Rashmi
Estrogen’s Favorite Princess
@everyone
Gentlemen,
I would like to address the concerns raised in the past 24 hours regarding the departure of Laura the Impostor and respond to allegations about my supposed connections to her ideology.
First and foremost, I stand with the community of Ranked Competitive Breast Growth. I am as shocked and appalled by Laura’s abuse of this noble sport as anyone. The damage she has done to the integrity of this competition cannot be understated, and if we do not take decisive action, as a community, then I fear she will continue to do so for the foreseeable future.
Let me be clear: I do not condone the presence of trans women in this competition or this server. I wholeheartedly condemn the exploitation of this server’s resources by trans women. It makes a mockery of the very real struggles and sacrifices of men on estrogen by exploiting the unfair advantage trans women have in this sport. For too long trans women have invaded men’s spaces and siphoned off resources that are not rightfully theirs to take! Trans women do
not
belong amongst men.
Secondly, with regards to the concerns raised about my own involvement in the incident: I do not associate with Laura in my personal life, offline or online. I was not, at any point, privy to insider information about her unsanctioned gender identity. I have attached screenshots of my DM history with her: it is blank, as you can plainly see. If there exists such a thing as a high-rank group chat, I was never included in it. I am as much a victim of her malicious acts as we all are.
In the aftermath of the revelations about Laura’s long-running deception, there are many who have concerns about those who adopt the so-called “femme-RLC” strategy, myself included. I want you all to know that your words are heard, and that your perspectives are valued.
The truth, however, is something far more innocuous: I am a cisgender, bisexual man attracted to both women and femboys. While I have struggled to come to terms with it through my time in this competition, I am now ready to fully embrace my identity and the fact that I, myself, am a femboy.
I recognize that some of you may remain suspicious about my assertions, and find my explanation unsatisfactory. The subject of femboy identity has been a topic of heated debate in this community for far longer than I have been active within it, and I understand that many of you consider the femboy to be more or less a trans woman in denial, rather than a genuine male gender expression.
In response, I would like to express my disappointment in the lack of education on queer issues shown by this server. It is my belief that this precise failure is at the heart of the Laura issue. Where she constructed a convoluted, at times impenetrably dense body of rhetoric to deny her transfemininity, the reality is actually quite simple: Men can be feminine! This server has always struggled with a binarist, queerphobic culture that assumes any man with an alternative gender expression must be transfeminine, and we need to take a stand against this by letting men be feminine!
Given that I have inadvertently become someone that large swathes of this community look up to, I intend to give this responsibility the weight it deserves. I therefore am happy to announce that I intend to involve myself proactively with the university’s Gay-Straight Alliance. By doing so, I will be able to learn from a variety of queer perspectives and educate myself to an extent that goes above and beyond what online communities are capable of.
I wish to encourage you all to get involved, as there is a place for all of us in the wider queer community.
Finally, I would like to thank you all for your patience. I know many of you have been suspicious about how long it has taken me to address this issue. I was absent from the server spending time with my new girlfriend, who occupied my attention for most of the night, and I simply did not think to check in on the server.
If I didn’t know Nichole personally, I’d swear she had a PR team assemble this wall of crap for her. I scroll through her abomination of a statement on the bus as it creeps through the sparse early-afternoon traffic, rolling my eyes so far back I worry I’ll catch a glimpse of the inside of my skull.
At least it’s a good distraction from my circumstances. I’m outside, alone, in broad daylight for the first time
as
myself
. I’m wearing some of Kathy’s rare pieces of more normal women’s clothes. Admittedly, I do feel exposed and vulnerable, like every glance from a stranger is picking me apart, looking for signs of weakness or for something to attack. Yet despite the nagging worry that I’m about to catch fire from the pressure of being observed by others, I feel good. Authenticity, even when frightening, does seem to be worth it after all.
Well, it’s worth it when I don’t get so contemplative I miss my stop.
Rupali’s place is a short walk from where the bus leaves me, though it would’ve been shorter if I’d got off at the right stop. As it stands, I have to walk through a park and past some cafés and small bookstores. The overcast weather renders the whole neighbourhood in grey, washed-out colors, a hint of oncoming rain in the air. I really should’ve brought an umbrella.
I quickly enter the building’s foyer and ring the doorbell, trying to make sure my head is in frame for the camera. My mouth is dry, and I feel like my breakfast isn’t agreeing with me. But it’s going to be okay, I keep telling myself. Ru and I are going to figure it all out.
The intercom buzzes loudly as someone on the other end picks up.
“Hi, it’s me,” I say.
No answer. A second later the door clicks, unlocking. Last time I was here, Ru came running down to open the door for me and sweep me up into a rib-crushing hug. The memory is so vivid, and aches so acutely, I almost forget to push the door open before it relocks.
I make my way upstairs with my head down, watching my boots trudge up the carpeted wooden stairwell. Ru’s door has a peephole, and as I wait for her to answer the door I find myself staring at it.
She could be watching me, and I wouldn’t have any way of knowing. Picking apart everything about how I’m dressed, how I stand, all the ways I’m different now. All the new possibilities for how I could fall short—but no, no. That’s silly. Ru wouldn’t do that.
The one who used to do that was me, actually.
I hear a latch sliding open. Ru opens the door and greets me with a cursory, “Hey.”
She’s standing with one hand on her hips, the other on the doorknob, her expression stony. She’s still in her pajamas, and something about her very posture, the way she’s half turned away from me, makes me think I have a steep hill to climb this afternoon.
“It’s good to see you, Rupali.” I catch myself going in for a hug, stopping as I notice her eyebrows raise and her stance shift slightly away from me. Of course she doesn’t want to hug me.
