maybe something in my expression set off an alarm. Maybe she was already making the connections she would later make, between village babies and this suburban one, between old wives' tales and new endocrinology . . Then again, maybe not. Be- cause as she peered distrustfully over the rail of my crib, she saw my face— and blood intervened. Desdemona's worried expression hov- ered above my (similarly) perplexed one. Her mournful eyes gazed down at my (equally) large black orbs. Everything about us was the same. And so she picked me up and I did what grandchildren are supposed to do: I erased the years between us. I gave Desdemona . back her original skin. From then on, I was her favorite. Midmornings she would relieve my mother by taking me up to the attic. Lefty had regained most of his strength by this time. Despite his speech paralysis, my grand- father remained a vital person. He got up early every day, bathed, 223 shaved, and put on a necktie to translate Attic Greek for two hours before breakfast. He no longer had aspirations to publish his transla- tions but did the work because he liked it and because it kept his mind sharp. In order to communicate with the rest of the family, he kept a little chalkboard with him at all times. He wrote messages in words and personal hieroglyphics. Aware that he and Desdemona were a burden to my parents, Lefty was extremely helpful around the house, doing repairs, assisting with the cleaning, running errands. Every afternoon he took his three-mile walk, no matter the weather, and returned cheerful, his smile full of gold fillings. At night he lis- tened to his rebetika records in the attic and smoked his hookah pipe. Whenever Chapter Eleven asked what was in the pipe, Lefty wrote on his chalkboard, "Turkish mud." My parents always believed it was an aromatic brand of tobacco. Where Lefty obtained the hash is any- body's guess. Out on his walks, probably. He still had lots of Greek and Lebanese contacts in the city.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "I don't know a song about a stomach," Milton ventured. "My ribs, then." "I don't know any songs about ribs." "My sternum?" "Nobody ever wrote a song about a sternum, Tess." She undid more buttons, her eyes closed. And in barely a whis- per: "How about this?" "That one I know," said Milton. When he couldn't play against Tessie's skin, Milton opened the win- dow of his bedroom and serenaded her from afar. Sometimes he called the boardinghouse and asked Mrs. O'Toole if he could speak with Theodora. "Minute," Mrs. O'Toole said, and shouted up the stairs, "Phone for Zizmo!" Milton heard the sound of feet running down the stairs and then Tessie's voice saying hello. And he began playing his clarinet into the phone. (Years later, my mother would recall the days when she was wooed by clarinet. "Your father couldn't play very well. Two or three songs. That was it." "Whaddya mean?" Milton would protest. "I had a whole repertoire." He'd begin to whisde "Begin the Beguine," war- bling the melody to evoke a clarinet's vibrato and fingering the air. "Why don't you serenade me anymore?" Tessie would ask. But Mil- ton had something else on his mind: "Whatever happened to that old clarinet of mine?" And then Tessie: "How should I know? You expect me to keep track of everything?" "Is it down in the basement?" "Maybe I threw it out!" "You threw it out! What the hell did you do that for!" "What are you going to do, Milt, practice up? You couldn't play the darn thing back then") 177 All love serenades must come to an end. But in 1944, there was no stop to the music. By July, when the telephone rang at the OToole Boardinghouse, there was sometimes another kind of love song issuing from the earpiece: ccKyrie eleison, Kyrie ekisonP A soft voice, nearly as feminine as Tessie's own, cooing into a phone a few blocks away. The singing continued for a minute at least. And then Michael Antoniou would ask, "How was that?" "That was swell," my mother said. "It was?" "Just like in church. You could have fooled me." Which brings me to the final complication in that overplotted year. Worried about what Milton and Tessie were getting up to, my grandmother wasn't only trying to marry Milton off to somebody else. By that summer she had a husband picked out for Tessie, too. Michael Antoniou— Father Mike, as he would come to be known in our family—was at that time a seminarian at the Greek Orthodox Holy Cross Theological School out in Pomfret, Connecticut. Back home for the summer, he had been paying a lot of attention to Tessie Zizmo. In 1933, Assumption Church had moved out of its quarters in the storefront on Hart Street. Now the congregation had a real church, on Vernor Highway just off Beniteau. The church was made of yellow brick. It wore three dove-gray domes, like caps, and had a

• From Middlesex (2002)

  From ten to noon every day my grandparents took care of me. Desdemona fed me my bottles and changed my diapers. She finger- combed my hair. When I got fussy, Lefty carried me around the room. Since he couldn't speak to me, he bounced me a lot and hummed to me, and touched his big, arching nose to my little, latent one. My grandfather was like a dignified, unpainted mime, and I was almost five before I realized that anything was wrong with him. When he tired of making faces, he carried me to the dormer window, where, together, from the opposite ends of life, we gazed down at our leafy neighborhood. Soon I was walking. Animated by brighdy wrapped presents, I scam- pered into the frames of my father's home movies. On those first cel- luloid Christmases I look as overdressed as the Infanta. Starved for a daughter, Tessie went a little overboard in dressing me. Pink skirts, lace ruffles, Yuletide bows in my hair. I didn't like the clothes, or the prickly Christmas tree, and am usually shown bursting dramatically into tears . . . Or it might have been my father's cinematography. Milton's cam- era came equipped with a rack of merciless floodlights. The bright- ness of those films gives them the quality of Gestapo interrogations. Holding up our presents, we all cringe, as though caught with con- 224 traband. Aside from their blinding brightness, there was another odd thing about Milton's home movies: like Hitchcock, he always ap- peared in them. The only way to check the amount of film left in the camera was by reading the counter inside the lens. In the middle of Christmas scenes or birthday parties there always came a moment when Milton's eye would fill the screen. So that now, as I quickly try to sketch my early years, what comes back most clearly is just that: the brown orb of my father's sleepy, bearish eye. A postmodern touch in our domestic cinema, pointing up artifice, calling attention to me- chanics. (And bequeathing me my aesthetic.) Milton's eye regarded us. It blinked. An eye as big as the Christ Pantocrator's at church, it was better than any mosaic. It was a living eye, the cornea a little bloodshot, the eyelashes luxuriant, the skin underneath coffee- stained and pouchy. This eye would stare us down for as long as ten seconds. Finally the camera would pull away, still recording. We'd see the ceiling, the lighting fixture, the floor, and then us again: the Stephanides.