The Ex Files

Happy Birthday, Pamina!

November 11 was not one of Pamina Taylor's better days. She tried to ignore the somber Remembrance Day rituals with their Flanders Fields poppies and memorial wreaths, but they seemed to infuse the air, making breathing difficult. When the notes of the Last Post drifted through her window from a nearby park, she burst into tears.

It was her thirty-first birthday, and no one noticed.

Not that it had never happened before. Her father played with the Boston Symphony, and her mother was a sought-after special occasion planner with her own business, Memorable Moments. They had hectic schedules, and often seemed to forget that they had ever had children. Her brother Anselm, veteran of two divorces, was involved with the stock market in some mysterious way that Pam could not fathom. Her sister Serena had settled into a surprisingly durable romantic liaison in California, and had immersed herself in her life coaching career, with frequent mystical retreats. No one in Pamina's family could understand her preference for the stability of numbers, which were predictable and easily manipulated. 

 After she migrated to Edmonton in the hope of building a career with Apex Accounting, communication was limited to an occasional text message and the annual Christmas form letter That saved her the embarrassment of telling them that she had lost her job because she had been too naïve to protect herself against sexual harassment. For all they knew, she was still conquering the financial universe at Apex.

When she left Apex, her social network, which revolved around her workplace, collapsed. She threw herself into establishing her free-lance business, reserving no time for social contacts. When she moved into the Blue Elephant, she was both comforted and irritated by the business of communal living. It was pleasant to have someone to talk to on occasion, but she often felt smothered by the curiosity of her housemates. The duplex which was her new home offered her peace and quiet, but that was often too much of a good thing.

It had not been a good day. The owner of the duplex had phoned her for the fifth time to demand a progress report on finding a new tenant for the vacant unit. She had not anticipated any complications when she moved in. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were an elderly couple who had lived there for the past twenty-four years. Then, unexpectedly, Mr. Anderson was offered a room in the Riverdell Extended Care Home, and he had accepted. Mrs. Anderson moved into a unit in the companion supported living facility, Sunflower Lodge. The movers had removed everything three days ago, followed by a team of professional cleaners. After she inspected the unit, Pamina made a list of necessary repairs and upgrades, but the owner told her that there was no time for that.   He wanted new tenants in place on December first, so that the cash flow would continue uninterrupted.

Her morning Zoom meeting with her associates in Banff had been frustrating. All her ideas were discounted with a peremptory, "We don't do things that way." By the time she disconnected, she had given up any hope of a harmonious working relationship.

Her two client consultations in the afternoon had been even worse. The first was a middle-aged man who kept referring to her as "a pretty girl like you", and seemed to have very little faith in her ability to keep his books in order. The second was a forty-year-old aspiring mastermind of a business start-up which was doomed to failure because she knew nothing about business. When Pamina tried to educated her about the realities of marketing what her customers wanted and needed rather than being guided by her own tastes, she kept exclaiming, "But I have a vision!" After two frustrating unpaid hours, Pamina had said that the lady's vision was not a good fit for her skill set, and she should keep shopping for someone who was more suitable. She invariably felt like a failure when she refused to take on a commission, but she had learned to trust her instincts. The lady with a vision would always put paying her accountant's bill at the bottom of her list of priorities.

Pamina returned home at four-thirty. Instead of chopping and dicing and concocting her usual nutritious evening meal, she started drinking cognac. She fell asleep on her couch and awakened with a start when her doorbell rang. She stumbled to the door automatically, without stopping to consider whether she was fit for social interaction.

"Happy birthday!" It was Hex, aka Hector, aka Hal, wreathed in smiles, bearing a bouquet of carnations and a bottle of Baby Duck.

She considered slamming the door in his face. But how could she snub a man with wine and flowers?

He helped her arrange the carnations in a vase, opened the bottle, and poured for both of them. After the second glass, she was in his arms, crying because she had no friends and her business was going to hell in a handbasket.

Hex was tender and sympathetic. He assured her that her business would be a resounding success. He would help her find a new tenant. This was her birthday, her day, and she deserved to relax.

He asked if the fireplace was functional or merely decorative. She said she had not tried it out yet, but the previous tenants had left some wood in the basement. He expertly kindled a fire. Soon they were lying together on the rug in front of it. When his hands started exploring her body, she was too relaxed to pull away as she had all the other times. To her surprise, her body responded with delightful desire rather than revulsion. Hex' sophisticated touch was a far cry from the fumblings and slobberings of her high school boyfriend, who had taken her virginity and given nothing back in return.

When most of her clothes were scattered on the carpet and the warmth from the fire caressed her body, she gasped out the news that she was not trans. Hex laughed. "I didn't think that gender affirmation surgery techniques could be this advanced. You are one hundred per cent woman, pure perfection!"

"Pure ... perfection," she repeated, slurring her words. "I want that."

The next morning, she woke up in her bed, alone.  Hex had left a note saying he would call soon. She shambled to the shower and let it wash away the worst of her hangover. She pulled on her bathrobe and slippers, and made her way to the kitchen in search of something to eat that would stay down. Her memories of the night before were blurry, but one detail stood out clearly. She had discovered the female orgasm.