So instead I bend down and take my shoes off. Almost on autopilot, I try to put them in their usual spot on the shoe rack. I’m so used to that spot being available, I end up shoving them onto another pair before I catch myself and put them somewhere else.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter as I get my shit together for long enough to step inside the living room.
The apartment is the same as it’s always been: A perfectly arranged living space designed to be welcoming both for living alone and for having guests. Ru’s parents insisted on giving their girl her own space even though she was okay with roommates, and she wasted no time making sure her apartment would always have room for friends.
An L-shaped couch frames a glass table with some board games in the storage shelf underneath, and a couple of armchairs face a smaller coffee table in a corner filled with bookshelves. Neat, tidy, everything in its own place, meticulously organized and positioned with purpose and intentionality.
Including Nichole, who is scrolling on her phone as she lounges on the short part of the couch. She doesn’t even glance up at me as I enter. Now that I think of it, she never did come home last night. I guess she’s just made herself comfortable in the exact spot where
I
like to sit.
“Nichole and I were thinking we’d get some lunch.” Rupali breaks the silence matter-of-factly. “Want anything?”
“Uh, sure, from where?” I sputter a bit at being confronted with such a casual, mundane choice.
“It’s this newer coffee shop we’ve been going to, totes cozy. They have pretty great sandwiches.” Nichole finally looks up at me with the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. “I’ll send you the menu, girliepop.”
“Do they serve more up-to-date slang, by any chance?”
Nichole has the temerity to roll her eyes at me in response. “Well, if you check your phone instead of just standing there, you can figure it out yourself.”
I settle down at the dining table with Ru and pull out my phone to peruse the available options. “I’ll have a number six without tomatoes, I guess.”
“Cool beans!” Nichole gets up from her spot and walks to the exit. “I’ll go pick it up so you two can have your talk.”
“Thanks Ni-Ni, I’m going to miss you!” Ru smiles, turning in her chair to face Nichole with her entire body.
Nichole in turn leans in and kisses Rupali on the cheek, right in front of me. I swear I see her mouthing “she’s mine now, bitch” at me as she pulls back.
“I’ll miss you too! Be back soon, my Ru-Ru! And Rashmi.”
Nichole does her annoyingly perfect little hip-swaying strut out the door and leaves me to face Rupali.
I sit in silence for a moment, trying to figure out where to start and how to talk to my fiancée about everything that’s happened since the party. There’s so much to say, and so much I need to know from her that if I start talking, I fear I’ll never give her room to answer.
“So Rashmi, huh?” Rupali tilts her head a little, a wry smile on her lips. “I like it, it suits you.”
“Thanks. I, um, picked it myself.” I stumble over my own words at Ru’s comment. There’s a tension in the air even as she clearly makes an effort to put me at ease.
“I’m happy for you. Honestly. You seem so much more comfortable like this. It’s like a huge weight’s been lifted from your shoulders.”
Ru is so kind to me. Has always been so kind to me. It’s all I can do to keep myself from just jumping across the table and begging her for another chance on my knees.
“I mean, the fabrics are a lot more comfortable at least.” I try my best to act relaxed, avoid letting on that my heart feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest. “A lot softer, they just feel nicer on the skin, you know?”
“Yeah, I guess some guy clothes can be a bit stiff, but I think the pockets sort of make up for it, plus finding stuff that actually fits is so much easier.” Ru strokes her chin for a moment, before looking straight through me. “But you didn’t come all the way here to tell me women’s clothes are soft, did you?”
“Much as I wish we could just chat about clothes, I’m afraid not. We really need to talk about you and Nichole.” There’s no escaping it. Nothing about this conversation can even feel normal until this is out of the way. “I’m sorry, I just have a hard time understanding what’s going on with you two.”
Ru twirls a lock of hair around her finger, biting her lip a little. “I mean, she’s incredibly hot, right? Hard to believe she’s only been on hormones for seven months!”
“Right, sure, yeah. And you’ve been seeing her for how long?” I raise an eyebrow as I try to make sense of how Ru can just talk about this like it’s no big deal, like it’s the most obvious thing imaginable.
Ru perks up. “Well, she told you, right? We’d already been having a good time hanging out occasionally, and I think there was always this little spark between us. Like, she came to me and Tahani to go clothes-shopping after Kathy apparently dressed her up in terrible outfits, and
fucking hell
girl, just… Nichole in a thigh-split. Have you had the pleasure?”
I have not had the pleasure. I catch myself thinking about it, though, and have to suppress the overwhelming urge to mimic Rupali’s breathy, hushed tone of voice. “Ahem, no, I can’t say I have.”
“Shame. Anyway, after the party we had a really serious talk about it. About the unspoken connection, the tension we were both kind of aware of, but never acknowledged because of all the, well, you know.” Rupali shrugs, gesturing about, not really looking at me. “At that point we’d both had such a weird night, and after all the disappointment with… other people, I guess the two of us just decided to be honest with each other!” At this point, Ru actually
blushes
. “Nichole made the first move, by the way. She was so sweet and shy about it! I was so fucking giddy when she did it too, because I would have always been too tongue-tied to ask. I could hardly believe my own ears.”
I’m having a hard time believing mine, as Rupali so casually paints a picture of her and Nichole happily spending the night together without a moment’s hesitation, as if everything that happened between me and Ru meant absolutely nothing. As if Nichole’s relationship with Katherine meant less than nothing. “So you two just got together overnight? Just like that?”
Rupali is practically beaming. “Yup! It’s been really great this weekend. I think it might have the potential to last!”
I swallow the bile rising in my throat. “Well. I think there’s something you should know about her.” My palms are starting to sweat, and I need to confront the biggest, most important issue first. “Nichole’s—”
“Oh, is this about Ranked Competitive Breast Growth?”