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  this may be due to her attending an all-girls school or from a feeling of shame about her body. The subject is aware of the abnormal appearance of her genitalia and has gone to great lengths in the locker room and other communal dressing areas to avoid being seen naked. Nevertheless, she reports having had sexual intercourse, one time only, with the brother of her best friend, an experience she found painful but which was successful from the point of view of teenage romantic exploration. INTERVIEW: The subject spoke in rapid bursts, clearly and articulately but with the occasional breathlessness associated with anxiety. Speech patterning and characteristics appeared to be fem- inine in terms of oscillation of pitch and direct eye contact. She expresses sexual interest in males exclusively. CONCLUSION: In speech, mannerisms, and dress, the subject manifests a feminine gender identity and role, despite a contrary chromosomal status. It is clear by this that sex of rearing, rather than genetic determinants, plays a greater role in the establishment of gender identity. As the girl's gender identity was firmly estab- lished as female at the time her condition was discovered, a decision to implement feminizing sur- gery along with corresponding hormonal treatments seems correct. To leave the genitals as they are today would expose her to all manner of humilia- tion. Though it is possible that the surgery may result in partial or total loss of erotosexual sensation, sexual pleasure is only one factor in a kaPPy life. The ability to marry and pass as a normal woman in society are also important goals, both of which will not be possible without femi- nizing surgery and hormone treatment. Also, it is hoped that new methods of surgery will minimize the effects of erotosexual dysfunction brought about by surgeries in the past, when feminizing surgery was in its infancy. 437 That evening, when my mother and I got back to the hotel, Milton had a surprise. Tickets to a Broadway musical. I acted excited but later, after dinner, crawled into my parents' bed, claiming I was too tired to go. "Too tired?" Milton said. "What do you mean you're too tired?" "That's okay, honey," said Tessie. "You don't have to go." "Supposed to be a good show, Cal." "Is Ethel Merman in it?" I asked. "No, smart- ass," Milton said, smiling. "Ethel Merman is not in it. She's not on Broadway right now. So we're seeing something with Carol Channing. She's pretty good, too. Why don't you come along?" "No thanks," I said. "Okay, then. You're missing out." They started to go. "Bye, honey," my mother said. Suddenly I jumped out of bed and ran to Tessie, hugging her. "What's this for?" she asked. My eyes brimmed with tears. Tessie took them to be tears of relief at everything we'd been through. In the narrow entryway carved from a former suite, cockeyed, dim, the two of us stood hugging and crying.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Milton is going to fix it. I keep telling him." "If he doesn't do it, I will." Desdemona looked at me a moment as if measuring my ability to fulfill this promise. Then she said, "I don't remember you, honey, but please can you fix for yiayia the Epsom salts?" I got the foot basin and filled it with warm water from the bath- tub faucet. I sprinkled in the soaking salts and brought it back into the bedroom. "Put it next the chair, dolly mouV I did so. "Now help yiayia to get out of bed." Coming closer, I bent down. I slid each of her legs out of the cov- ers, turning her. Putting her arm over my shoulder, I pulled her to her feet for the short walk to the chair. "I can't do nothing anymore," she lamented on the way. "I'm too old, honey." "You're doing okay." "No, I can't remember nothing. I have aches and pains. My heart it is not good." We had reached the chair now. I maneuvered around behind her to ease her down. Coming around to the front again, I lifted her swollen, blue-veined feet into the sudsy water. Desdemona mur- mured with pleasure. She closed her eyes. 525 For the next few minutes Desdemona was silent, luxuriating in the warm foot bath. Color returned to her ankles and rose up her legs. This rosiness disappeared under the hem of her nightgown but, a minute later, peeked out the collar. The flush spread up to her face, and when she opened her eyes there was a clarity in them that had been absent before. She stared straight at me. And then she shouted, "Calliope!" She held her hand to her mouth. "Mana! What happen to you?" "I grew up," was all I said. I hadn't intended to tell her but now it was out. I had an idea it wouldn't make any difference. She wouldn't remember this conversation. She was still examining me, the lenses of her glasses magnifying her eyes. Had she had all her wits, Desdemona could not possibly have fathomed what I was saying. But in her senility she somehow accommodated the information. She lived now amid memories and dreams, and in this state the old village stories grew near again. "You're a boy now, Calliope?" "More or less." She took this in. "My mother she use to tell me something funny," she said. "In the village, long time ago, they use to have sometimes babies who were looking like girls. Then— fifteen, six- teen—they are looking like boys! My mother tell me this but I never believe." "It's a genetic thing. The doctor I went to says it happens in little villages. Where everyone marries each other."