I take a bite out of my fries. The waitress gives us a strange look. At first, I wonder if she thinks we’re a couple, if we’re gay, but then I figure she’s just trying to decipher what I am, and whether to call me ma’am, or sir.

Her lips thin into a tight line. She just says: “Thank you,” before walking away.

And then I think I’m kind of afraid.

“Man,” from in front of me, Ronnie stretches his arms. “I bet she could totally tell we weren’t from around here.”

“Ronnie,” I blurt. “Do I… Do I look like a man?”

He gulps down his hamburger and shrugs. “I don’t… I don’t know? I mean, what the hell does that mean anyway? But, I guess your chest is rather flat, and your hair is short now. So, I wouldn’t instantly label you as female if that’s what you wanted to know.” Ronnie takes another bite from his burger before dipping his fries in mayonnaise. “Fuck,” he sighs, “this is great.”

“I don’t understand how you can eat so much. Wasn’t the fish enough?”

“It’s never enough.” He tells me, stuffing his face once more.

I frown, lean against my arm, and look out the window. It’s raining. And even when it’s not, it always is.

I hope it’ll stop soon.

My fingers dig into my hands. “Maybe I should do more.” I say.

Ronnie pauses. His gaze goes from his plate, to me. Sauce is dripping from his lower lip. He looks like an idiot. I want to laugh, but I also want to cry. From the outside, the diner’s neon pink sign flickers. “What you mean?” He asks me.

“You know… so that people could see me as a man.”

He raises a brow. “Uh… is this about you, or them though? Shouldn’t it be more about you?”

I say: “Both? Isn’t that how this works?”

But he shakes his head, and hums, his thumb pressed to his chin. “I… actually don’t know how to answer that question. Sorry, man. But, hey! You know what?” Ronnie lifts his hand. He calls the waitress over, turns to face me and smirks. “Let’s just show them you’re my man.”

The waitress walks up to our table. She plays with her dark black ponytail and says: “Yes? Are you done with your plates?”

Resting his arm against the leather-coated bench, Ronnie leans away from her.

He points at me.

“My buddy over here, Stephen, is celebrating his birthday.”

I want to scream.

What the hell does he think he’s doing?!

“You make cakes, right?”

The waitress nods.

“Okay, cool.” Ronnie gives her a thumbs-up. “Could we have a big one with ‘Happy Birthday Stephen!’ written on it for dessert then? I don’t care about the price.”

Sweet, baby, Jesus. What—

“I will let the chef know, thank you.”

And with that, she is gone.

I blink twice, neck buried between my shoulders as I try to make sense of it all. “Dude,” I grin. “That was fucking awesome.”

Ronnie holds up an open palm for me to high-five. “I know.”

I give his hand a hard smack. It’s strange, but the pain makes me feel alive again. I expect him to complain, yet, he only crosses his arms and smirks. “I know.”