I never thought I’d hear that horrific sequence of words spoken out loud by Rupali. There’s something about it that’s just
wrong
, like a collision between worlds so mutually alien they shouldn’t even be able to exist in the same reality. I’m at a complete loss for words, barely able to sputter out a “Whuh?”
Ru tilts her head to the side. “I know she’s not, you know,
really
trans, of course. I don’t mind dating a man on estrogen. In fact, it’s basically perfect!”
“How… so?” My eyes dart around looking for signs that I’m dreaming, to no avail.
“Isn’t it obvious? Nichole is a guy who’s basically like a woman in every way that matters. I think I like guys, but I know for
sure
I like women, so this is the perfect compromise for me!” Rupali leans forward, fixing her gaze directly on me. “Plus, she was honest about it, unlike you.”
She’s kind of got me there. “Um—”
“Why didn’t you just tell me about the competition, Rashmi?” Rupali’s speaking so quickly now, the words spilling out of her with a sudden urgency. “When has it ever worked for either of us to keep secrets from each other? I could’ve helped cover for you, been more prepared when mummy asks why there aren’t any pictures of you, you know!”
Just like that, with just a few words, Rupali confirms that I kept the competition hidden from her for nothing. All the paranoia, growing more distant, destroying our entire relationship in a stupid, repressive flameout, all of it for naught because I could have just told her.
“I didn’t think you’d understand.” My words sound limp and pathetic. Why did I think that? I could’ve tried to broach the subject. I had so much time to tell her and I just
didn’t
.
“No, I can understand the competition perfectly well. What I don’t understand is what your deal is, and at this point I don’t know if I care.” Ru throws her hands up in frustration. “At least when I thought you were gay, it all sort of fell into place.”
“What do you mean by that, Ru?” Under the table, my hands are shaking.
Ru turns her head to the side, not meeting my gaze. “I was worried about us for so long. I tried to figure out why you seemed to recoil every time I wanted to get closer. Why it felt like you couldn’t even stand to touch me, even when I practically threw myself at you. I kept thinking to myself that there had to be something I was doing wrong, some reason you just didn’t like me. I thought you found me repulsive, despite all the smiles and hugs and reassurances. And then you got together with Desdemona, and it hurt, but at least it sort of made sense?”
Every word out of Rupali’s mouth is another indictment of how tremendously, how persistently I’ve fucked up. I need to explain. “Ru, I genuinely
do
love you. It’s just that—”
“But then you showed up at the party with Katherine, ditched her to dance with me, and then you left with Desdemona just to dump her? I’m getting dizzy just trying to make sense of what you were trying to do all night!”
Ru’s voice keeps getting higher and louder. It’s hard to figure out exactly what I’m on trial for anymore, so I begin with the most recent events.
“It was a really weird night and I’m sorry, I should’ve texted you to explain what was going on.” My fingernails dig into the palms of my hands as I take in just how momentously fucking stupid I’ve been.
“Well, you didn’t.” Rupali turns towards me again as she damns me with three simple words. “We could have figured out how to handle everything together, if you’d just talked to me about it earlier. Months ago. Weeks ago. Even on the night of the fucking party, Rashmi. If you’d just considered me worth saying
anything
to.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, I’m really, truly sorry that I didn’t come clean earlier, but we’re talking now, aren’t we?” My voice is high, my tone is urgent, desperate. Let’s just get everything out in the open right now, Ru,
please
.
“Sure. Now that you’re done taking your sweet time. Now that
you’re
good and ready, I suppose.” She scoffs, tapping her fingers on the table with her free hand.
“I was scared, okay!” I’m suddenly shouting. She’s right, she’s right about every fuck up I’ve made, but I need her to understand why. I need her to understand how impossible my situation has been. “I didn’t know how you’d take it, or how I was going to bring it up with you! I was struggling enough just to come to terms with my own bullshit already!”
“Oh, you were
struggling
, Rashmi?” Ru’s eyes are wide and she’s staring at me in disbelief. “Guess what, bitch? We were
both
struggling. Unlike you, though, I tried to fucking deal with it because I trusted you, loved you even, and wanted to make this work! That’s why I didn’t announce my queerness to you by snogging Nichole the first time I saw her in gym shorts!”
I can’t help but notice how specific that example is, and how she’s leaving out some details she doesn’t know I’m privy to. I bite back my annoyance, in the interest of continuing the conversation. “I’m sorry, Ru, I—”
“Did you honestly think I was going to abandon you just because you’re queer? I was the one who supported Tahani when she came out, when my entire family didn’t, when
you
didn’t, you fucking crapstain. If anyone here had cause to worry about their partner being queerphobic in any way, it was me!” Rupali slams her hands into the table, practically snarling, teeth bared.
She’s right, of course. There’s nothing else to it. I blocked Tahani’s number and deleted her from my life without a second thought, back then. I was young and stupid and queer, but so was Rupali. I literally have no excuses. “I’ve been a huge piece of shit towards Tahani. I admit that, and I regret every part of it.”
“You better. I had to watch you refer to your roommates as a
fruit basket
, while trying to protect Tahani
and
navigate my own feelings! Did you think you made it any easier on me to accept that I’m attracted to women, Rashmi? Did you think I liked being engaged to someone who’s so casually demeaning towards queer women, and who acts like the woman who’s practically a sister to me doesn’t even exist!?” Rupali’s relentless, levying charge after charge against me, each reminder of my abhorrent past a knife to my heart. “But sure,
you
were scared, so you really had no other choice than to come out by cheating on me, of course!”
That’s fucking it. Say what you want to me about Tahani, Ru, but get off that fucking high horse right this second. “Yeah, I fucked up, I know I did! But you know what, Ru? At least I owned up to it! I was the one who told you when I cheated, remember? Meanwhile I had to learn about you and that other girl from
Desdemona
! Can you really say you’re that much better than me when you were seeing some mystery girl and didn’t even tell me about her!?”