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  wheneverthe vacuumcleanerwason. ButtheTVwassomehowdif- ferent.My grandmother tooktotelevisionright away.Itwas the first and only thing aboutAmerica sheapprovedof. Sometimesshefor- gotto turn thesetoffandwould awaken at 2a.m. to hear"The Star- Spangled Banner" playing beforethe stationsignedoff. The televisionreplacedthesound ofconversation thatwasmiss- ing frommy grandparents' lives. Desdemonawatched alldaylong, scandalized bythelove affairs on As the WorldTurns.Sheliked deter- gent commercials especially, anythingwith animatedscrubbing bub- bles oravengingsuds. Livingon Seminolecontributed tothecultural imperialism. On Sundays, insteadofservingMetaxa, Miltonfixed cocktailsforhis guests. "Drinkswiththenamesof people,"Desdemona complained to hermutehusbandbackin the attic. "TomCollins.Harvey Wall Bang.Thisisadrink!Andtheyarelistening tomusiconthe, how yousay,thehi-fi.Miltonheputsthismusic,and theydrinkTom Collinsandsometimestheyare,youknow,dancing, oneonone, mentogetherwiththewomen.Likewrestling." Whatwas I toDesdemonabutanothersignoftheendof things? Shetriednot tolookatme.She hid behindherfans.Thenone day Tessiehadtogo outand Desdemonawasforced tobaby-sit.Warily, sheenteredmy bedroom. Takingcautioussteps,she approachedmy crib. Black-drapedsexagenarian leaned downtoexamine pink- swaddledinfant. Maybesomething inmyexpression setoffanalarm. Maybeshe wasalreadymaking theconnections shewouldlater make, between village babiesandthissuburbanone, betweenold wives' talesandnewendocrinology... Then again,maybenot.Be- cause as she peereddistrustfully overtherailofmy crib,shesawmy face— andblood intervened. Desdemona'sworriedexpressionhov- ered above my(similarly) perplexedone. Hermournfuleyesgazed down atmy(equally)large blackorbs.Everythingabout uswasthe same.And so shepicked meup andI didwhat grandchildren are supposed to do:I erased theyearsbetween us. IgaveDesdemona backher original skin. From thenon, I was herfavorite.Midmornings she wouldrelieve my mother bytaking meupto theattic.Leftyhadregainedmost of his strength bythis time.Despite hisspeechparalysis,mygrand- father remained a vitalperson.Hegotup earlyevery day,bathed, 223 shaved, andputonanecktietotranslateAttic Greek fortwo hours beforebreakfast.Henolongerhadaspirations topublish his transla- tionsbut didthework because heliked itand becauseit kepthis mind sharp.Inordertocommunicate withtherest ofthefamily, he kepta little chalkboardwithhimatalltimes.He wrote messages in wordsandpersonalhieroglyphics.Aware thatheand Desdemona were a burdentomyparents,Lefty wasextremelyhelpful around the house,doingrepairs,assistingwiththe cleaning,runningerrands. Everyafternoonhetookhisthree-milewalk, nomatterthe weather, and returnedcheerful,hissmilefull ofgoldfillings.At nighthelis- tenedtohisrebetikarecordsintheatticand smokedhishookah pipe. WheneverChapterEleven asked what wasinthepipe,Lefty wrote onhischalkboard,"Turkishmud."Myparentsalwaysbelieved itwas anaromaticbrandoftobacco.Where Leftyobtainedthehashis any- body'sguess.Outonhiswalks,probably.Hestillhadlots ofGreek andLebanesecontactsinthecity. Fromtentonooneverydaymygrandparents tookcareofme. Desdemonafedmemybottlesandchangedmy diapers.Shefinger- combedmyhair.WhenIgotfussy,Leftycarriedmearoundthe room.Sincehecouldn't speakto me,hebounced mealotand hummedtome,and touched hisbig,archingnosetomylittle,latent one.Mygrandfather was like a dignified,unpaintedmime,andIwas almostfivebefore I realizedthatanything was wrongwith him. Whenhetiredofmakingfaces,hecarriedmetothedormerwindow, where,together, from theoppositeendsoflife,wegazeddownat ourleafy neighborhood. SoonI waswalking.Animatedby brighdywrappedpresents,Iscam- peredinto theframesofmyfather'shome movies.Onthosefirstcel- luloid ChristmasesIlookasoverdressedasthe Infanta.Starvedfora daughter,Tessie wenta littleoverboardindressing me.Pinkskirts, laceruffles, Yuletidebowsinmy hair.Ididn'tlike theclothes,orthe prickly Christmastree,andamusually shown burstingdramatically into tears ... Orit might havebeenmyfather's cinematography. Milton'scam- eracame equipped with a rackofmerciless floodlights.Thebright- nessof thosefilms givesthemthequality ofGestapo interrogations. Holdingup our presents,weallcringe,as though caughtwithcon- 224

• From Middlesex (2002)

  He passedthe stairwayto thepilothouse andsqueezed pasttheextra cargo, crates of Kalamata olivesand olive oil,seaspongesfrom Kos. He proceeded forward,runninghis hand alongthegreentarpsof the lifeboats, untilhemet thechain separating steeragefromthirdclass. In its heyday, the Giuliahadbeenpartof theAustro-Hungarian Line. Boastingmodern conveniences ("lurninaeleetrica,ventilatieet comfortu eel matrnare"),ithad traveled once a monthbetweenTrieste and NewYork.Now theelectriclightsworked onlyinfirstclass,and even thensporadically. Theironrailswere rusted.Smokefromthe stackhad soiledtheGreekflag.Theboatsmelled ofold mop buckets and ahistoryofnausea. Leftydidn't havehissealegsyet.Hekept falling againsttherailing.Hestoodatthechainforanappropriate amountof time,thencrossedtoportandreturned aft.Desdemona, as arranged, was standingaloneattherail.AsLeftypassed,hesmiled andnodded. Shenoddedcoldlyandlooked backouttosea. Onthethirdday,Leftytookanotherafter-dinnerstroll.He walkedforward,crossed to port,andheaded aft. Hesmiled atDesde- monaandnoddedagain.Thistime,Desdemonasmiledback.Rejoin- inghisfellowsmokers,Leftyinquiredifanyofthemmighthappen to know thenameofthatyoungwomantravelingalone. Onthefourth dayout, Lefty stopped andintroducedhimself. "Sofarthe weather'sbeengood." "I hope it staysthatway." "You'retraveling alone?" "Yes." "Iam,too. Whereare you going to inAmerica?" "Detroit." "Whatacoincidence! I'mgoing to Detroit,too." Theystoodchatting for anotherfew minutes. ThenDesdemona excused herself and went downbelow. Rumorsofthe budding romancespread quickly throughtheship. To passthetime, everybody wassoondiscussing howthe tall young Greekwiththeelegant bearinghadbecome enamored of the dark beautywhowasnever seen anywherewithout her carved olivewood box. "They're both traveling alone,"peoplesaid. "Andthey both have relatives in Detroit." "I don't thinkthey're right for eachother." "Why not?" 66 "He'sa higherclassthansheis. It'llneverwork." "He seemsto likeher,though." "He'sona boatinthemiddleoftheocean! Whatelsedoeshe havetodo?" On thefifthday, LeftyandDesdemonatook a strollondeckto- gether.Onthe sixthday,hepresentedhisarmandshetookit. "Iintroduced them!"onemanboasted.Citygirlssniffed."She wearsherhairin braids.Shelookslikeapeasant." My grandfather,onthewhole,cameinforbettertreatment.He wassaidto havebeenasilkmerchantfromSmyrnawho'dlosthis fortuneinthe fire; a sonofKingConstantineIbyaFrenchmistress; aspyforthe KaiserduringtheGreatWar.Leftyneverdiscouraged any speculation.Heseizedtheopportunityoftransatlantictravelto reinvent himself. He wrapped a rattyblanketoverhisshoulderslike anopera cape. Aware that whateverhappenednowwouldbecome thetruth,thatwhatever he seemedto be wouldbecomewhathe was— alreadyan American, inotherwords— he waitedforDesde- monatocome up on deck. Whenshe did, he adjusted hiswrap,nod- dedto his shipmates,andsaunteredacrossthedecktopay his respects. "He'ssmitten!" "I