i dream another transmasc who lives on my street. tuesday evening, clouds in sky, our eyes meet across the sidewalk as he’s walking his dog. when the creature slips its leash he smiles to say sorry but i don’t mind, i don’t mind, i let it follow me three blocks to wherever i’m going until he calls its furry paws back home. then i dream hours into seconds and he’s knocking on my door and i’m stepping out into the moonlight. that was the first time here somebody’s seen me, he says, which is also to say, hello. he is older than me and wiser and i don’t know his name, but our bodies know what to do.

marquette, michigan, squats smack-dab in the middle of nowhere and there are no gay bars till green bay, unless you count the bar in the town of gay, michigan, where according to jojo on google reviews her group of 5 felt unwelcome, bartender was very rude. marquette, built on iron ore and midwest nice, neighborhoods full of million-dollar properties whose lawns claim hate has no home here, the queerest lake i’ve ever met and the straightest people who fish it. the only barber shop i can walk to is called The Man Cave, offering Manly Services For Manly Men! Amazing Grooming Experience At No Cost To Your Manhood!, and when i go in for a birthday cut my stylist has slept in so the manager makes a call, says into the phone your 9:20 is here but i’ll take care of her while i stare down at my boots. march 31st is also trans day of visibility.

so i dream his neck scruff pressed against my cheek. our hair the same exact shade. his stomach paunched just how hrt is bending mine and it’s like we’ve known this for ages. he says something like how is it going for you and i say something like here is hard and he nods and he smiles and he says, we’re making it better. my dream-self must know if he means us or means others, if the two of us must break this ground, if there’s a house somewhere quiet and out-of-sight where i can be known by a crowd.

a guest speaker in my literature class tells us to go someplace where you are the Only for research, for relativity, and i think of the pronouns on my office door and the officemate who always forgets them. i think of how i wanted to polar plunge for my chest-scar anniversary, but couldn’t find someone to ask to bring blankets and a warmed-up car. i think of lying on the planned parenthood paperwork and putting down an emergency contact who now lives three states away.

i’d been reading from ross gay’s book of (more) delights, which maybe explains the dreaming, since there’s one about strangers and one about the moon and one about kissing a dog, and they’re all about loving a place so much even when it hurts you. ross walks his city palming figs to swap for pawpaws and dancing with strangers in the park; my dream is suffused with the scent of kiwis and my transmasc doesn’t let go.

of course i don’t mind the isolation. a perfect place to create, to think, to immerse oneself in sparseness. this was never meant to be forever so i can get through it alone: order my drink to go and press the scarf tight to my cheeks, make my own chicken soup when i’m sick. i can smile and laugh and say no to parties and be grateful for all the space and delete apps that have long since dried up. i can practice pitching my voice just right so the cis boys i teach won’t shoot me.

i cry while dreaming and he lets me, holds me with broad palms on my porch. he tells me something about his house or his puppy and i want this to be everything: a hug, a lifetime, a flag on the wall, a seat at the pub, a festival. a city where it isn’t so cold and a night that holds only relief. i smile while i cry and i cry when i wake and i don’t look out the window.