Caffeine and Miss Forgetful

"It's really nice of you to do this, Trent," my twenty-two year old little brother said as we sat in the kitchen sipping morning blend amongst several moving boxes He smiled, a rarity, at least until a couple weeks ago. The coffee maker was the about the first thing unpacked, and we had already fired it up.

"C'mon, we better go," I said, "not sure how the taxis are this morning."

"Taxi? You don't want to be seen with me in your car?"

"There's nowhere to park there, dip wad." Just because my brother might become my sister was no reason not to call him names.

My brother Evan and I were headed to his first support group meeting, and I was there for to support him, staying fairly close by. Our recent decision to be roommates in the nation's capital had been a win-win. It allowed me, a low-level government accountant, to move out of the bug-infested basement studio room I formerly rented. For him, it was a complete fresh start away from our hometown in Delaware, with me close by to 'have his back', or possibly 'her back'.

Evan had always been quietly rebellious, and gradually, through late night tears and sobs, confessed he was gay, which I had figured out already. Now that our parents were gone, it wasn't even a surprise that he wanted to become a woman. His shock at my instant acceptance was a bit disappointing. Hey, I'm not a monster.

Still living as a man, his first support group meetings with other transgenders would help him decide if he was going to make the full transition, through hormones and finally surgery, to 'Evana'. I had seen him in his female makeup and clothes, and he was like the little blonde sister I never had, I joked, but with his soft facial structure and svelte limbs, he looked pretty convincing, even then.

His first meeting was held in a big old stone townhouse that had been converted to medical offices, and after a hug and a kiss on the cheek from him, I was off to the combination used bookstore and coffee shop down on the corner. It was a pretty cool place, located in the first floor of a converted bank building. Called First National Bean, the wall behind the marble counter where tellers once stood was now occupied by coffee, cappuccino and espresso machines. The rest of the once-formal space was carpeted and filled with tall bookshelves, tables and overstuffed sofas and chairs.

I bought a dark roast with a bit of ice, dumped a couple sugar packets in, found a vacant sofa and plopped down. I grabbed my iPad to read some tax code crap for work, even though it was a Saturday morning A few people quietly milled around the shelves and chatted with the employees.

Several minutes later, in walked a petite beauty of Indian descent, with dark hair past her shoulders and gorgeous eyes. She carried her hot cup of java and approached the old leather couch. It was a cool November day here in the District of Columbia, and she stripped off her white ski vest to reveal jeans and a long, lightweight pastel argyle sweater over a white turtleneck. Her sweater tightened momentarily across her small-ish breasts as she sat at the opposite end of the sofa, leaving the largest possible 'stranger buffer' between us. No rings adorned her left hand, a hopeful sign.

Immediately I was busted.

"Can I interrupt your analysis long enough to pass me that paper?" she asked, seemingly aware I had been checking her out, even though I had used my stealthiest glances. Her melodic accent was Indian, the same one I adored when talking to female customer service agents that answered nearly every toll free number I called.

"Here you go." I said nervously with a smile as I leaned over to pass her the reshuffled Post, abandoned on the side table under a fake Tiffany lamp. She avoided eye contact. "It's not today's," I warned.

"No worries. I forgot my Kindle," she said, shrugging and staring at, but not really reading the headlines, waiting for me to return to studying my iPad.

Finally I thought of something to say. "Are you always so forgetful?" I pointed at her bare ankles, rare in the D.C. winters, even though there was no snow yet. "You forgot your Kindle, forgot your socks..."

"I have socks on!" she said indignantly and plucked a thin white low-rise out of the side of her Skecher for a moment. "See, Mister Nosey?" then returned to her paper, ruffling it in frustration.

"Oh, okay. Wow, you have really nice ankles." She looked at the ceiling. "I'm Mister Nosey Trent, but you can just call me Trent."

The girl slammed the newspaper onto her lap, not returning my introduction. "Please," she said dramatically, implicitly asking me to leave her alone.

The score was Trent 0, beautiful exotic woman with perfect dark red lips and a subtle amber starburst in her stunning brown eyes, 1.

A couple minutes later, her phone rang. The ringstone was the beginning bars of a sultry saxophone jazz song from the late 1950's.

From the web on my iPad on I pulled up the cover of the album I believed contained the song on her phone, and worked on a couple things while I waited for her call to end.

"Psst," I got her attention, and held up the screen for her to see.

"Cute," she said. "A lucky guess, Mister Nosey."

I then instantly switched to a quick power point graphic I had frantically cooked up of the album cover, with the large text caption "You'll say I made a lucky guess." I had created several possible responses.

The woman tried and failed to withhold a smile and even a quick laugh. Her teeth were white and perfect, contrasting with her full, scarlet lips and dark caramel skin tone. My next graphic said "You have a beautiful smile for someone who forgets they're Kindle."