Suddenly, Rupali’s gaze drops to the table. She shrinks back in her chair as she responds. “She’s not… I mean, I never really planned for that to get serious.”
“You think I started off thinking about a serious relationship with Desdemona? The first thing I did after I cheated with her was tell you!”
“Wow, you’re such a saint! You kept seeing her, didn’t you?” Ru rubs her temples. “I sort of took that as a signal that we weren’t really together anymore, but I guess I should’ve made sure to keep you up to speed on my dating life after that! My bad! Would it have been fine if I had a teary meltdown in your texts afterwards? Followed your lead on the procedure?”
“I don’t know!” I cover my face with both hands. This is too much. “I guess I would’ve liked to hear it from
you
, instead of having to make sense of second-hand information?”
Ru inhales sharply through her nose. “Like how I had to hear from Nichole that you’re dating Katherine now, of all people?”
Shit. I was really hoping I could be the one to get to that first. “Right. Um, I was going to tell you myself, but…there’s been so much going on.”
“At least it’s good to have some confirmation that you
do
like women, it’s just me you can’t stand to touch.” Rupali leans back in her chair, arms crossed.
“I mean…”
“What?”
I say the only thing it makes sense for me to say. I don’t know why I’m saying it. Maybe, even after all this viciousness, I’m still trying to spare Rupali’s feelings. Or maybe I just want her to recognize how fucking ridiculous it is for her to insist that she’s dating a man.
Either way, I say the most nonsensical thing that’s ever come out of my mouth. “Kathy is a man. She’s a guy pretending to transition for the competition. You know, like Nichole.”
For just a second, Rupali cocks her head at a funny angle and squints at me, like this is a new, confusing idea to her. “Right. Sure. You’re all just… guys on estrogen.”
“Yeah. Guys on estrogen pretending to be trans for a competition.” It feels so fucking stupid to say out loud. Because it is. But maybe, if Ru has to hear it from me, she might realize what a giant fucking farce it all is.
“I see. Well. At least Nichole actually likes women.” Rupali sighs. Her shoulders slump. “Is that what went wrong with you and Desdemona? She wasn’t just faking it, so you lost interest?”
“Oh, trust me, that is
not
how it went at all.”
“But that’s the thing, Rashmi. If there’s anything these past few months have shown, it’s that I cannot fucking trust you, no matter how much I want to.” Ru shakes her head as she takes a deep breath. “You know what’s fucked up? I blew up at Tahani on your behalf yesterday. Defending you, telling her not to talk about you the way she does. I can’t believe I wasted my breath. She was completely right. About me being a fucking coward, and about you.”
My entire body deflates. I look down at the table. “Yeah, she probably was. She’s always been right about most things.” And I never even gave myself a chance to listen to her. “I guess we’re both cowards.”
“Yeah. We are.”
We sit in silence, exhausted. Rupali wiping away tears, and me trying my best not to cry in the first place. The only sound is the patter of raindrops on the windows.
“I do love you, you know.” Rupali sniffs as she speaks. “It’s just that you keep hurting me, and I don’t know how I can move past that right now.”
I should say something. Anything. Pull myself together for long enough to at least try to make things right. Ask about Tahani, ask about where I can contact her.
I don’t get a chance to, as I hear the clattering of keys and the sound of someone unlocking the door, followed by the annoyingly sing-song voice of the last person I need to hear right now.
“Aight, hope I got the orders right! That’s a number nine for me, a number seven for you, sweetie, and a six with extra tomatoes for Rashmi.”
“Extra? I said no tomatoes—”
“Here you go!” Nichole practically tosses the soggy b just barely stopping short of splattering me with excess tomato pulp.
Now that I’m getting a good look at her, I realize Nichole is wearing one of Rupali’s shirts. It’s a little too big on her in some places, and so it droops down on a slant, leaving one shoulder entirely exposed. I didn't notice earlier because of how good she looks in it, but Ru and Nichole are already sharing wardrobes? It’s like she fucking moved in.
“Great! Thank you, sugarpuff.” Rupali takes her sandwich, perking up at the sight of Nichole. “Let’s have lunch, and then you should probably get going, yeah?”
Nichole is slightly hunched over Rupali, clearly going in for another kiss, but she stops at Rupali’s words and squints. “What about our movie night plans, honeybun?”
Rupali shrugs. “Ah, well, I have some homework and I won’t be any fun to be around, honeylips. Besides, I need the alone time to focus. You two have a nice trip home together, all right?”
Nichole looks about as baffled as I feel. “Wait, you mean—”
Rupali gets to her feet, taking her lunch and disappearing into her room faster than either of us can react to. She slams the door shut behind her.
Nichole stares after Rupali for a moment, then turns her head to look at me. “Girl, what did you do to her?”
This bitch better not fucking start. “We talked about our relationship.” I examine the mess of a sandwich in my hands, trying to figure out a way to salvage it. “You know, like adults, without storming out of the room halfway through the conversation, or being passive-aggressive about our lunch orders.”
Nichole plops herself down in Rupal’s vacated seat and begins unwrapping her food. “Yeah? How’d that work out for you?”
“We both had a lot on our minds.”
“I bet.” Her slender, dainty hands guide the sandwich to her face as she takes an obnoxiously smug bite with her perfect teeth. I want to slap it out of her grasp.
The disaster Nichole has left in my hands is a disgusting, overly-acidic mess. With mint chutney and balsamic and salsa verde, the sandwich didn’t need tomatoes at all. Adding so many extra slices of a completely extraneous element makes it tough to even chew without gagging. I don’t understand why the cafe would shove these things into something that works perfectly well without them. At least caramelize and salt the bloody things.
