Hot bananas squish under my feet as I tiptoe across the kitchen floor. There are mice hidden all over the place. They've come for the bananas. So have I.
A young man is sitting in front of me at work. I explain to him why I cannot deposit a cheque payable to two people into one of the payee's account. I am full of banking knowledge and he is obviously impressed by this. "You are no longer a trah-nee", he remarks in his broken English.
"I am no longer a tranny?" I don't know why I say this. I know this gentle man is not commenting on my transition from tranvestite to run-of-the-mill female banker wearing female banker clothing.
"No" he says, with the hint of a smile, "I don't know how to say this word: traaiinnhhheeeyyy."
"Oh, I am no longer a 'trainee'."
Why are there unpeeled, hot bananas littered all over the kitchen floor? Why has this woman squeezed her derriere into these tight, black, stretchy pants? Someone must have put them there for my squishing pleasure.
