Dearest reader
Thanks for being here. This is part three of three. You really need to read
parts one
and two
first. Endless gratitude to Mykymyk2 and KES for their advice, editing and feedback.
Happy reading!
T x
Barcelona: day fourteen
The thrum of the engine starting, the swaying of the bus as we pull away towards the final stop in Spain, rouses me from sleep.
Waking is wonderful. In the night, I've become the big spoon, Cristina curled into me, both her hands clutching my left, holding it to her chest, pulling my nose into the nape of her neck. The swaying of the bus nudges us into each other every now and then.
Smiling, I resolve to stay there as long as I can.
I must have dozed back off again, because Cristina shifting in my arms wakes me. Opening my eyes, I see her examining me again, seeking for answers to whatever she is wondering in my face. Her eyes keep flicking to my chest, where two modest bumps reveal my assigned birth gender. Our hands are entwined between us, yes, but I miss the close contact we had earlier. Not just miss it, but ache for it, yearn for it.
I've got it so bad, yet I know so little about her. This is crazy. Beyoncé crazy.
Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.
She reaches up behind us, to the wall net, and gets her phone out.
Why do you hate your body do you want to be a man
Yeah. She barely knows me either. I compose and translate my reply.
I don't hate my body. I have no plans or desire to change it. But I don't like being judged for it, being told to display it in a certain way, that it must look like this and not like that. I hate that. But I don't want to be a man either. That's why I ask people not to call me "he" or "she". I don't want people to think of me that way. I want them to think of me as a person first, as Leila first, not as a woman or a man. Does that make any sense?
It's not the whole truth, really, but a simplified version of how I feel. I mean, how I feel can change weekly. But this is part of the truth. It'll do for now. I watch her eyes as she reads, the frown lines slowly smoothing out. Maybe she gets it? I add more.
Everyone knows racism is wrong. I am a foreigner in my own country, but mostly I am treated well and equally for that. Only a tiny percentage think it is okay to be racist but that is getting better.
But only a tiny number of people object to the common, everyday sexism that women have to face daily. At work, in the street, at school. We are paid less, insulted more, pressurised more.
I'd rather not deal with that. I can't change the world, but I can change myself. If I am not seen as a woman, I am not subject to this sexism. Or subject to it less at least. I was shocked when I first cut my hair and stopped wearing dresses how the world changed towards me.
She nods, serious. Her fingers flick out a response.
I understand I don't want to be always seen as a gypsy even though I love my family love our music our air I want to be seen as a person
I can't help but tap out the following reply.
In France, I think people would see you as a Spaniard, not a gypsy.
Her frown comes back.
I don't know nobody in france
You would know me.
Her intake of breath is so sharp, I feel it. Her eyes find mine.
"No hablo francés."
"No hablo español."
I return to my screen.
You don't speak English either, so you'd be starting from the same point. The difference is that you could legally live and work in France, but you can't in England. I can live and work in France. I speak French. I can teach you. But I could live in Spain too.
Her reply is quick.
teach me
I put down my phone and take her hand, our faces inches apart on the pillow.
"Salut," I say, "hola."
"Salu," she repeats.
"Je m'appelle Leila. Et tu?"
She looks at me quizzically.
I try again, slower.
"Je. M'appelle. Leila."
"Je m'appelle Cristina."
Smiling at her, I raise my hand to stroke her cheek. Hers goes to my waist.
"Tu es vraiment belle. Errr... Tu eres guapa. Tu es vraiment belle."
She repeats it back to me, more or less.
We shuffle imperceptibly closer, our noses nearly touching.
I continue with Cristina's French lesson.
"Je t'adore."
"Je t'adore."
Her breath on my lip. Her hand on my hip.
The bus lurches. There's a static squeal, and Joe's voice comes over the tannoy.
"Morning everyone! Breakfast break, about half an hour or so. We need fuel and I want to dump the waste water too. Rise and shine!"
I curse inwardly. That's the moment ruined.
* * *
It's a large rest stop, with a proper restaurant and a range of local produce on sale in the shop. A security guard trails Cristina and I around, not bothering to hide his close scrutiny of us as we move between the shelves, and I wonder whether it's my Arabic heritage or her being a Gitana that attracts his suspicion. It makes my skin crawl.
Cristina affects not to notice. Her pride is set in her face.
Nadine notices, using some sixth sense us non-white people have developed over the years I guess, and comes near to us, taking Cristina's arm, talking loudly in English to Mel as she does so.
"Let's get something in the restaurant. My treat, come on. I want something hot."
Cristina allows herself to be towed away, for breakfast of pan con tomate and tortilla. We try to involve her in the conversation, or rather Mel does, but she seems to be thinking, away in her head somewhere. I message her.
Are you okay? Was it too much before?
Her reply takes a while.
No before was lovely you are making me think I never thought to go somewhere else
Oh shit, wow, she's actually considering it.