I put down the abomination briefly, letting my mouth recover from its imbalanced assault. “So. You told Rupali about the competition?”
“I was surprised you hadn’t.” Nichole shrugs. “Ru’s cool, you know. She’s so understanding of the fact that I’m a guy on estrogen, is totes not-weird about the whole thing.”
“I see,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I feel super lucky, honestly!” Nichole continues rubbing salt in my wounds. “Like it’s so nice how I don’t have to be keeping secrets from the person I’m dating, you know? We can just cuddle all day and I can be dealing with server stuff in front of her without issue.”
“How very convenient.” I glare right into Nichole’s eyes. She knows exactly what she’s doing, flaunting that she’s been spending the whole weekend with Rupali.
Nichole’s pretty little smirk is infuriating. “You and Kathy get up to anything fun over the weekend, then?”
“Watched a bunch of romcoms together,” I say.
I leave out all the crying. I refuse to let her win.
Katherine
Rashmi’s quest for answers leaves me as the sole custodian of our dwelling on this Sunday afternoon. Whilst I would normally spend this time indulging in an uninterrupted session of media consumption on the common room TV, today I have taken up a mission of far greater import.
There is a great injustice to be undone. For far too long have I neglected this duty, allowing it to fall entirely on my co-conspirator and deferring to her greater competence, which compelled her to take initiative as I inadvertently weaponized my own lack of it. No more. I have done my research, procured the necessary materials, and garbed myself suitably to initiate the process.
I am baking aloo paratha, a potato-stuffed flatbread Rashmi enjoys immensely, but never has enough free time to make, since it is a lengthy two-step process. I have overheard her talk to her mother about how much she misses the treat, however, and so I am going to prepare it for her as recompense for the many meals she has nourished me with.
The dough is resting on the counter, a peculiar instruction given that no yeast was involved in its creation. Said creation was a tremendous achievement in itself, for we lack the machinery to automate the process of kneading. I resist the urge to sit down after the exertion involved, for the allure of comfortable seating is a siren song, a sinister influence seeking to undermine my commitment to productive, useful allocation of my time.
I will see this task through to its bitter end. Or rather its savory, starchy, mildly spiced delicious end. I borrowed Rashmi’s apron to counter the incompatibility between the color of my garments and large quantities of white powder, and have avoided staining the knee-length black dress I am wearing underneath it. Admittedly, there is a lot on the apron itself, as well as on my hands, forearms, face, hair, and somehow elbows, but at least the dress is okay.
Next, the filling. The potatoes have completed their ascent from raw, unappetizing produce to their more palatable boiled form. I will now supplement the resulting starchy mass with flavorful additions: spices, chopped chili, and curry leaves.
No, Katherine. Rashmi hates the texture of the curry leaves, despite the boon they provide to the flavor profile of the resulting dish. It would be a shameful failure on your part, were you to leave this particular textural nightmare in the stuffing. Better not to risk it, and accept the loss of flavor, is it not?
I hesitate briefly, but decide against leaving them out. I have a plan in mind for just this issue, which I swiftly implement as the frying of the mashed potato mixture reaches its conclusion. I descend upon the delicious mass of vegetable matter, seeking out each and every offending leaf to purge now, while it remains a comparatively simple task to execute.
Not a single trace shall remain, for Rashmi’s sensitive palate cannot be subjected to a stray piece of unwanted foliage. I will not permit it.
The work demands my entire focus. I cannot allow any distractions, such as the ill-timed knocking on the door, to interfere. Whoever it is must simply be dealt with by someone else!
Katherine. There is nobody else. As you might recall, the apartment is empty aside from you.
Fine. I make my way to the entryway, vetting this interloper through the door’s peephole. I am stricken by the malevolent sight of a blonde, evil woman dressed in an obnoxious, garish outfit consisting of an utterly tasteless combination of high-waisted jeans and a light yellow t-shirt, draped in a bright pink coat that was surely procured from an ethically dubious manufacturer.
It is Desdemona, a stack of flattened cardboard moving boxes tucked under one arm, a bag of some manner of takeout meal in the other.
For a moment, I contemplate the possibility of simply disallowing her entry. I could falsify my absence, inconveniencing her such that she would have to return at a different time.
Well, I could, but she is in the process of putting down the boxes to reach for her keys. Drat. The least favorable outcome here is one in which she unlocks the door herself and sees me standing around like an utter buffoon. I would then be at a severe rhetorical disadvantage in the ensuing battle of wits, tantamount to losing before it has even begun.
I will simply have to open the door for her.
“Ah, Desdemona!” I greet my foe with a smile. “My apologies, I was occupied. With, um—”
I need a plausible excuse for taking so long to answer the door. Quick, think of a reasonable activity that could have delayed your response. A video game that fails to implement pausing within a reasonable timeframe, perhaps?
“Baking?” Desdemona emotes an exaggerated gasp, hand moving to cover her mouth. “I never thought I’d see the day
you
were in an apron!”
“Right. Yes. I am in fact baking.” Damnation, now it sounds like I am lying about baking. “Do come in, I suppose you would like to get this over with?”
“Uh, sure!”
I direct Desdemona to follow me into the common room. “I would offer to assist with your departure, but as you can see, I am otherwise occupied at the moment.”
“Oh, of course. It smells delicious, by the way! Are you making naan bread?”
An opportunity presents itself to secure the intellectual high ground. I could, of course, seize upon Desemona’s redundant usage of words that both mean ‘bread’, but she is also incorrect.
“Hah, no. It is paratha. One of Rashmi’s favorites, as you might be aware.”
Desdemona is not aware of this. I do not even need the despair in her eyes to tell me as much, for it was utterly predictable that she would fall short in this way.
