Chrysalis Days & Butterfly Nights [Wattys 2023 Shortlist]

19

19

Cups tinkled upon saucers. Little spoons clinked against porcelain. Luke had suffered more than his fair share of uncomfortable silences in his life and this one sat right up there among the worst and most awkward. Sat upon chairs made of chromed frames and white, fake fur seats, he had visions of the first time he had met Elaine's parents. That night had proven a disaster that would take months to recover from. This situation did not hold nearly as much significance to him and he tried to think of an excuse to leave.

"I can see you staring, Luke." Clarisse uncrossed her legs, adjusting the long, black velvet skirt as she crossed them again the other way. She leaned forward, placing the cup and saucer upon the table, revealing much of her cleavage. "It's the beard, I know. I've never been one for conformity. One must be clean shaven while presenting as a woman. One must hide one's breasts while presenting as a man. It's all so tiresome, don't you think? I try not to adhere to label constructs. I'm neither man, nor woman, nor non-binary. I prefer gender non-conforming. But I do prefer to use feminine pronouns, if you don't mind."

"No, it's not that, but thanks for explaining." It wasn't the beard, though it had confused Luke a little. Everyone he had met, or talked to, appeared to have very specific gender in mind for themselves. Clarisse felt at odds with what he thought he knew. "Your glasses. They don't have a prescription, do they?"

Clarisse laughed and, to Luke's side, Helen slumped in her chair, fingers rubbing the bridge of her nose. With fingers held in a dainty fashion, Clarisse removed the garish glasses, that were at such odds to the rest of her outfit that they looked wildly, and deliberately, out of place. With two snaps as the arms of the spectacles collapsed, Clarisse held the glasses up, to show Luke, then laid them on the table beside the cup and saucer.

"Quite the observant one." Clarisse clasped her hands together, chipped, black nail polish highlighting her taut, white skin, and she cradled her knee as she appeared to examine Luke from head to toe. "You're not Mimi's sex toy. Not her type. If she even has a type anymore. She has become quite the trollop. Oh! Oh, dear! Are you ... is this poor thing your new project? Run away, dear. Run away now before she ruins you, like she's ruined everything she's ever touched."

"It's not 'Mimi', you old hag. It hasn't been 'Mimi' since you kicked me out. Dear god, it isn't even though you gave a shit about the man!" Helen took to her feet, wide pant legs swishing as she turned away, the jacket flicking on one side as she placed a hand on her hip. All so dramatic. Practised. "I'm not doing this again. I just wanted to ... No, I'm not explaining myself. Come on, Luke."

"Helen, then. Sit down, dear. Stop making a scene." Clarisse flicked a finger in the air and Carlo seemed to appear from nowhere, putting a fresh cup of tea and saucer upon the table and taking away the empty one. "It wasn't that you had sex with the man, it was the principle of the matter. You were chafing under my tutelage and taking the man to bed was your way of forcing my hand. You wanted to leave without feeling it was your fault, so I took the choice from you. The sexual betrayal was nothing compared to the emotional betrayal."

"This is all a little too 'soap opera' for me." Luke placed the cup and saucer down, trying not to make a noise, and began to rise to his feet. "This has been ... lovely. Thank you. I love your clothes, by the way."

Clarisse turned her gaze toward Luke and he lost all momentum. It wasn't a nasty look, nor was it one that screamed an order for him to sit down. She only looked at him, for a few seconds, before turning her head back to Helen who had still not turned around. Luke had sat back down without realising it and, within seconds, Carlo had replaced his cup with a fresh one, mouthing 'sorry' with a grimace as he did so.

Another awkward silence fell upon the strange group of people and Luke started to feel even more out of his comfort zone. It had all felt exciting, at first. Secretly creeping into a warehouse, stealthily passing through the building. Coming so close to some of the most beautiful clothes he had ever seen. It all felt a little fairy tale. A little Hollywood movie. Now, as he had said, it felt more like he had fallen into a terrible American daily drama, all intense looks and hint-filled silences, pregnant pauses and deep breaths before spouting more dramatic exposition.