don'tthink so.Typelikethat,he'sjustout for a litdefun.That girl betterwatchit orshe'll havemorethanthatboxtocarry around." My grandparents enjoyed theirsimulatedcourtship.Whenpeople were within earshot,theyengagedinfirst-orsecond-date conversa- tions, making uppasthistoriesforthemselves."So,"Lefty wouldask, "do youhave anysiblings?" "Ihad abrother," Desdemona repliedwistfully."Heranoff with a Turkish girl. Myfatherdisownedhim." "That's very strict.Ithinklovebreaksalltaboos. Don'tyou?" Alone, they toldeach other,"Ithinkit'sworking.No one sus- pects." Each time Leftyencountered Desdemonaondeck,he pretended he'd only recentiy met her.Hewalkedup,made smalltalk,com- mented on the beauty of the sunset, and then, gallantly, segued into the beauty of herface.Desdemona playedherpart,too.Shewas standoffish atfirst.Shewithdrewherarm wheneverhemadeanoff- 67 colorjoke.She told himthat her motherhadwarnedheraboutmen likehim. They passedthevoyage playingout thisimaginaryflirtation and, littleby little,they begantobelieveit.Theyfabricated memo- ries, improvisedfate. (Whydidtheydoit?Whydid theygotoall that trouble? Couldn't theyhavesaidtheywerealreadyengaged?Or that theirmarriagehad beenarrangedyearsearlier?Yes,of course they couldhave. Butitwasn'tthe other travelersthey weretryingto fool; itwas themselves.) Travelingmadeit easier.Sailingacrosstheoceanamong half a thousand perfectstrangersconveyedan anonymityinwhichmy grandparentscould re-createthemselves.Thedriving spiritonthe Giuliawasself- transformation.Staringout tosea, tobacco farmers imaginedthemselvesasracecardrivers,silkdyersas WallStreet ty- coons, millinerygirls as fandancersinthe Ziegfdd Follies. Grayocean stretchedinall directions.Europe and AsiaMinorweredeadbehind them.AheadlayAmericaandnewhorizons. Ontheeighthdayatsea,Lefty Stephanides,grandly,ononeknee, infullviewofsixhundredandsixty-threesteerage passengers,pro- posedtoDesdemona Aristoswhileshe sat onadocking cleat.Young womenheldtheirbreath.Marriedmennudged bachelors:"Payat- tentionandyou'lllearnsomething."My grandmother, displaying a theatricalflair akintoherhypochondria, registered complexemo- tions:surprise; initialdelight;secondthoughts; prudentnear refusal; andthen, totheapplause already starting up, dizzyacceptance. Theceremony tookplaceondeck.Inlieuofa wedding dress,Desde- mona wore aborrowedsilkshawloverherhead. Captain Kontoulis loanedLefty anecktie spottedwith gravystains. "Keepyourcoat buttonedand nobody willnotice,"hesaid. For Stephana^mygrand- parentshad wedding crownswovenwith rope. Flowersweren't availableat seaand sothekoumbams, a guy named Pelosservingas bestman,switched theking'shempencrownto the queen'shead,the queen'stothe king's, and backagain. Brideand bridegroom performed the Dance of Isaiah.Hip to hip, arms interwoven tohold hands, Desdemona and Leftycircumambu- latedthe captain, once, twice,and then again, spinningthe cocoonof their life together. No patriarchal linearityhere. WeGreeksget mar- ried incircles, to impress upon ourselvesthe essential matrimonial 68

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Oh god no, not the police. The question sobered her. “No.” she shook her head and pleaded, “No police.” Her voice came out heavy and thick. “Are you sure? What do you need?” He hesitated between two cars. “Hospital.” She grunted and pushed herself up, feeling around for her missing heel with her right hand, the other hand over her nose. Tentatively, the man approached her again. He wore a windbreaker; he was older, silver hair and iron-gray mustache. “There’s an urgent care round the corner. Can I walk you there?” A slight accent. “Yes,” Amy managed to say. The man knelt and gently took her heels from her. “Let me carry these, you just lean on me. Can you walk? Ill walk you there.” He held out an arm for her to pull on. When she stood, the driver of another car honked at his empty car, which blocked the road. He glanced back and told her to hold on, that he had some tissues in his car. She waited—holding the rip in her skirt closed with one hand, and covering her bloody face with the other, less for the bleeding and more so that she couldn’t see the gawkers staring at her—while he pulled his car to the end of the block, turned on the flashers, and returned with some Kleenex. She balled up a handful and dabbed her eye. It came away red. Her nose ached now, and it too bled, but she didn’t want to touch it directly or dab at it. The man peered at her brow. “It’s actually not that bad. Head wounds bleed a lot once they get going, so it seems worse than it is.” “Thank you,” she said for the first time, grateful to him that what he said might be true. “Thank you.” This time when Amy came home to her apartment, she opened the door to Reese popping up from the couch. A stream of tenderness engulfed her, Reese burbling, apologizing, weeping, promising to change, even at one point sliding down to her knees while hugging Amy, so that Amy had to disentangle her from around her legs— everything Amy could have ever hoped for that first morning. Yet even as Amy listened with something like gladness, and although the drama seemed to occur just beyond the bandage that covered her nose, she watched it all from across some new distance. “It’s okay, we'll be all right,” Amy kept hearing herself say. And it wasn’t that she didn’t believe it—in fact, the way she said it sounded very believable—it was that she and the person making these assurances didn’t quite seem to be one and the same. On the first day that Amy had to go back to work, the thought of putting on one of her cute little work outfits struck her as completely intolerable. How could she believe in the demure little office worker she had been playing? Some other character had revealed itself, an

