Denver

It’s seventy degrees in Denver.

A hive of queer activists buzzes about the hotel lobby.

I see some familiar faces and bump into friends.

Between the superficial hugs and kisses, there are warm and tender ones to be found.

To my surprise I stand on stage in protest.

I swim laps in the outdoor pool and breath in the mile high air every other stroke.

It’s February.

I scream with delight on a rickshaw ride I took into the night and eat half priced sushi.

Sitting on a hotel bed I stare at his pretty sky blue nails and hold back the tears.

I eat chicken enchiladas and ride the elevators.

There’s a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from my hotel room door.

I call a friend in Virginia.

It’s three in the morning and she’s sad.

I feel empowered my femme identity.

I’m excluded by a radical feminist and caught off guard.

I’m angry.

I feel hot in my new black dress.

I take selfies in my hotel room window and post them on Instagram.

It’s what we do.

The bartender looks like Elizabeth Berkley.

I have another at last call.

I feel dehydrated and have a headache.

My wig is packed in a zip lock bag.

I wait for the shuttle and talk to a stranger.

I complement him on his sharp navy blue wool tweed coat

His dad bought it for him when he started transitioning

My heart stops as our plane attempts to land during a snowstorm

A stoic young man holding flowers waits for someone to return

I am grateful for the ride home