“Oh, I… didn’t know that’s what it was called,” she says. Good. Wallow in shame, harlot.
“I expected as much.” I twirl away from Desdemona triumphantly, as I take my rightful position by the kitchen counter. “Your many shortcomings as a partner do follow a pattern.”
“Ouch.” Desdemona winces a little at my judgment. “You really don’t sugarcoat it, huh. Not that I don’t deserve it.”
The wretched harpy’s attempt at humility does nothing to sway me, for I know deception when I see it. “You have earned my scorn through repeated transgressions towards someone who deserves much better than you, which will not be forgiven without great efforts on your part. That being said, I have minimal interest in relitigating these matters when there is baking to do.”
I pointedly slam a portion of the potato mass into a flattened piece of dough before I begin folding it together, to prepare for rolling out.
“It’s for her, isn’t it?” Desdemona remains conspicuously present in the room, having failed to remove herself from my presence.
“For Rashmi, yes, and you will have to master the pronunciation of that name on your own time, if the strain of gendering her correctly does not overload your faculties.” I scoff as I fold another paratha. “What of it?”
“I think you’ll be a lot better for her than I was.”
This, admittedly, makes me turn to face Desdemona. She is leaning against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, eyes downcast.
“You appear to have some fascinating ideas regarding the nature of my relationship to her.”
“I mean. You’re in an apron, baking for her. It’s not rocket computing, or whatever it is you study.” Desdemona’s voice has an infuriating playfulness to it. “It’s okay. I mean it. My behavior towards her was pretty unacceptable. I was so fixated on this fairytale version of our relationship that I didn’t see how badly I was trapping her.”
Trapping her, just as this rhetorical feint is a self-evident attempt to ensnare
me
through some weaponization of sympathy. Desdemona clearly expects that merely describing her wrongdoings will be sufficient to demonstrate personal growth, opening an avenue for redemption. How utterly repugnant that she thinks I am foolish enough to be deceived in this way!
Although I refuse to fall into her flagrantly telegraphed pity pit, I will examine its depths at a distance. “How uncharacteristically self-aware of you! Well done, it is almost as if you have been possessed by a spirit of introspection sometime over the weekend!”
“I talked to Brad and his roommates about what happened, and they helped me process some of what went wrong in that relationship.” Desdemona shakes her head while smiling. “Most of it is on me, of course. I’ve decided I should work on myself before pursuing a serious relationship again, try to get a better idea of who I really am on my own, you know?”
I do not know what there is to get an idea of, as it is plain to see that Desdemona is an empty shell of a person regardless of relationship status.
“It sounds as if you have truly decided to turn over a new leaf and grow as a person,” I lie.
“Yeah, it’s time for an all new Mona. That’s what I’m going by now, by the way. It sort of made an impression, after Tahani saved my bacon.”
“A significant improvement, in my view.” I am running out of dough and filling to fold, dreading the possibility that this conversation will have to be maintained over the noise of the kitchen fan. It would behoove Desdemona to make her exit already.
“But it’s true, then? My guess about you and her?” The nosy interloper fails to show even an ounce of restraint.
“Admittedly, we are in something of a romantic entanglement, yes.” A false one, I do not say, as Desdemona is easily the last person I would trust with this information. “But Desdemona, do you intend to indulge in idle chatter all day? Do you not have belongings to gather?”
“Oh, right. Sorry, I won’t keep you.”
As Desdemona finally retreats with her boxes and whatever bland nonsense she deigns fit for her palate, I proceed to fry the paratha undisturbed. At least her future replacement cannot exceed her in obnoxiousness, whoever that might be.
The stack of finished flatbread grows, my hard work bearing fruit. Despite Mona’s foul intrusion upon the sanctity of our home, I increasingly find myself in a sunny mood. Rashmi will return to a pile of perfectly-round, freshly-made parathas to enjoy with a bit of yogurt and some fried eggs, saving her copious amounts of labor. She will come bearing good news, and progress will have been made towards setting right the utter farce of this weekend.
In fact, I believe I am hearing the sound of her unexpectedly early return already, the door opening and then slamming shut shortly after. I turn to greet my co-conspirator, anticipating the look on her face once she sees what I have been doing.
My hopes are soon dashed, however, as a familiar yet unexpected voice rings out from the darkness of the atrium, causing a chill to run down my spine. Surely not? Surely this intruder cannot be
her
, of all people?
“It would be wise of you to budget for macronutrients over hair dye, Boymoder Sephiroth. If you actually give a shit about increasing your NTBV, that is.”
The individual emerging from the darkness is a blonde woman with short, yet growing hair. Dressed in a plaid jacket and tank top, it is unmistakable that I am looking at the likely champion of Ranked Competitive Breast Growth, carrying a large cardboard box into the apartment.
“EMMY
?
” I blurt out, almost dropping a paratha on the floor instead of transferring it from the pan to the plate.
“I see you’ve learned about brevity since last time we met. Which one is the empty room?” Emmy sets down her box on the dining table, awaiting my response.
“Oh, um, it is still being emptied by the previous tenant. She is in there right now.” I point to the door of what was previously Desdemona’s bedroom. “I… was not aware you would be joining us.”
Emmy rolls her eyes at me. “Of course you weren’t. Not that it would’ve helped, but I take it Nichole didn’t bother to tell you?”
“Nichole and I have not spoken since yesterday, for reasons I would hope she took time to inform you about?” I finish up my last paratha and proceed to the sink, cleaning the pan as I speak. “Or were you too preoccupied with drafting that shameful capitulation she posted on the server?”
“Your judgment regarding our strategies means as little to me as your relationship shenanigans.” Emmy approaches me, light glinting off her glasses and obscuring her eyes. “In case you have forgotten, the social deduction aspect of the competition has never been about adhering to any particular ideological precepts, only to root out those who are barred from participating.”
