Anne does not like the subway. It is not that it is crowded and noisy and dirty (although it is), because her politics do not allow her to dislike things on such fundamentally bourgeois grounds, and she would be affronted by the suggestion that the variety of people who ride the subway play any role in her aversion. She would never feel uneasy because of a group of black men standing near her, an immigrant loudly talking in an unknown language, or an unhoused person sitting with their entire life in a pile of dirty bags. Anne has done the work to unravel all of the forms of implicit bias that her upbringing taught her, and any suggestion otherwise is probably simple transphobia.
No—her objection to those rattling, too-hot rail cars is entirely politically unobjectionable: she just doesn’t like being underground.
It’s not exactly a phobia. Anne would hate to appropriate that precise, medicalized language from people who actually need to use it to properly convey their needs. She just doesn’t like it, and doesn’t like explaining why. That’s all.
So she usually avoids it. It’s not a big deal to walk, or bike, or even, in dire extremity, to take a ride-share or (gasp!) a taxi. It’s worth a bit of inconvenience.
But today that’s not an option. Two bridges are shut down by what are euphemistically called anti-social elements, who are politically aligned with Anne—not that you’d ever realize that. She never talks about them on the socials, never does anything more than support them in private, but you can’t expect her to put herself in danger, can you? All her friends know where she stands, anyway, and that’s what matters. She signs petitions. She votes.
Any other day Anne would simply find a way to dodge her obligations, to reschedule or cancel and then stay home and get high and try not to think about all the ways her decisions keep on making her life worse. Any other day she wouldn’t be here, standing in the middle of a swaying crowd, struggling to keep her footing as the train rattles and shakes its way through the city’s veins, wincing every time it shrieks and cringing whenever one of the other passengers brushes against her. Any other day she wouldn’t be flushed and trembling, sweaty-palmed and light-headed—
But any other day Em (Ember, not Emma, and woe betide anyone who makes that mistake twice) wouldn’t be standing next to her. The outing was their idea, and Anne had found herself helpless to refuse when they proposed it, and helpless again when they showed up at her door to make sure that she didn’t just miss it. Anne is always helpless when it comes to Em. They’re taller than her, which is uncommon, and they carry themself with all of the assurance Anne lacks, and Anne is still baffled by the fact that they seem to actually enjoy being around her.
Although—perhaps Em is like this with all of their friends. Anne wouldn’t know. She doesn’t go to group things much. For a while it was because she kept on backing out at the last minute, and now she just doesn’t get invited. It’s easier for everyone that way, and if she ever decides that she doesn’t want to keep on isolating herself she can ask what’s going on, can’t she? It’s all self-inflicted. It’s her own fault.
Em is also unbelievably pretty, in an ambiguously butch way that does things to Anne’s brain. They are so clearly a they, in a way that subsumes almost every trace of their assigned gender, and it works so fucking well. This is a large part of why Anne can’t bring herself to say no to them, which is why she’s here, suffering.
It’s not just that her ears hurt from the noise or that the stifling heat means that the car is full of the myriad scents of sweaty bodies or that people keep on bumping into her; it is all of that and more. It’s the way she presses against Em every time someone pushes her or the train corners, the prickly blush slowly climbing its way up her body. She wishes she could just fold herself into Em, and them around her, and be safe—but she could not. Em is a friend, and Anne would never risk damaging their friendship by suggesting any degree of physical intimacy beyond what Em occasionally initiates, an arm around her shoulders or a long hug or a kiss on her forehead that forced Anne to flee to the nearest restroom to compose herself.
She cringes at the memory.
And here, aching and bestial, tenting her skirt despite her best efforts to tuck, is the horrid reason that Anne prefers to avoid subways. It would be so, so easy—
The train is crowded, and growing worse with every stop; it is a struggle to keep the little bit of space separating her from Em. No one is paying attention, no one wants to notice anything, all lost in their phones or wrapped up in conversations, pretending that the world doesn’t exist—even Em is tapping away, head tilted down at the perfect angle to stare at her. If they let their eyes drift past their phone for even a minute, if they let their gaze dip downward, they’d see, they’d know …
Anne’s blush has consumed her entirely. Her palms are clammy and her mouth is dry and every little motion, every shake and vibration, seems to go directly to her crotch. She’s certain that everyone around her knows, all those strangers judging her, Em judging her—she should have stayed home. She’s not fit to be in public. She keeps on thinking that anyone could reach down and touch her, or that she could just let herself fall against Em and feel the warmth of her body and theirs, maybe pull her skirt up and let herself slip between Em’s thighs and give herself over to the urge. She’s turned on, so she’s objectifying everyone around her, which is horrible of her. She shouldn’t be like this. She wants to die.
It would be better if she was dead.
Every moment of her existence inconveniences the people around her—people who, she is absolutely certain, actually lead worthwhile lives. People who have value. Not like her. A useless animal, helpless to control herself, good for nothing but her body. Just another sex-crazed tranny slut.
Someone elbows her in the back and she stumbles, falls. She should just let herself fall. Let the crowd forcing its way into the train trample her to death. That’s what she deserves. She ticked the organ donation box when she updated her ID, thinking that maybe if her body were divided into its constituent parts she could be of some use to anyone (and thinking, always, of the touch of the surgeon’s scalpel, of rib spreaders and forceps, of her body transformed into a freezer-full of carefully preserved organs). And now it’s finally time—
Except Em catches her, as she falls into them. Wraps one strong arm around her shoulder to steady her. Looks down into her staring eyes and glowing skin and, with Anne’s face pressed into their chest and her body taut and trembling against them, says, “Wow, busier than I expected. You doing okay, Anne?”
“Y-yeah,” she stammers, stupidly, “peachy.”
She desperately hopes that they don’t notice her hips shaking against them. She can’t control herself, that’s all. It’s her fault. She’s ruining everything.
“Yeah? You seem a bit, uh,” oh gods, Anne thinks, they know, and Em lowers their voice and says, in almost a whisper, “worked up, you know?”
“No, I just—I don’t like subways. It’s all so …”
“Just two more stops. You gonna be okay for that?”
“Yes,” she hopes she isn’t lying, “definitely. Totally.”
“Good,” and then Em does the worst thing that Anne can possibly imagine. They tilt their head a bit further down, close to her ear, and she can feel the warmth of their breath against her and smell the faint perfume lingering on their neck, blending with their skin’s own musk, and they squeeze her a bit tighter with the arm still wrapped around her, steadying her, and they say, “and then we can find a restroom to take care of you, hmm?”
And they shift one of their legs so that their thigh presses against her crotch.
And all Anne can think is, they know. They know. How long have they known?! Oh god, what do they think about her, they must hate her now, they must want to get away, she should throw herself under the train, she should cut her throat here and now—
It takes a bit for what they said to catch up to her.
And, when it does, her brain breaks, and all she can think is, simply,