I ask him where his wife is

I don’t speak up about my first experience on the toilet as a woman, but I see the emptiness in the master bedroom and feel compelled to ask, “So, where is your wife?” With Robert here alone with me in the master bedroom, I deduce there is a reason why he has allowed this to happen. If he had a partner, inviting a woman in body and form into the master bedroom would be the last thing a guy like him would do.

“She died a while back,” he says, with some difficulty. I wonder if he is still grieving her ****, and if not, he’s probably still dealing with her absence. I further wonder if my being here is a risk he’s taking and may be his way of testing the waters. “Cancer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I offer my condolences, turning around to face him, having no interest in what’s on the TV. “Then, I guess this is hers.” I gesture to the bathrobe I’m wearing. Robert nods. Without looking at him, I then ask, “So. How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?” he asks in return.

I state what I’ve observed so far. “You say your wife died a while back, but here you are with a woman in the bedroom you shared with your wife. Now, the woman is merely just a man in a woman’s body, but given I just took a leak as a woman, I’m a woman in body and form. So, how does it feel to have someone of the opposite sex here in your presence, wearing the same clothes she wore?”

“I’m coping with it,” Robert says. He turns down the volume on the TV, seeing that we have struck up a conversation. “I’m curious. How do you feel? Just less than an hour ago, you were a guy.”

“I don’t feel any different, actually,” I tell him. “I occupy less space but breathe the same. Of course, I have the extra bits and no evidence of my manhood anywhere to be found. So, for the most part, I feel fine. And being in the presence of a man, I feel somewhat comfortable.”

“You don’t feel totally comfortable?” he asks.

“I think much of that feeling stems in whatever relationship you still have with your wife. I mean, you still have memories of her. I just want to honor her by having self-control,” I explain.

He smiles subtly. “I’ve made my peace with her. Her memory lives on, but it doesn’t dictate what I can or cannot do. And whatever you do wouldn’t ruin my memory of her.” He stands after telling me this. I feel like he's allowing me to do something at this moment, something that previously was forbidden in such a sacred place a master bedroom would signify.