Adam died in a bus accident on Burn Street.
It happened so fast. One minute he was scrolling through Instagram, trying to figure out if his ex was dating that hot thirty-something goth or if they were just friends, the next he was upside down screaming covered in blood.
And then he was back in his apartment, which wasn't.
Adam looked around, nosing down on his pillow that still smelled like HIM even though it'd been a whole five weeks since the last time they had sex. He'd changed the pillow case too.
But never mind that.
He dressed in a white shirt, white pants, white shoes, white white white. It was kind of funny, he thought, as he pushed into his sneakers and threw a bag over his shoulder. The whitest-dressed queer. Literally. He laughed.
Then he took the bus. The big clunky one that came.
He scrolled through Instagram, trying to figure out if his ex was fucking that hot thirty-something goth or if they were just friends. He still clung to this hope that if he dressed a little more fem, kissed enough lesbians, then maybe his ex could look past the man of it all and get back together. It's not like things went to shit all at once. His ex supported the transition up until Adam started asking to be called he.
It didn't matter that Adam still wore dresses and skirts and could pass as something fem-adjacent at least. Fem with an emphasis on stud because Black just meant Stud to all the pink-wearing lipgloss-loving Protect Black Women white lesbians. Before they broke up with him or, worse, asked him to join their inclusive Feminine Energy Uterus Love Peg the Patriarchy feminist group.
The bus tipped over and his chest caved in like it was made of popcorn.
And then he was back in his tidy apartment.
Adam nosed through his pillow, which still smelled like his ex's body wash even though it couldn't because it was a new pillow case and he hadn't seen his ex in weeks.
He opened the fridge. The milk he'd thrown out a week ago was in there. He uncapped the carton and sniffed. It smelled fine, like it was still in date.
He checked his closet. His favorite shirt, the one his ex liked him to wear, was hanging alongside the pink glitter tank top he wore to a party last week. He'd thrown both away after the party, after yet another woman called him a stud in his wraparound skirt with a full face of makeup.
His T was still in the bathroom cabinet, like it'd been when he went to sleep last night.
He dressed in the tank top and bubble skirt. He did his makeup and just managed to catch the bus.
He was scrolling through Instagram when the bus tipped over, spilling him into the old woman he was sitting next to.
And then he was back.
The book he'd finished last week and returned to the library, Fearing the Black Body: The Racial Origins of Fat Phobia by Sabrina Strings, was on top of the bookcase. The half-eaten sandwich from a week ago was in the fridge. His pillow smelled even stronger, but no ex to be seen.
He took the bus. He scrolled through Instagram. He choked on hair and blood.
And then he was back.
The dress he'd cut into pieces a few months ago was on his bed. The scissors were in the bedside drawer. He thought about cutting it again, just to see what would happen. He loved that dress. But it was also the dress his last girlfriend said made him look too lesbian. She said it like it was an insult. Before she broke up with him over text. A few days later, he was scrolling through her Instagram and realized she'd hooked up with her transphobic cis ex-boyfriend again. He blocked her and pretended it didn't hurt. That was when he cut up the dress.
And now it was back.
He took the bus. His head flew back, hitting the seat so hard his neck gave in.
His phone was missing. Adam remembered he'd broken it a year ago and bought a new one. He threw it against the wall after his oldest friend from high school called him a confused dyke and said he wasn't invited to her wedding. Because her parents were going to be there. Nobody cares if you're a butch or whatever, she said (he wasn't). But my parents don't GET IT, you know? Like. You're a man, but you're also a lez and you're in a fucking dress??? She talked about her birthday party last year, when he showed up several years on T in a dress. It was remembering the birthday party that made Adam pick up his phone and throw it against the wall. It was a lot of things, but mostly the birthday party. She was the first person he ever came out to, first as a lesbian and then as transmasc. He didn't text her back. He was hoping she'd call and tell him she was sorry, that she didn't mean to hurt his feelings, that he could come to her wedding and wear whatever he wanted and no he didn't have to explain transmasc on T who likes wearing dresses and skirts most of the time to her entire family. But of course she didn't.
He took the bus.
His oldest best friend from high school was calling him for the first time in weeks. This time he told her (lying) that he couldn't come to her wedding. He'd like to, just couldn't get the days off work. He could feel her relief before she hung up. Adam threw his phone against the wall, cutting the screen into long silver filaments. He'd have to buy a new one. She wouldn't call him again.
He took the bus.
His ex said he'd look better if he got off T. I don't mind all this guy stuff, you know that. But you could just be fem. Why not just be fem? You don't have to do all this hormones and shit. It doesn't make any sense and I think you know that, I think you're just doing this cause you think you have to. You don't.
Adam took the bus.
He was meeting his not yet an ex at work. They were both laughing over being the only queer people in their office. His ex pushed the mail cart ahead, laughing with his mouth all the way open. He had a nose ring and a tongue piercing back then. Adam thought both were hot.
Adam took the bus.
They were breaking up. Adam said it just wasn't going to work out. His ex thought he was joking. They'd only been together a week and had been talking almost nonstop since then. This isn't gonna work out if you don't let me be who I am. I'm a feminine bigender trans guy. I'm on T. I have facial hair. It's complicated. I guess I feel like a lesbian sometimes. I like wearing dresses and skirts. I'm not a stud.
Adam woke up in his apartment. He was going to be late for work if he didn't take the bus.
His pillow no longer smelled like his ex. His boyfriend Rashid was texting asking if he wanted to meet up after work. In about forty minutes, there was going to be a fatal bus accident on Burn Street. If he called and told somebody, they wouldn't believe him. Or they'd accuse him of planning a terrorist attack, which meant he'd die for real this time.
Adam blocked his ex on Instagram. Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.