“Ah, of course. Surely there will be no consequences to a pattern of inconsistency if one is accused of misrepresenting one’s identity!” I wave the still-wet pan around dismissively.
“Oh, but that’s what Laura never got. There is no need for a consistent framework underpinning our rhetoric, if we can simply sway the tribunals using whichever arguments best support us at any given moment.” Emmy turns towards the exit. “However, though I would love to waste my breath on educating you about our new approach, parking is not free and I have no desire to replicate Laura’s maddening tendency to spout fifty words when five would do. I’ll give you some time to prepare for your next defeat at my hands.”
“A coward’s retreat if I ever saw one!” I shout after Emmy as she leaves the apartment and slams the door behind her.
This, however, bodes ill for the dynamics of the apartment. Were it only Rashmi and I dealing with Nichole, opportunities would certainly arise to pick away at her attachment to the server’s warped perception of reality in the coming weeks. Now, however, the incarnation of server toxicity herself is encroaching upon our social lives, promising a relentless pressure to conform to whichever horrifying ideas spring up in that pit of despair.
I must strategize around this. Emmy is not without her weaknesses, that much I know. If I can secure means to destabilize her, distract her from her mission to act as a helicopter parent to Nichole and I, there may still be a chance to prevent the most severe excesses of her influence upon this apartment.
As I scrub away the remaining stains on the bowls, my mind races with possibilities. Would Laura be available to consult regarding this disastrous turn of events? Surely not, unless she had something to gain from it. After all, she is so cool and impressive and skilled in her understanding of rhetoric, she is probably too busy to deal with these matters anyway.
“Was there someone else in here just now?”
Another rude interruption, this time from Desdemona, emerging from her former bedroom like a glob of pus from a freshly burst pimple. Does she not realize I am busy considering my strategies?
“The new tenant has arrived somewhat early. All the more reason why you ought to get moving, so you do not taint her impression of the place.” I dry off the pan and place it in its cupboard.
“Kathy, if there’s something you want to talk about, I really hope we can sit down like adults sometime and clear the air. I mean it when I say I regret how I acted.” Desdemona’s slithering deceit continues without end, each repugnant syllable more shameless than the last.
“I think I have made my stance quite clear.” As I wipe off the counter, a particularly stubborn stain catches my eye. Its obstinate refusal to yield presents an utter affront to my cleaning process.
“Yeah. I guess you have.” Desdemona sniffles, a clear attempt at emotional manipulation that I will not be cowed by. Her treatment of Rashmi will always be foremost in my mind. “Well… I’m about to finish up the first box, so I was thinking I’d have some lunch soon. Um. I bought extra croissants, as a peace offering?”
“Poisoned, I presume?” I finally succeed in purging the last bits of encrusted sauce from the counter. “Or was there no time to do so on the way here, despite your ignoble intentions?”
Desdemona groans in response, rubbing her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Kathy, can you please cut it out already? I get that you hate me, I really, truly do, but can you at least acknowledge that I’m
trying
to make things right?”
I whirl around, glaring daggers. “Do you expect me to forgive you on Rashmi’s behalf? Cleanse you of your sins and redeem you? How, precisely, do you seek to undo the harm you have done, Desdemona?”
“I don’t know, okay? I can’t go back in time and prevent it from happening, and there’s no magic way to make it go away no matter how much I wish it was the case, but I can’t just give up and disappear from all your lives, either!” Desdemona’s screeching wails are punctuated by a practiced effort in ocular leakage. How dare she persist in her theatrics! “Believe it or not, I actually enjoyed living with all of you, and I hoped that we could at least try to stay in touch!”
She gets points for skilful thespianism, at the very least.
“And yet, I eagerly await the moment you exit this apartment for good.” I finally put away the last of the cleaning supplies and place a fresh napkin over the steaming pile of parathas. I refuse to give her the reaction she so clearly wants.
“I get that I’m the evil ex, and it’s easy for you to demonize me right now. I was pretty fucking demonic!” Mona is tearing off a paper towel to dab at her eyes with. “I was just hoping to demonstrate that I’m going to own my fuck-ups, and promise to do better.”
“Well, if promises were steeds, we would have overflowing stables and an unmanageable surplus of animals running roughshod over our infrastructure, destroying our quality of life with a deluge of dung and sealing our planet’s fate due to all the methane farts.” I smirk, waiting for Mona to unravel at my absolutely devastating words.
“You are impossible to talk to, you know that?” Desdemona throws her hands up in the air as she makes her way towards her erstwhile room. “May I at least eat at the table, or would that be too far?”
“I shall retreat into my chambers soon, you may have the table so long as you behave yourself.”
Desdemona rolls her eyes as she slithers through the door. “Fine.”
With her deceptive hissing abated at last, I take a moment to check my phone. A message from Rashmi awaits me. She is on her way home alongside Nichole. “No luck with Rupali, though.”
Nichole, in turn, has not responded to my messages. There was a time, not long ago, where this would be unthinkable. I still hope to see it return, despite everything. At the very least, I wish we could play a game together again.
If I had just been forthcoming about my plans for the competition from the start, we could have been leveling through the new Realms of Conflict expansion together right now. It is the first time in a decade where we haven’t been ready at launch, and yet I haven’t touched the game in weeks. It never truly hit me how big a role Nichole’s presence played in my attachment to that game, until she was gone.
My ruminations and scrolling through the server go on, perhaps, a bit longer than they should. I really ought to remove myself from this space, maybe sample one of the parathas before figuring out where to store the rest. Then, I might finally retreat to the comfort of my inner sanctum and make an effort to enjoy some of the season’s anime offerings, perhaps.
