Your Type

"So," Paige said, watching her date carefully over her wine glass as she took a sip. The bar's house white - good, but a touch dry for her palate. "What's your type?"

Sophia, the woman sitting opposite her, laughed, amused. "Quite a question, for a first date. It really puts me on the spot."

"Does it?" Paige challenged playfully.

She was having a good time. Paige had been skeptical - when you were a trans lesbian, dates with strangers could be risky. But she'd decided to take a chance and, fortunately, Sophia was making a good first impression. The woman her friend had set her up with was dressed smart, in a white, satin dress that matched nicely with her fair skin and platinum hair. She was pretty, too, and seemed professional - a good match for a career woman like Paige. Yes, it was strange that she was wearing darkened sunglasses inside a bar, but Paige was happy to overlook a small affectation.

"Well," Sophia mused, stroking the rim of her glass, "if I tell you that you're my type, it sounds like nothing more than boorish flattery. But if I describe anything else, then I'm offending you. I'm in a bind."

Paige laughed too. She was pleased her date could enjoy a little verbal sparring. The atmosphere was perfect for it. The bar was classy - quiet but not dead - and the two of them were tucked away in a private corner so they could talk. Paige had come straight from work but she'd still been able to steal some time to freshen up, and she knew she looked good in her tailored suit, with her long, brunette hair up in a nice ponytail and her nails newly-manicured.

"It's actually something I ask on all my first dates," Paige explained. "The answer tells you a lot about someone."

"And what are you looking to hear?" Sophia shot back, smiling.

"The truth." Paige shrugged. "Look, I'm not expecting to be exactly your type. That would be one in a million. I just want to see if we have a real shot. I turned thirty a few years ago, I don't feel like playing games anymore. I'm in your strike range? Wonderful, and we can make sure the mismatches aren't deal-breakers. If I'm not? We make this just a drink, maybe a night of fun, and go our separate ways."

Paige knew exactly how that sounded. In fact, it was part of the test. If Sophia got spooked by Paige's no-bullshit way of doing things, it wasn't going to work out. Better to find out now than in two months' time. Fortunately, Sophia was still smiling. The other woman raised an eyebrow as she sat back to sip her wine.

"You're a woman who knows what she wants," Sophia noted. "I like that."

Paige nodded appreciatively. "Oh, and I'm not afraid to put my cards on the table first. You are definitely my type."

Sophia giggled. "Well, thank you. I'm happy to share, really - I love games, and this is a delightful one. So, let's get very clear on something first, shall we?"

"What's that?"

Suddenly, Sophia leaned forward and reached up to lower her sunglasses. She fixed Paige with a devastatingly sharp gaze.

"You are going to be my type. In fact, you need to be. You're desperate to be."

For a moment, as Sophia spoke, Paige stopped breathing. It wasn't Sophia's words. It was her eyes. Her irises. Paige had never seen anything like them. It was impossible. They were moving, shifting, a hundred times a second, endlessly; an infinite fractal-pattern of shapes, sharp and round and spiraling all at once. And the colors! Every color was in those eyes. In those patterns. A rainbow, kaleidoscopic, but more than that, too. Colors Paige had never seen before. Impossible colors. Maddening colors.

Staring into Sophia's eyes was like looking into a glitch in reality. And the longer she looked, the more she felt like that unstable glitching was spilling out. Enveloping her. Engulfing her. Paige felt the very fiber of her being as it was unwritten and rewritten - and all just because she'd seen those eyes. It made the skin of her own existence feel so perilously thin, and her very reality feel dizzyingly malleable.

But then Sophia pushed her sunglasses back up over her eyes, and it was all gone. And then the words caught back up with Paige.

"I'm going to..." Paige repeated dumbly. "I need... desperate...?"

She looked at Sophia, in urgent need of clarity. Sophia just nodded.

"That's right, Paige. You're going to be my type. You need to be my type. It's probably why you're so keen to ask me about it."

Paige's mind was racing with a million questions. The big ones - what was wrong with Sophia's eyes? What was that feeling that had washed over her? - were far too great to fit into words. Perhaps that was why, instead, she found herself latching onto the small incongruities.

"N-no," Paige said slowly. "No, that's not right. That's not why I ask. Like I just told you, it's because I think-"

Paige stopped talking. She froze because she was realizing that somehow, impossibly, she was wrong, and Sophia was right.

