Anya sat at home with music spilling from her headphones, draped around her neck. She looked out into the sky, where the moon hung low and crickets chirped like a wild, natural orchestra. Her hair was pulled back, away from her face. She wore no make up, so she looked even paler under the soft moonlight.

Her mind continued to swim around that man, Alfred. He was handsome alright: a cowboy movie star, with a tough jaw and straw-coloured hair, with ropy forearm muscles, and a fatherly shine in his eyes.

She tried to brush him out of her mind. Over and over, but he always had the key to the backdoor and would slip in, unnoticed, until she realised in the middle of her work day she had been picturing her body swaddled in his arms. The thought of his daughter let the image flee.

Then the memory of the napkin would come back, twisting in the wind. The napkin with his thick handwriting, his number written boldly across it. Anya had it tucked in her purse. She copied the digits into her cellphone. She hadn't called. Or sent him a message.

Her red nails hung over her phone now. A message was on her screen, from her sister. It had an image attached. Anya tapped on it, waiting for it to load.

The image was of two wedding gowns.

"Which?" Katarina had typed out for her in Russian.

Anya frowned, tapping her fingers against the screen. The clicks felt satisfying to hear. She examined the first one, a lacy, open-backed simple dress. Then the other one: a puffier, more floral, and classic type. Anya punched in her answer and then browsed her contacts.

There, the first name in her contact list: Alfred.

She wanted to, desperately. Her heart pounded. He was friendly enough. If he didn't like her, then he would never have given her that number to begin with. Right? Yes, right. Of course.

Doubts began to burst in her mind like fireworks. Maybe he was just being polite. Hell, maybe that wasn't even his real number. Maybe he had taken pity on her. Maybe he was just a friend. Maybe he preferred men. Maybe maybe maybe.

She checked the time. Nine pm. It was a little late, wasn't it?

She paused, took a deep breath, and called the number.

It rang several times. Each tone pierced her heart like an ice dagger. She held her breath at the final tones, and, mercifully, heard the click.

"The number you are trying to reach is not available right now…" came the monotone woman's voice recording.

Anya began to hang up.

She hesitated. Long enough for it to go to voice mail. She cleared her throat, conscious of how deep it sounded over the phone.

"Hello, this is Anya. The one you met a few nights ago. This is my number. Just wanted to check up on you and let you know this is my number." She winced, noticing she had repeated herself. "Um, bye." She hung up, turned around, and buried her head in the pillow. She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding.

What had happened to her?

What happened to her original persona: the charming, cold, threatening "man"?

Couldn't she have put that into her new, better self?

Instead, her other side had taken over. The lonely side, the one that was ridden with a hard life and now conscious of every move made. She had lost so many friends, so many people had began to dislike her, and slowly her confidence eroded.

Luckily, this was the side that only was visible when she was swathed in privacy.

She lay in bed, her body curled around the pillow. Her headphones were strewn, still trickling music into a deaf room. She watched the moon glittering in the distance, letting her eyes slide shut.

She was woken at about eight in the morning by a phone call. Her heart flipped in elation. She must have called him too late and he, having just woken up, decided to call her back. She scrambled for her phone, which in her sleep had tumbled to the floor, and look at the screen.

Her smile fell. She answered the call.

"Hello." She said.

"Hello," came the voice of her doctor - Dr. Arthur Kirkland. "How are you this morning?"

"Well enough, but I haven't been awake long enough to give a true judgement of the morning yet." Anya retorted.

Arthur was unfazed. She imagined his lips twitching in a fusion of annoyance and amusement. She hadn't seen him in over a month. That must mean he was calling for anything appointment.

"I'll remind you," as she had predicted, "that you're due in this Saturday."

Usually a bored nurse or secretary was the one to make these calls. Arthur handled few patients, earning a pretty penny out of all of them, and preferred to keep personal. Not because he was a man bent on the utmost perfect service, but because he did not trust anyone to do his work for him. He had two nurses in his private office, as well as an accountant. That was all he needed.

"Thank you." Anya said, ready to say good-bye and move on with her day. She considered texting Alfred, then quashed the idea. She didn't want to have to check her phone every couple of seconds when a ghost of a vibration emitted from her purse.

Arthur wouldn't have it. "Now, I called to make sure of other things."

"I am dilated, I've taken care of it," Anya said, "My medicine is all being taken as it should be. Facial feminisation surgery bruises have faded now. My breasts have settled. All as we spoke of last time, except now I think I don't have to shave as much."

"Good, good." Arthur said. Meaning this was not at all what he wanted to hear. "How are you emotionally?"

She paused.

How was she?

"Well."

Arthur hummed. "Alright, we'll discuss this at your next appointment. Have a good day."

He hung up before she could put in another word. She stared at her phone, sighing. Another conversation, another exchange, and still she felt alone.