Chapter 4
I was back into my boy drag. Ray was still dressed like Ray. We were at a late-night diner, sitting in a quiet corner.
“What do you do when you’re not in a dress?” he asked, his hand over mine, the other clutching a coffee mug that sat next to a mostly finished plate of eggs and hash browns. I’d opted for a fruit salad. Those dresses, after all, barely fit as it was. Art, it seems, comes with a price—mostly loss of adequate circulation.
“Accountant,” I told him. It was my standard lie when people asked—people, that is, that I didn’t want to know the truth. Since Dad was an accountant, and since Dad talked about work all my life, I knew enough about accounting to fake it in a conversation. Not surprisingly, most folks didn’t want to talk accounting, and so I rarely had to fake