She needed to be Sophia's type. She was desperate to be. And she was going to be.

Paige barely understood what that meant, but all the same, she was filled with a breathless eagerness. She felt like a butterfly about to burst from its cocoon, ready to taste the world in newly metamorphosed lungs - but to experience that plunge, that freedom, she needed an answer. She needed the answer that only Sophia could speak. Suddenly, Paige's need for it was agonizing. She was trembling. Craving it, like an addict for a fix. She needed to know what Sophia's type was.

But clearly, there was something more important than that going on. Paige suppressed the new urge and gripped the edge of her seat, knuckles white, to steady her nerves.

"What did you do?" she demanded, shocked.

"Hm?" Sophia seemed faintly surprised. "Oh, yeah, you're probably a little distracted, aren't you? Let me explain, although I won't get technical on you." She reached up and tapped the corner of her sunglasses with a fingertip. "With these eyes, I've got reality wrapped around my little finger. Past, present, future. Body, mind, soul. All of it."

"You... you can just... change reality?" Paige was dumbfounded. It sounded impossible, but the urge welling up inside her was all the evidence she needed. Was the woman sitting across from her a superhero? A goddess? "How is that even possible?"

"Tsk." Sophia shook her head. "This always happens. Sorry babe, but we're supposed to be on a date. I'm gonna need you to focus on me here. So..."

Once again, she reached up and lowered her sunglasses. As soon as Paige realized what was happening, she tried to look away - but it was too late. The very first glimpse of those impossible, reality-glitch eyes had her captivated. And there it was again: the gnawing, discomforting awareness of her own malleability. As she stared, entranced and powerless, Paige felt like nothing more than an origami doll. Her existence was as thin as paper - and here was a woman who could bend and fold her into new shapes.

"Just don't worry about it," Sophia told her.

Paige blinked back to life as those eyes once again disappeared behind the sunglasses. As the existential unease faded, Paige expected her intense concern about the nature of Sophia's abilities to return - but it didn't. It just didn't. Somehow, Paige couldn't seem to muster up any particular feelings about what Sophia could do, or what she was doing to her. It simply didn't seem important.

She wasn't worried about it.

"Oh..." Paige said faintly, as that dawned on her. "OK."

Perhaps not worrying should have itself worried her, but she proved to be equally cut off from that. Instead, as momentous as Sophia's power seemed, it quickly became unremarkable to Paige. She wasn't worried about it. Her date with Sophia was far, far more important.

And Paige's new need came roaring to the forefront of her mind.

"So, um," Paige said restlessly. She took a sip of wine to try and calm herself. It didn't help. "What's your type? I really need to know."

"You do, do you?" Sophia's thin smile widened. She sat back again, clearly pondering. "Let's see... what's my type today?"

Paige was hanging on her next words. She could sense they would mean everything to her.

"You know," Sophia said eventually, with an air of frivolity that was entirely at odds with how Paige felt about the pronouncement, "I think my type is girls with short hair."

A pang of disappointment made Paige inhale sharply as, for the first time ever, she regretted her commitment to growing her hair out. But it faded just as suddenly as it had appeared, when Paige realized there was no problem whatsoever.

She had short hair.

Paige had to reach up and check, which was funny, because having short hair was perfectly normal for her. That was just the kind of girl she was. Sure enough, instead of a ponytail - why had she expected a ponytail? - her fingertips touched the ends of her short bob. That seemed wrong - but only for the briefest of moments.

"I... I have short hair?" Paige said dumbly. She wasn't sure why it came out like a question.

She had short hair. Of course she did.

But why? That fact seemed oddly incongruous. After all, long hair had always been so important to Paige. It was a symbol of her transition. Of her femininity. She'd always hated the thought of getting it cut. So, why would she have short hair? The more she dwelt on the incongruity, the more it became an insisting, throbbing ache at her temples. She needed to make it make sense.

And then it did.

Paige felt herself plunged into an unfamiliar memory. Herself, rushing to a salon the morning after a sobbing breakdown, voice trembling as she asked the stylist to cut her hair off. It had felt so freeing. Her long hair had become a prison of expectations. Cutting it off had been a ritual. An affirmation.

She didn't need long hair to be a woman. To be feminine. She simply was. Paige could look the way she'd always wanted. Peering further back, to those miserable college days before her egg had cracked, her memories of her transition goals were shifting. Sigourney Weaver in Alien. Winona Ryder in Girl, Interrupted. Of course. Of course Paige had ended up with short hair. It made perfect sense.

