Him/Me

We never spoke. Well, not really.

He would ask me what I wanted. I'd mumble, "Coffee ― black, please," over the lip of my laptop, and then he was gone again.

And I was alone, tucked into the red vinyl booth that I hoarded for myself. Swallowed up by an oversized hoodie, knees tucked into it, I'd tap away at yet another article and pretended that the reason that I came here really was the coffee.

The coffee was alright. It was bitter and punishing. It's what I needed to push through the night and hit my word counts. Not to mention the white buzz of the neon "Open" sign helped me drown out any stray distracting thoughts.

But, honestly, it was him.

When I'd get stuck between paragraphs, I'd catch myself staring. He was both handsome and beautiful and I wanted that for myself. Not to date or befriend. No― I wanted to be him.

He was short (well, my height), fatter than me, and navigated the tables in the diner with a strong stride. His hair was shorn into a dark shaggy mullet and would be ruffled by the relentless flow of the A/C. From his ears dangled daggers. Pinned to his uniform polo were his nametag, a button that read He/Him, and another button with the interlocked venus symbols. That's what really caught my eye when I first time I saw him working there.

The first feeling I felt when I'd seen his pins was fear ― for him. Wasn't he scared that someone might see? Then hope ― if he could work and live his life out, then maybe there was a place for me. Casually proud. Casually out. Open and unafraid.

I always wanted to say something else. "I like your hair" or "cool pins". But the words always sounded childish in my head, and even in an empty diner, I was scared someone might overhear. So, I just thanked him when he brought my coffee and tipped well.

He probably never realized I was thinking any of this. Or maybe I had baby gay written all over my face. I don't know and I never will.

One day I claimed my booth and he wasn't there. And then the next and the next. I didn't ask anyone if he had quit or had been fired, though I wanted to. It felt weird to ask about someone I'd never introduced myself to.

It would be another couple of months after that when I cut my own hair for the first time. It wasn't quite a mullet, but it was shorter than I'd ever had it before. Before I left home, I stuck a pin to my bag, with elated, shaky hands. It read; "they/them".

I relished the breeze through my short waves as I walked to the diner to get some work done. I avoided the gazes of any conservative-looking adults. But I did my best to walk with broad, open strides, and my head high, just in case there was someone who needed to see me.