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Reese met Thalia in the first months of Thalia’s transition, just as Thalia entered the full bloom of the second puberty, just as the changes in her body began to show, just as every evening the momentous pendulum of estrogenatic moods swung to despair, just as Thalia burst into the period of transition when she cried at the moon, and broke mirrors in self-loathing, and fell in love—real and present love—for the first time. How many nights had Reese sat down with Thalia to offer her counsel, both stern and loving, as Thalia writhed like a turtle who’d lost its shell, its soft unarmored flesh abraded by the newly felt humiliations of life as a transsexual? How many times had Reese gone over to Thalia’s apartment and held her when she cried, and tried to give her advice without telling her how to act or patronizing her or creating a hierarchy in their friendship, because as much as Reese wanted to shake Thalia and tell her to grow the fuck up, she admired Thalia, and all the skills and dreams that she harbored—those same dreams and hopes that Reese herself had given up. Isn’t that the most motherly thing of all? To hope your daughter has the chances that you never gave yourself—or that you were never given? Mother-daughter relationships among drag queens or gay men have a long lineage as a New York City phenomenon, as every queer to have reverently watched Paris Is Burning will gladly inform you. Reese knows the mother role still holds sway with the black and Latina girls adjacent to the ballroom world—girls whose families reject them young and early, who need guidance and love and firm talking-tos on occasion. That’s not how it is with the white girls Reese knows, though. Those girls, unlike the teenagers seeking family in the ballroom scene, often haven’t yet lost their sense of entitlement, and won’t stand to be told what to do, won’t accept an explicit hierarchy of mother-daughter, especially not from some tranny only slightly their elder whose own mistakes layer and squish on each other like a melting cake. Reese has raised a few trans daughters over the years, and all of the mothering has been tacit: The girls need it, yearn for it, but won’t accept it if they realize what it is. And Reese, for as much as she complained about these ungrateful girls, needed them too—craved the chance to nurture someone, to care and soothe them with her softest, most selfless love.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  make a combination balcony/front yard. Thalia talked Iris into giving her a massage, so it’s just the two of them. Below, the rainfall from a brief thunderstorm earlier has collected into a sunken square of sidewalk concrete to create a perfectly quadrilateral puddle. A mother hurries along with a little daughter in tow, dragging her by the hand. At the puddle, the girl, with brown hair in a braid and a tiny pair of red galoshes on her feet, wriggles out of her mother’s grasp and stamps the puddle, making a little splash. Her mother calls out her name: “J6zefa, no, stop that, it is late.” The girl ignores her mother, stamps again. Reese waits for the mother to get angry. But she doesn’t. Instead, she pulls out her phone, kneels, and says, “Okay. We will film.” The little girl jumps and splashes, and the reflections of streetlights shiver in the pooled water, while the mother films and says, “Okay, wait, one more, now jump, sweetheart, yes good, look at me!” Reese and Katrina watch in silence from above. The moment elongates like pulled taffy. They are barely breathing, the two of them, their dark shapes two stories above, raptors transfixed by the scene. The mother, still kneeling, shows her daughter the video, the light of the phone illuminating the girl’s pleased face as she watches her recently past self giggling in the tinny audio. When the two walk away, they seem lighter. The mother no longer pulls at her daughter. A truck coming down the Pulaski Bridge engine-brakes with a loud fart, they turn the corner, and Reese exhales. “Ooof,” Reese says. “Yeah.” “That hurt me to watch.” “Tt hurt me to watch you watch.” “Thanks, I think.” Katrina snuffles, pulls her shawl around her. “So now what?” Reese’s machinations fire up, but just as quickly sputter out. Her head tilts back against the shingles of the building, and a wave of resignation comes over her. She has nothing left to think about Ames, no more advice to give. “I don’t know, Katrina. I’d just tell Ames you outed him before someone at work does. He’s not new to gender hijinks.” “T mean about the baby. That could be us.” Reese wants to say the right thing, but has no idea what that could be, so waits, hoping Katrina will go on. “Your friends, Iris and Thalia, you know, when you were in your room changing, they jumped all over me. Told me what a great mother you would be.” “Oh, so that’s it. They acted so weird when I came back out.” “Tt’s just a question if you can find a place for yourself in this.” “Yeah,” said Reese. “I want it. But I’m afraid Ill resent my place.” “Tt doesn’t mean you won’t be a mom too.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “We should each have one,” Reese says. “For two reasons. One, you have cooties. And two, we don’t know what the living situation is going to be, and neither of us wants to take the G train to pump every night.” Katrina had been surprised when she learned that trans women could make milk. Reese had grown uncharacteristically shy when Katrina asked questions, and it was Ames who ended up explaining the hormone regimen that made it happen. The reason why Reese knew how to produce lactation in trans women was too confusing in the context of actual breastfeeding. The majority of discussions about Reese’s own capacity to lactate had all been with men. Men who were all fascinated by it—probably because it meant somewhere, deep down, they understood that their bodies too had that potential. In fact, in a drawer somewhere, Reese already had a breast pump, a gift from the cowboy who wanted to include it in their mommy- pregnancy role-play. But that pump was manual. Together, Reese and Katrina decide on identical baby-blue Spectra automatic breast pumps, the kind with a rechargeable battery. And this choice, made with their bodies pressed close and faces near to each other in order to read the informational placard, contemplating the future care of their breasts, forms one of the most unexpectedly intimate moments of Reese’s life. Sometimes, Reese wants to talk with Katrina about the eroticism of motherhood. Even this store. Look at it! A sanctum of femaleness, of private domestic acts. Maternity clothes to cover a changing body. Photos and products designed to encourage touch, nurturing, care. Everything packaged in the same soft, pale pastel colors women choose for lingerie when the male gaze is subtracted from the equation. The ghost scent of baby powder dusting the space. Queers —hell, even straight people—had all begun to call each other “daddy” in bed, but for Reese, there had never been a word more taboo, more soft, more intimate than “mommy.” If masculine displays of overt horniness have always been more celebrated than their feminine counterparts, the mommy vs. daddy dirty-talk dichotomy only heightens that disparity. Katrina must have been thinking something parallel. Something about protective female allegiances, the pleasure of cultivating shared nurturing devotion. “This is nice,” Katrina tells Reese. “Being here, doing this with you. I would run screaming from this store if I had to do this on my own. My friends who have babies complain to me about it being lonely. Their bodies are like these miracles—they are amazed with themselves, anxious and excited. And their husbands don’t get it. My friend Beth, her husband drinks a lot, and once she asked him to lay off of it while she was pregnant, and he got furious. He was like, “What does you being pregnant have to do with me drinking? Why should I have to stay in?’ He thought it was unfair.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “Okay,” said Amy. She pushed herself up and tucked her legs under her to look around the room. A girl’s room, more feminine than Delia’s punk aesthetic might have indicated. Lavender accent wall that Delia said she had painted herself. Nail polish lined up along the windowsill under diaphanous sea-green curtains wafting inward on a breeze. Amy loved getting girls to paint her nails. It happened less and less, though—in middle school, girls loved to paint the boys’ nails. By high school, they mostly didn’t give a fuck what boys did with their nails. Clothes were piled up beside the bed, with a pleasantly faint odor of Delia, a scent that Amy previously hadn’t known was the odor of Delia, until she smelled the clothes, and then it clicked. Next to the bed was a copy of Prozac Nation. Amy reached for it. She had never read the book, but she had gathered that this was a book you were supposed to make fun of. A lot of Amy’s cultural touchstones in high school were like that: things to which she was ignorant or indifferent, but about which she opined her received wisdom. She didn’t make fun of the book, though. On the bed, Delia looked so frail and so beautiful beneath the sheets— she wanted Delia to hold her, or she wanted to hold Delia. She did not feel sexual. Once, on the bus home, Delia told Amy that she’d lost so much fat from her bulimia that her body grew a layer of soft down to stay warm and compensate for the lack of fat insulation. She didn’t know how to help, but she liked how Delia had gotten in the habit of confiding in her. Delia had asked her if she could keep secrets, and for once, true to her word, Amy repeated nothing that Delia had told her. But looking over Delia’s body, half-illuminated by sunlight, with blocks of color from a small stained-glass charm suction-cupped to the window, Delia’s skin just looked soft and bare. Over the winter, when no one could see and it was acceptable to wear windbreaker pants to practice, Amy had shaved her legs and gotten terrible razor burn that turned into acne as seemingly each hair on the backs of her thighs inflamed itself into a pimple. It was bad enough that it hurt to sit down. How did girls like Delia avoid that? “It’s good,” said Delia, of the book. “I’m angry about the same things as her.” “Should I read it?” Delia scoffed. “I don’t think it’d be your thing.”

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  "I have heard," she said, "that loving couples of deer are wont to lie behind clover bushes. How I should like to see this in real life!" Nisan had heard enough. That very day he had a section of her house torn down and ordered the planting of dozens of clover bushes in what had once been a part of her bedroom. That night, he arranged for peasants to round up wild deer from the mountains and bring them to the house. The next day Dewa awoke to precisely the scene she had described. Once she appeared overwhelmed and moved, he had the clover and deer taken away and the house rebuilt. One of history's most gallant lovers, Sergei Saltykov, had the misfortune to fall in love with one of history's least available women: the Grand Duchess Catherine, future empress of Russia. Catherine's every move was watched over by her husband, Peter, who suspected her of trying to cheat on him and appointed servants to keep an eye on her. She was isolated, unloved, and unable to do anything about it. Saltykov, a handsome young army offi- cer, was determined to be her rescuer. In 1752 he befriended Peter, and also the couple in charge of watching over Catherine. In this way he was able to see her and occasionally exchange a word or two with her that re- vealed his intentions. He performed the most foolhardy and dangerous ma- neuvers to be able to see her alone, including diverting her horse during a royal hunt and riding off into the forest with her. He told her how much he sympathized with her plight, and that he would do anything to help her. To be caught courting Catherine would have meant death, and eventu- ally Peter came to suspect that something was up between his wife and Saltykov, though he was never sure. His enmity did not discourage the dashing officer, who just put still more energy and ingenuity into finding ways to arrange secret trysts. The couple were lovers for two years, and Saltykov was undoubtedly the father of Catherine's son Paul, later the em- peror of Russia. When Peter finally got rid of him by sending him off to Sweden, news of his gallantry traveled ahead of him, and women swooned 38 • The Art of Seduction to be his next conquest. You may not have to go to as much trouble or risk, but you will always be rewarded for actions that reveal a sense of self- sacrifice or devotion.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  And so Ames gives the particulars, the way you might introduce yourself to a new acquaintance: your work, where you're from and if youre a New Yorker, your neighborhood, and maybe, if your sangfroid is really pumping, your age. For Katrina, Ames reports these variables as: his boss at the ad agency; she’s from Vermont but has lived in New York since college; she’s got a two-bedroom in Brooklyn, and she’s thirty-nine; she had a miscarriage before. But having repeated these facts, Ames feels like he hasn’t said anything important, anything that captures Katrina at all, or why he thinks she’d share raising a baby. A dog bounds toward Reese, interrupting his explanation. Reese gives the dog a pet and the dog’s owner apologizes. In refocusing on what he had been about to say, Ames attempts to dispel from his mind the slivers of moments, opinions, and impressions particular to his intimacy with Katrina that obscure the bold plain structures of her, in order to describe her as a dispassionate stranger might see her. “When I first met Katrina,” he says, “she seemed kind of basic to me. Maybe it was because she was my boss and so that was part of her professional distance. But as I got to know her, I came to see her basicness as a disguise, or a defense mechanism. But not something conniving or