Soon enough, her memories lost that unfamiliar flavor. They had always been like that. She had always been like this. Paige had short hair.

"Wow," she giggled, "I'm off to a lucky start. Looks like I'm your type."

Right away, the fact of her short hair became euphoric. She had short hair. She was Sophia's type. That was wonderful. Amazing. It was the best news she'd heard in months. It was what she needed.

"Indeed." Something twinkled in Sophia's eyes. "You're rocking the look."

"Thank you." Paige reached up and touched her hair. She did that a lot. It made her happy. Short hair didn't take a lot of effort to keep neat and sleek, but still, it was nice to be complimented for it. "I'm glad you like it."

She was. She was unbearably glad. Paige just had to hope her grin wasn't too off-puttingly eager. Knowing she was Sophia's type made her so happy.

Only, surely Sophia's type went beyond just hair. The gnawing craving in Paige's chest itched at her anew. It wasn't even close to sated.

"And..." Paige pressed. "What else? Tell me more. What's your type?"

She had to strain to keep her voice measured. Paige didn't want to make this creepy. But she couldn't help sounding a little urgent. This was so important.

"Hmm..." Sophia mused. It was plain that she was enjoying the way Paige was sitting forward, shoulders tense, desperate for an answer. "Now that you mention it, I've always felt like girls who are all about pink are my type. Know what I mean?"

"P... pink?" Paige said plaintively.

She tried to reason with herself over it. Paige liked pink. She liked it as much as the next girl, anyway. Didn't that count? In her heart, she knew it didn't. Sophia's type was girls who were all about pink, and Paige had always felt faintly at odds with the color. Pink clothes, pink lipstick, pink accessories - they all made her feel like she was stereotyping herself a little. Girls didn't need to wear pink all the time.

But Paige did.

It hit her like a roaring wind. The infatuation. The obsession. Paige loved pink. It was a touch stereotypical, yes, but that was exactly why Paige adored it so much. There was something indulgent about surrounding herself with it. It was something she could rest her identity on. Blue was for boys, but pink? Pink was for girls. Girls liked pink.

"Pink," Paige sighed happily, reverently, as the story of her life flailed and twisted out behind her like a serpent's tail.

When she'd started her transition, pink had felt like coming home. Everything pink she'd bought had become a source of joy. It was funny, though, because Paige remembered feeling a little tokenized whenever someone - a family member, a friend - had given her something pink to clumsily signal their acceptance. Then, a moment later, she remembered more. She remembered overcoming that little hang-up. All of a sudden, her unwillingness to embrace pink was recast as early-transition blues; as holding back, as instinctive repression.

She'd overcome it, of course. And now Paige was all about pink.

Paige looked down. Her suit was pink. Of course it was. She owned a black suit, sure, for somber occasions, but mostly it was consigned to the black of her closet to gather dust. Paige always wore pink suits to work. It turned heads, naturally, but she didn't mind - not as long as when people looked at her, they saw 'pink'. Plus, she rationalized - and as she rationalized, it became her truth - it was a nice way to make sure her short hair didn't mislead people into thinking she was aiming to be androgynous.

"I'm all about pink!" The words burst out of Paige; a cry of joy, a plea for attention. She was Sophia's type, and she needed Sophia to know.

"So you are," Sophia giggled. "You're quite the Barbie."

The comment made Paige shockingly euphoric. But why wouldn't it? She was all about pink, and what was pinker than Barbie? Paige remembered seeing the movie posters, and the ads, and- no, no, suddenly she remembered seeing the movie itself. Making time on opening night, despite the pressures of work.

It had been so worth it. So much pink.

"Thanks," Paige replied, still glowing with the pleasure of being Sophia's type. "I know it's getting a little much, at my age, but I just can't help-"

"At your age?" Sophia seized on that gleefully. "That's another thing. My type is younger girls, actually."

"Younger girls?" Paige was immediately crestfallen, but she could already feel the explosive energy of change welling inside her. Already, lines were disappearing from her face. She was caught between despair and hope. "Younger than... you?" She wasn't sure how old Sophia was, exactly. Suddenly she was hoping for late thirties. Perhaps even pushing forty. "H-how young?"