As I walk towards my door, Emmy returns with another box, filled to the brim with its lid open. Her sight is obscured by a rolled-up poster sticking out of one corner, and she is clearly struggling to carry its weight through the entryway.
“Coming through!”
I back up, to make sure that I am out of Emmy’s way, as she is clearly in a precarious situation. The slightest disturbance could throw her off-balance, causing untold damage to her possessions and, more importantly, demanding tremendous work to clean the resulting mess.
Disastrously, Desdemona emerges from her bedroom door at the precise wrong moment, croissants in hand, flanking Emmy precisely on her left. “Okay Kathy, hope you’ve evacuated now because I’m just going to eat the rejected peace offering—”
Desdemona and Emmy mutually fail to spot the intersection of their respective trajectories. It is hard to believe that the poster’s blind spot would align so perfectly with Desdemona’s silhouette, or that Desdemona is truly so foolish as to look at me rather than see where she is going, and yet disaster strikes regardless.
“You fools!” I cry.
“Oh! My goodness—”
“Shit!—”
Desdemona reaches out to support the box as it tips, while Emmy’s attempt to counterbalance the movement fails to stabilize her. Office supplies, academic papers, books and dumbbells all fall to the floor in a thunderous cacophony, as both unfortunate participants in this slapstick farce tumble to the ground. Mona’s lunch spills out of her bag in a flaky mess.
The resulting scene would be comical, were it occurring in some mid-budget production with an inexperienced director and an uninspired writing room, rather than on the floor of our cramped flat.
“I am
so
sorry!” Desdemona exclaims as she hurriedly pulls a notebook away from a rapidly expanding pool of spilled smoothie. “Kathy, paper towels please?”
“Can you not clean up your own mess, Desdemona?” I roll my eyes at her.
“She’s fucking trying to, isn’t she?” Emmy barks at me. “Don’t just stand there, help her out, you dipshit!”
The sheer volume of Emmy’s chastisement forces me to act, and I hurry to provide a roll from the cabinet, which Emmy practically snaps out of my hands.
“Here.” She proffers it to Mona.
As Desdemona takes the roll, her hand brushes against Emmy’s for a moment. They both simultaneously look up from the floor, ignoring the spreading mess they had been so concerned with a moment ago, and make eye contact. Two synchronized, sharp intakes of breath punctuate the ensuing silence.
Surely, I cannot be witnessing what I believe I am witnessing.
Desdemona blushes and looks away first. “Um. Hi, by the way. I’m Mona.”
No. Please, no, anything but this.
“Emmy. Well, my name is Isaac, for those who know about the competition.” Emmy actually smiles. I do not recall the last time I saw her do so.
“I’m glad to see a friendly face, for once. Handsome, at that.” Desdemona giggles as she wipes up her mess.
Really?
Giggling
?
I am at a loss for words as to how to respond to this. I suppose I could leave. Allow them to destroy each other in the inevitable spiral of horrors that would ensue, should this meeting result in the dreadful possibility laid out in front of me.
On the other hand, a voice in the back of my mind is screaming at me to stop this, but I cannot fathom how. Should I pull Emmy into a kiss to ruin the moment? Should I kiss
Desdemona
? The thought is so repugnant that I am compelled to turn away and lean over the sink, suppressing a retch. I grab the edge of the counter for balance while Emmy and Mona continue to babble nauseatingly.
“Well, I don’t know about handsome, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“It definitely is. Dashing too, if you need a little convincing.”
What is
happening
?
The two collaborate on handling the mess in absurd synchronicity, seemingly communicating with just glances and expressions. I take a deep breath, straighten up and inch towards my door, hoping to sneak away into my refuge to avoid having to witness any more of this perversity.
Before I have a chance to escape, the entrance to the apartment opens yet again. Rashmi is at the door! She’s finally home, allowing Nichole to enter before her.
“The fuck is going on here?” Nichole’s eyes widen as she takes in the scene in the middle of the room. “I go away for one weekend and you all just wreck the place?”
I meet Rashmi’s gaze, pleading with my eyes for her to come up with something, anything that can defuse the absurd tension of this moment. She does not seem to comprehend my meaning, however. Instead, Rashmi is staring at me in a way that ties my stomach in knots. I lower my gaze quickly, heart hammering.
“We’re taking care of it!” Desdemona says, before directing her attention back to Emmy: “And doing a pretty good job together, if I may say so myself.”
“You do have an eye for efficiency. And a pretty one, at that.” Emmy actually
winks
, and I have to grab the sink again.
“Sure, cool beans.” Nichole walks around them and takes a seat at the kitchen table. “As long as there’s no more shit for me to deal with.”
“Yeah, you just sit back and relax now,” Rashmi says to Nichole, though her eyes are fixed on me. There’s a hard look in them, a feeling behind them I can’t quite name that appears… dangerous.
It sends a thrill down my spine.
Rashmi strides towards me, with inscrutable purpose. I feel faint. Lightheaded. A little dizzy. What should I say? Why do I feel as if I need to say something? Express to her how much she means to me?
“Rashmi, I made you parathas—”
She grabs me so roughly I cannot help but moan. One hand in my hair, pulling my head back, the other around my waist. My lips do not have time to close before her lips are pressed into them. Her tongue suddenly enters my mouth. I feel hungry for it. I go limp in her arms.
Rashmi throws me down on the kitchen table and practically climbs on top of me. Lewd noises continue to emerge from my throat and echo off her teeth. I cannot suppress the paroxysms of ecstasy reverberating through my body, setting my skin on fire, and I can’t help but writhe under Rashmi’s weight. I end up knocking Emmy’s other box to the floor, spilling its contents as well.
“What the FUCK!” Emmy yells.
No amount of practice could possibly have prepared me for this.
“Well,” I vaguely hear Desdemona comment in the distance. “She certainly never kissed
me
like that.”