intentional. Its more like she’s layered all this weirdness together in her life experiences, from growing up in Vermont, then leaving her husband, and just a fundamentally idiosyncratic personality; and then, as though she’s shy about it and doesn’t want anyone to notice, she’ll cover that with being a foodie and doing Pilates or whatever. But underneath, she’s wild. Not at all conventional. She might go for this.” “What’s she look like? I want to picture her,” Reese says. He considers pulling out his phone to show her a photo, but he doesn’t really want to get into a moment where Reese is comparing herself or evaluating the looks of another woman. “She’s average height, kind of delicate. Really cute toes.” “You perv! That doesn’t help me see her. Is she a blonde? You always liked blondes.” “No, straight brown hair. She’s mixed-race, actually. Her mom is Chinese and her dad is Jewish. But she got her dad’s last name, Petrajelik, and freckles all across her nose, so she passes as white with white people. In Vermont, she grew up with only white kids around, so she says it was a shock when she went to Amherst and other Asian kids immediately recognized her as Asian.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “IT have the opposite problem,” Reese says. “I’d be happy if you shared even more than you do. I want to know everything about your pregnancy, because then it feels like mine too, but asking makes me feel weird and like I’m prying about your body.” “That’s perfect because I’m probably just going to keep complaining more and more. Starting a couple weeks ago, brushing my teeth has made me feel like I’m going to puke, and I’ve been suffering through that in silence because it feels too banal to bitch about.” “Girl, bitch away.” “T won't take you for granted. I promise. It’s so good to be here with you. My friend Diana has been having IVF treatments and she’s so worried and also so alone. They managed to get three embryos fertilized, and she’s already emotionally attached to them. This is their second round of IVF. The first time, when one of the embryos got damaged in the freezing process—she called me crying, sobbing like she’d lost a child. It was really pretty heartbreaking and her husband acted like she was being crazy and irrational. The day they transferred an embryo she had to tell him not to be an emotional moron, because he had made plans to go indoor rock climbing that night. She was like, ‘You are staying in with me and your maybe- unborn-child tonight’ and he was like, ‘But, babe, your procedure is in the morning, and my plans aren’t until five.’ ” Reese snorted at the idiocy of men. Ames, at least, had spent enough time as a woman not to totally revert to complete emotional tone deafness. In fact, she supposed that’s why he hadn’t come today, why he had been giving Katrina and Reese their space. Had he been there, Reese might have slipped into the role of resentful third wheel. No, in fact, his stereotypical male absence was probably an act of astute emotional perspicacity on the order of Amy’s. Maybe, gender aside, he'll be a good dad. “What do you think of this crib?” Katrina asks. They have wandered into the furniture area. She runs her hand along the rail of a stark white crib that comes paired with a matching changing table. The crib is designed by a Danish company. Scandinavians seem to have cornered a disproportionate slice of the high-end baby product market. “Oh, I didn’t think we’d use a crib,” Reese says offhandedly. “I never had one.” “Of course we need a crib. Where will she sleep otherwise?” “In bed. Babies are happier in bed with their parents.” “What? No way. That’s how babies get crushed. You roll over on them in your sleep.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “We should each have one,” Reese says. “For two reasons. One, you have cooties. And two, we don’t know what the living situation is going to be, and neither of us wants to take the G train to pump every night.” Katrina had been surprised when she learned that trans women could make milk. Reese had grown uncharacteristically shy when Katrina asked questions, and it was Ames who ended up explaining the hormone regimen that made it happen. The reason why Reese knew how to produce lactation in trans women was too confusing in the context of actual breastfeeding. The majority of discussions about Reese’s own capacity to lactate had all been with men. Men who were all fascinated by it—probably because it meant somewhere, deep down, they understood that their bodies too had that potential. In fact, in a drawer somewhere, Reese already had a breast pump, a gift from the cowboy who wanted to include it in their mommy- pregnancy role-play. But that pump was manual. Together, Reese and Katrina decide on identical baby-blue Spectra automatic breast pumps, the kind with a rechargeable battery. And this choice, made with their bodies pressed close and faces near to each other in order to read the informational placard, contemplating the future care of their breasts, forms one of the most unexpectedly intimate moments of Reese’s life. Sometimes, Reese wants to talk with Katrina about the eroticism of motherhood. Even this store. Look at it! A sanctum of femaleness, of private domestic acts. Maternity clothes to cover a changing body. Photos and products designed to encourage touch, nurturing, care. Everything packaged in the same soft, pale pastel colors women choose for lingerie when the male gaze is subtracted from the equation. The ghost scent of baby powder dusting the space. Queers —hell, even straight people—had all begun to call each other “daddy” in bed, but for Reese, there had never been a word more taboo, more soft, more intimate than “mommy.” If masculine displays of overt horniness have always been more celebrated than their feminine counterparts, the mommy vs. daddy dirty-talk dichotomy only heightens that disparity. Katrina must have been thinking something parallel. Something about protective female allegiances, the pleasure of cultivating shared nurturing devotion. “This is nice,” Katrina tells Reese. “Being here, doing this with you. I would run screaming from this store if I had to do this on my own. My friends who have babies complain to me about it being lonely. Their bodies are like these miracles—they are amazed with themselves, anxious and excited. And their husbands don’t get it. My friend Beth, her husband drinks a lot, and once she asked him to lay off of it while she was pregnant, and he got furious. He was like, “What does you being pregnant have to do with me drinking? Why should I have to stay in?’ He thought it was unfair.”