"Oh, you know." Sophia seemed to be deciding. She made a little show of counting down on her fingers. "Early twenties, say."

"Fuck," Paige breathed - both out of regret, and out of awe at the reality shift that was starting to take her.

This one was different. It made her head throb like nothing else. It felt like her skull was going to implode. Paige could feel her past not just changing, but contracting. Memories gone. Birthdays snuffed out. Suddenly, the nineties she'd grown up in was nothing more than a set of images on TV; a set of anecdotes recounted by older coworkers.

Growing up without the internet? It was a crazy thought, suddenly. Paige found that, even in her last moments of remembering it, she couldn't seem to comprehend it.

The process was terrifying - or it should have been. But Paige wasn't worried about it. Couldn't worry about it. Instead, her eagerness to please, to be Sophia's type, forced its way through her confusion.

"T-that's good," Paige struggled to say. "I'm y-younger." And she was so pleased about it, too. "I'm... I'm..."

It was a little alarming to realize that she didn't know quite how old she was. Paige's age was still in flux. It was like Schroedinger's cat. She'd yet to settle on it. Paige found herself torn. How young was 'younger'? Part of her wanted to push her luck. To save what could still be saved of her past. Twenty-four? That could still be 'early twenties', right? It was younger than twenty-five, at least.

But what if it wasn't good enough? That was the other thought, and it soon carried the day. Above all, Paige needed to be Sophia's type. It was so important.

"I-I'm twenty-one!" Paige sang out, in a voice that was suddenly just that bit fresher and higher.

Twenty-one. Of course she was twenty-one. It had only been last month - her birthday, that little ritual, going to a bar, buying a drink with her real ID as her friends cheered and the bartender winked. As moments passed, that memory became more and more solid and concrete in Paige's head. It was real, undoubtedly. Far more real than the ten or so years she'd just lost, all of that life and time metaphysically shredded into nothing more than hypothetical abstraction.

"Twenty-one?" Sophia cocked an eyebrow playfully. "That's kind of hot."

Paige tittered and blushed. That was so naughty. There was something thrilling about going on a date with an older woman - why did that thought taste so new? It wasn't. Paige was sure of that. At least, she thought she was. She'd been giddy with anticipation ever since her friend had, with a knowing wink, proposed setting her up with Sophia.

Paige had a thing for older women. She must. Why else would she be on a date with Sophia? Her attraction to Sophia took on a new flavor.

"Twenty-one," Paige repeated. The thought was settling. "Yeah. Um. Yeah."

Twenty-one. She was twenty-one. Fuck. She was younger than Sophia.

She was still dizzy from the change. So much of her life had been put into flux. Only slowly was it falling into place. Paige struggled to make sense of it all, grasping at possible solutions that turned to stone - to reality - as soon as she latched onto them. Her transition moved backward, to her teenage years. The miserable, closeted portion of her life was high school now, not college. College - that felt like just yesterday. Paige had only just graduated. She was so young!

But of course she was. She was twenty-one.

It changed everything. Only the bare outline remained fixed. Suddenly, instead of Sigourney Weaver and Winona Ryder, Paige had been showing her hair stylist pictures of Miley Cyrus. Kristen Stewart. Those were her idols now - at least, in some ways. Neither of them was quite pink enough for Paige's liking.

2010s pop culture was pouring into her head, replacing what she'd lost. It was a wild experience. And somehow, it felt like it had always been there.

And then there was her job. Paige was a successful career professional. She worked in management. A twenty-one-year-old manager? Wasn't that absurd? Paige tried her hardest to cling to that one thing. She was so proud of it, after all. Mercifully, the thread of reality she was pulling on didn't quite snap.

Right. Yes. She remembered now. She was a twenty-one-year-old manager. Paige had started interning in college, and she'd made a big impression at the company she'd worked for. They'd been willing to take a chance on her and hire her into a senior role right out of college. She was a rising star. It was rough sometimes, of course, having so many subordinates who were younger. It was a fight to get them to take her seriously. Especially given all the pink she wore. But Paige couldn't be stopped. The pink became a statement. Young women - young trans women - of her generation could do anything. She was a girlboss. The world was her oyster.

And a thousand other things about her reality shifted. Big changes and small ones, spreading out along implications and possibilities like cracks in ice. With the strange power Sophia had infused into her, Paige was rewriting her entire being - and all of it, just to be Sophia's type.