The View
by Adina-Marie Torres
University of the Incarnate Word
Adina-Marie Torres is a junior at the University of the Incarnate Word. Her written work largely focuses on the darker themes of the feminine experience. She's a double major in Fashion Merchandising and English and is expected to graduate in 2025.
On my Texas ID, my gender is labeled as a man. It’s a fun party trick I pull when I meet someone new. Seeing their faces turn twisted in surprise, laughter, and disgust. I stand at a proud 5’4; skirts, curls, corsets, lingerie—they never believe it. And they shouldn’t.
I am, in fact, a born female. Perhaps I pissed someone off when filing paperwork, or maybe I’m truly that clumsy. I’m sure the new guy I’m showing will appreciate it (they rarely ever do).
But it fits the mold they like; they devour the view. Head cocked to the side as if I somehow understand them completely and yet can never grasp the subject they’re talking about.
I understand what they see. I make showers hot, the steam rising past the shower curtains. I look at my naked body, eyes cast down. I contort a bit, dancing in the way that I think I’m supposed to. Letting the way my shoulders, hips, and curves move graze my gaze. Even I know I’m not supposed to be swinging my body this way.
I blow out the candle after, letting myself linger on the exhale when I blow out the flame. Spotify turned on, and Fiona Apple and Lana Del Rey playing on my phone. Shutters up, I cast my eyes towards the open window. Cars pass slowly against a stop sign right outside my room.
I put on my little set while keeping eye contact with a car that stays parked a little too long at the stop sign. I wonder if they can see me from way up here—if they see how I lay myself against the bed and how recklessly I am behaving.
Suddenly, I realize I am completely alone. There’s no soul here to seduce, to convince, or to pretend to listen to.
It’s just me. I suddenly feel embarrassed, looking at the lace and the lingerie, the lotions, and the candle. I pull out my laptop from under the bed, sitting atop clothes I never end up wearing. I put on Disney Plus, remembering that I really don’t want to be alone right now; I never do really. I think about dying. I look back at the view—trees, streetlights, highways—all from six stories up. I miss my parents.
My breath catches, and it’s all too much for me. I switch positions. Let my torso hang off my bed, ribs exposed, my head in the open space between the carpet and this thin crevice in the corner of my room. My hands reach for the string from the blinds. I twist my hands around it, creating handcuffs from the string. I don’t enjoy it.
I think in another life, maybe one where I’m healthier, I sit in a twin XL. Covers pulled up, silly pajamas—maybe I actually finish a Disney movie. Maybe I slouch at dinner, laugh without covering my smile with my hand, or cry without remembering that men like glossy eyes. I think maybe I’m a person in that one.