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Finally, seduction has a pace and rhythm. In phase one, you are cautious and indirect. It is often best to disguise your intentions, to put your target at ease with deliberately neutral words. Your conversation should be harmless, even a bit bland. In this second phase, you turn more to the attack; this is the time for seductive language. Now when you envelop them in your seductive words and letters, it comes as a pleasant surprise. It gives them the immensely pleasing feeling that they are the ones to suddenly inspire you with such poetry and intoxicating words. Pay Attention to Detail Lofty words and grand gestures can be suspi- cious: why are you trying so hard to please? The details of a seduction— the subtle ges- tures, the offhand things you do— are often more charming and revealing. You must learn to distract your victims with a myriad of pleasant little rituals— thoughtful gifts tailored just for them, clothes and adornments designed to please them, gestures that show the time and attention you are paying them. All of their senses are engaged in the details you orchestrate. Create spectacles to dazzle their eyes; mesmerized by what they see, they will not notice what you are really up to. Learn to suggest the proper feelings and moods through details. The Mesmerizing Effect In December 1898, the wives of the seven major Western ambassadors to China received a strange invitation: the sixty-three-year-old Empress Dowager Tzu Hsi was hosting a banquet in their honor in the Forbidden City in Beijing. The ambassadors themselves had been quite displeased with the empress dowager, for several reasons. She was a Manchu, a race of northerners who had conquered China in the early seventeenth century, The barge she sat in, like a establishing the Ching Dynasty and ruling the country for nearly three burnish'd throne, \Burn'd hundred years. By the 1890s, the Western powers had begun to carve up on the water: the poop was beaten gold; \ Purple the parts of China, a country they considered backward. They wanted China sails, and so perfumed that to modernize, but the Manchus were conservative, and resisted all reform. \ The winds were love-sick Earlier in 1898, the Chinese Emperor Kuang Hsu, the empress dowager's with them; the oars were silver, \ Which to the tune twenty-seven-year-old nephew, had actually begun a series of reforms, of flutes kept stroke, and with the blessings of the West. Then, one hundred days into this period of made \ The water which reform, word reached the Western diplomats from the Forbidden City that they beat to follow faster, \ As amorous of their

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Katrina’s kitchen and living area are one big room with high ceilings, just as in the Friends apartment set, only the room is smaller, and Katrina’s kitchen has a counter dividing it from the living space. With a little click, Katrina ignites the flame of a stick lighter and touches it to the wicks of a clutch of candles in jars hunched together on the counter. Satisfied with the lighting effect, she picks up the plate on which she has arranged the sushi and carries it into the living area. On the plush cream rug beside the coffee table, she kneels, places the plate on the floor, then quickly grabs it again, and pops back up, turns, and puts it on the little table in the eating area beside the kitchen. Reese watches this maneuver bemused. “What was that cute detour on the way to the table?” Katrina reddens a little. “I like to eat on the floor when I’m by myself. I call it an indoor picnic.” “That’s adorable. We can have an indoor picnic if you like that.” Katrina shakes her head. “No, I’m silly.” Reese leans over the counter and grabs the ramekins, places them on the rug, and settles in beside them. “I’m going to have an indoor picnic,” she announces, looking over to Katrina at the table. “I know you want to join me.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  With a conscious self-irony, Amy had read a Freudian self-help book for women. While reading she grew increasingly earnest, and found herself persuaded by an explanation for her sexuality that appealed to her: She’d never had a girlhood, and so never had the proper bonding and separation as a woman from female authority— i.e., her mother. Following this view, Amy was constantly looking for female authorities who would possess her in order to heal a maternal lack from her childhood. In a Freudian thrall, Amy again went on Eros, this time to hire a maternal domme, to spank her and then cuddle her. And this was how Amy found herself in the elevator, heading up to the twentieth. floor of a building on the Upper West Side, with a plump olive- skinned woman in her forties, who wore a lacy camisole under a blazer and introduced herself by resignedly sighing, “I guess ’'m calling myself Kaya these days.” She avoided eye contact with Amy, even as she led Amy into her own apartment, so that Amy thought that perhaps Kaya found it distasteful to have a female client, or perhaps a trans woman. In a low-ceilinged foyer decorated with mirrors and fabric flowers, Kaya disappeared into the kitchen, returned with a bottle of water, and tentatively pointed the cap toward a bedroom. “You're so pretty, I feel like one of my friends is playing a trick on me,” Kaya admitted shyly, gratifying Amy, and relieving her of her doubts. “I don’t do this work very often and they still don’t approve. But if youre for real, take off your clothes and leave the money under the Kama Sutra book on the nightstand.” This was everything that Amy had hoped for. Someone to actually cherish her, to admire her, from a position of feigned authority. Amy slid off her dress, slinky, and bent over her purse, which rested on a chair, as obscenely as possible to extract the four bills. “You want mommy to show you what happens when her little darling is a bad girl? That’s what you wrote in your email,” Kaya said from the doorway. “Yes.” Amy breathed. She tucked the money under the Kama Sutra. “I hope you don’t have anywhere to be,” Kaya said. “’'m not a clock-watcher.” For much longer than the agreed-upon hour, Kaya rubbed Amy and cooed over her, and spanked her and scolded her. Demanding to know who had given Amy permission to shave herself, and then bending Amy over her lap to finger her. Amy sighed, felt entitled to let go, to give in to Kaya’s touches. At one point, facedown in Kaya’s lap, Amy could smell Kaya’s wetness. Kaya shifted and apologized. “Tm sorry. I’m really into this,” Kaya said. “I wanted to do this to my ex-husband. He lives in Florida, down with my two sons.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Kate and I are in the kitchen when there’s a knock at the door. Taylor stands on the porch, looking immaculate in his suit. I notice the trace of ex-army in his buzz cut, his trim physique, and his cool stare. “Miss Steele,” he says. “I’ve come for your car.” “Oh, yes, of course. Come in, I’ll get the keys.” Surely this is above and beyond the call of duty. I wonder again at Taylor’s job description. I hand him the keys, and we walk in an uncomfortable silence—for me—toward the light-blue Beetle. I open the door and remove the flashlight from the glove box. That’s it. I have nothing else that’s personal in Wanda. Goodbye, Wanda. Thank you. I caress her roof as I close the passenger door. “How long have you worked for Mr. Grey?” I ask. “Four years, Miss Steele.” Suddenly, I have an overwhelming urge to bombard him with questions. What this man must know about Christian, all his secrets. But then he’s probably signed an NDA. I look nervously at him. He has the same taciturn expression as Ray, and I warm to him. “He’s a good man, Miss Steele,” he says with a smile. Then he gives me a little nod, climbs into my car, and drives away. Apartment, Beetle, Clayton’s—it’s all change now. I shake my head as I wander back inside. And the biggest change of all is Christian Grey. Taylor thinks he’s a good man. Can I believe him? José joins us with Chinese takeout at eight. We’re done. We’re packed and ready to go. He brings several bottles of beer, and Kate and I sit on the couch while he’s cross-legged on the floor between us. We watch crap TV, drink beer, and as the evening wears on, we fondly and loudly reminisce as the beer takes effect. It’s been a good four years. The atmosphere between José and me has returned to normal, the attempted kiss forgotten. Well, it’s been swept under the rug that my inner goddess is lying on, eating grapes and tapping her fingers, waiting not so patiently for Sunday. There’s a knock on the door, and my heart leaps into my throat. Is it…? Kate answers the door and is nearly knocked off her feet by Elliot. He seizes her in a Hollywood-style clinch that moves quickly into a European art house embrace. Honestly…get a room. José and I stare at each other. I’m appalled at their lack of modesty. “Shall we walk down to the bar?” I ask José, who nods frantically. We are too uncomfortable with the unrestrained sexing unfolding in front of us. Kate looks up at me, flushed and bright-eyed. “José and I are going for a quick drink.” I roll my eyes at her. Ha! I can still roll my eyes in my own time. She grins. “Okay.” “Hi, Elliot. Bye, Elliot.”