FIFTY-SEVEN. Opposite.
You've woken up as the opposite sex this morning... now what?
It started as a dream, perhaps. The last thing you clearly recall was that glass of red wine you had before bed. You don’t often drink wine - at least, not with company. Wine is one of those things that remains tucked away in the dusty corners of the pantry, until certain lines of thinking are crossed and need to be muddled to a more comfortable state. Most things can be managed by a glass of scotch - most being the operative word.
You don’t think of her as often as you once did, but every so often, thoughts of your mother drift into your thoughts. She died when you were a boy - an ironic assessment at the moment. You were young - around ten. You’re seventy-five now, and sixty-five years have passed without your mother’s touch. She was beautiful - at least, in your memory, though you doubt seriously a photograph could contradict. She had long waves of chestnut hair and tiny, curved lips like a Madame Alexander doll - which, you only know the name of because she had a small collection of them, and your father often pointed out the striking similarity.
She died in childbirth. That’s a fact often forgotten, but then it’s best that way. With your father dead and no other important relatives to speak of, there’s been no need to discuss such details of your history. You cover the sad facts with more interesting ones - like, your own assortment of wives and calamities. But, your mother died in childbirth when you were ten. She had longed for a little girl - one to spoil and pamper, to dress up like one of her dolls. You were difficult enough, and though she loved you, she would have loved your sister more.
The details escape you - you wonder if that’s because you were ten when it happened and thus the details were left out, or if instead the supposed Mad Cow buried the details of that day into a deeper part of your mind that no longer functions. You know that your mother died in childbirth, and your sister was born dead. It was a tragedy - enough to make your father so cold, cold enough in fact to disown you for legal antics not so many years later. It seemed as if everyone forgot you then - overlooking you to instead be sure your father was alright, as he was the lawyer of the family and thereby the one with the money.
You dream of your sister sometimes - this feisty girl with chestnut hair and fire in her eyes - and wonder what she might have been. You imagine she might have been alive now, at sixty-five. She might have gone through as many husbands as you’ve had wives - or perhaps she would’ve been a docile creature, like your mother, content to stay with her husband and child. And, it’s along this line of thinking when you begin to blame that glass of red wine you had before bed.
When you woke up today - just, an ordinary day, nothing particularly important or special - you weren’t yourself. You were merely a spectator in someone else’s body - a feminine one, to be precise. You’re petite - that’s the first thing you notice as you slip out of bed, because it’s more of a slide as you hit the floor with the arches of your feet. Your hair is nearly auburn, tumbling around in messy waves. You’re still in your pajamas - the button-up ones with your initials on the cuffs - but they hang off of your curves. You look in the mirror and after the initial shock of realizing you’ve turned into a woman, you take note of the subtle features that mark you as a member of the Crane line - those high cheek bones, the curve of the jaw, the prominent nose, the fire in the eyes. Clearly you aren’t the age she would’ve been now - unless she aged remarkably - but rather at her peek, what she could’ve been.
Oh, of course, you’ve had thoughts such as these - especially when you were young and the pain was still ripe - but you can’t recall ever experiencing any of the thoughts so vividly. This ghostly image of a sister seems to have overtaken you, and you wonder who you should call first - the doctor or Alan. You touch a hand to your newly feminine cheek, and you know this is how she would’ve looked and that no one would have even harmed her. You retreat back to your bed though, because even the Mad Cow doesn’t give you delusions such as this. Freud or some other old creep would have a field day with this course of events, and you find yourself suddenly worried. You slip under the covers, determined to drift back into whatever dream your unnamed sister was conjured from and vow to never speak of this day. But, you can’t help but wonder what it might have sounded like, just once, and so you utter in her voice, “Denny Crane.”
It started as a dream, perhaps. The last thing you clearly recall was that glass of red wine you had before bed. You don’t often drink wine - at least, not with company. Wine is one of those things that remains tucked away in the dusty corners of the pantry, until certain lines of thinking are crossed and need to be muddled to a more comfortable state. Most things can be managed by a glass of scotch - most being the operative word.
You don’t think of her as often as you once did, but every so often, thoughts of your mother drift into your thoughts. She died when you were a boy - an ironic assessment at the moment. You were young - around ten. You’re seventy-five now, and sixty-five years have passed without your mother’s touch. She was beautiful - at least, in your memory, though you doubt seriously a photograph could contradict. She had long waves of chestnut hair and tiny, curved lips like a Madame Alexander doll - which, you only know the name of because she had a small collection of them, and your father often pointed out the striking similarity.
She died in childbirth. That’s a fact often forgotten, but then it’s best that way. With your father dead and no other important relatives to speak of, there’s been no need to discuss such details of your history. You cover the sad facts with more interesting ones - like, your own assortment of wives and calamities. But, your mother died in childbirth when you were ten. She had longed for a little girl - one to spoil and pamper, to dress up like one of her dolls. You were difficult enough, and though she loved you, she would have loved your sister more.
The details escape you - you wonder if that’s because you were ten when it happened and thus the details were left out, or if instead the supposed Mad Cow buried the details of that day into a deeper part of your mind that no longer functions. You know that your mother died in childbirth, and your sister was born dead. It was a tragedy - enough to make your father so cold, cold enough in fact to disown you for legal antics not so many years later. It seemed as if everyone forgot you then - overlooking you to instead be sure your father was alright, as he was the lawyer of the family and thereby the one with the money.
You dream of your sister sometimes - this feisty girl with chestnut hair and fire in her eyes - and wonder what she might have been. You imagine she might have been alive now, at sixty-five. She might have gone through as many husbands as you’ve had wives - or perhaps she would’ve been a docile creature, like your mother, content to stay with her husband and child. And, it’s along this line of thinking when you begin to blame that glass of red wine you had before bed.
When you woke up today - just, an ordinary day, nothing particularly important or special - you weren’t yourself. You were merely a spectator in someone else’s body - a feminine one, to be precise. You’re petite - that’s the first thing you notice as you slip out of bed, because it’s more of a slide as you hit the floor with the arches of your feet. Your hair is nearly auburn, tumbling around in messy waves. You’re still in your pajamas - the button-up ones with your initials on the cuffs - but they hang off of your curves. You look in the mirror and after the initial shock of realizing you’ve turned into a woman, you take note of the subtle features that mark you as a member of the Crane line - those high cheek bones, the curve of the jaw, the prominent nose, the fire in the eyes. Clearly you aren’t the age she would’ve been now - unless she aged remarkably - but rather at her peek, what she could’ve been.
Oh, of course, you’ve had thoughts such as these - especially when you were young and the pain was still ripe - but you can’t recall ever experiencing any of the thoughts so vividly. This ghostly image of a sister seems to have overtaken you, and you wonder who you should call first - the doctor or Alan. You touch a hand to your newly feminine cheek, and you know this is how she would’ve looked and that no one would have even harmed her. You retreat back to your bed though, because even the Mad Cow doesn’t give you delusions such as this. Freud or some other old creep would have a field day with this course of events, and you find yourself suddenly worried. You slip under the covers, determined to drift back into whatever dream your unnamed sister was conjured from and vow to never speak of this day. But, you can’t help but wonder what it might have sounded like, just once, and so you utter in her voice, “Denny Crane.”