She stared at me quizzically and took a sip of her coffee, giving up on her paper for at least a moment. My next screen said "I used 'they're' instead of 'their' on purpose to see if you'd correct me."

"So, you think I'm one of those people who correct everyone's grammar?" she asked.

"Mmm, no, but you secretly want to," I said, grinning.

"Hi Troy, I'm Pooja." She sighed and extended her hand and smiled that captivating smile once more, finally lowering her guard.

"Trent," I said, crushed she didn't remember.

"I know. I wanted to see if you'd correct me," she countered, smirking.

To my surprise we talked for the next ten minutes or so about jazz, old movies and antiques. It's rare to find a woman interested in those topics, especially one in her twenties. She was smart, witty and maintained her cynical streak. I was about to ask her to 'lunch sometime', when her phone rang again. Her smile instantly disappeared and she walked over to a corner and spoke seriously for only a moment, then rushed toward the door, leaving her ski vest and her coffee.

I waited there until it was time to retrieve Evan, but she never came back. After taking in the flowery scent of her ski vest, I folded it and tucked it into the netting of my back pack, hoping her visits were habitual and I would see her there the next Saturday while my brother was at his weekly meeting. In a stalker-quality move, I also yanked the lid off her tepid coffee cup, saving the dark red lipstick imprints to remember her by; Pooja, one of the many who got away. Yes, I would probably jerk off tonight while kissing the spot on which she placed her lips, creepy and pathetic, I know.

I trekked up the block to pick up my brother. We planned to get some lunch before going back to the apartment to unpack more of our crap.

2

"Oh fuck!" An angry, accented female voice to the side of me said as I walked into a hallway intersection in the stone building filled with medical offices. Naturally I looked in that direction. To my surprise, it was my beautiful new acquaintance, exiting a restroom. She was not smiling, and tears began to fill her large eyes, reflecting the harsh fluorescence above our heads.

"You stalking asshole!" she wailed. "Get out! You shouldn't have followed me here!" Her fists were clenched by her sides. She craned her neck upwards. "Securit-eeeee!"

I was confused and shocked at her reaction, and pulled the ski vest from my backpack. "Here, you forgot this," I said quietly, resignation in my voice. Obviously I had no future with this volatile woman, I thought as she snatched the vest from me, then turned away. "I really enjoyed talking to you, seriously," I said to the back of her gorgeous head. Suddenly a shadow was cast across me. A large, bald, bearded, tattooed, biker-looking guy in green scrubs and a clipped-on ID badge appeared.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"Please remove him," she said, spinning back around, "and advise him if he enters the building again he will be arrested.' Tears were flowing down her cheeks. The rumble and chime of an elevator arrival preceded her disappearance into it.

"We can do this two ways," The big guy glared at me. "You can walk out of here peacefully, or I will call ...."

"Wait, wait!" I said, my mind clearing somewhat," My brother is here somewhere, for a group session!"

"What's his name?"

"Evan DeWitt."

"Never heard of him." The large man pointed to the front exit.

"It's his first day," I said, still trying to figure out what I had done to upset Pooja.

The biker guy's expression softened a bit. I was about to ask for an administrator. We were putting a nice chunk of our modest inheritance into this program, and I shouldn't be kicked out of the building just for returning the crazy girl's fucking jacket. I didn't stalk her, it was a coincidence. I had no way of knowing she worked here in this building full of transgender patients.

Trans...gender...patients. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. The blood rushed from my face. Maybe she didn't work here. Pooja may have been transitioning as well, and here for her own support group, or one of the volunteer 'graduates' I read about in the center's literature, that mentored current patients. Holy shit! No wonder she was pissed at me, she wasn't ready to divulge that part of her life. I didn't have more time to ponder the ramifications, as Evan rushed up to me. I could tell he had been crying, but he was now smiling and hugged me tightly.

"Hey bro, hey George!" he said as he patted my back.

"Oh you're Evan. Sorry about the misunderstanding," the bald guy, George, said with a pat on my back and a chuckle as he turned to walk away.

"What was that about?" Evan asked.

"Nothing, he thought I was a hater, lurking the halls." I didn't want to discuss the disastrous attempt at Pooja's affections. This day was about my brother.

Later we were in a booth of a high-end sandwich chain and in between texts to his online friends, he told me about his session. It was good for him; Evan learned he wasn't alone. He rummaged through my back pack for a phone charger, and discovered the lipstick-imprinted coffee lid. Shit. I had neglected to throw it out.

"This shade is too dark for you, honey." Evan said, a cosmetics expert since he was fifteen. "And dad thought I was the crazy one." He rolled his Manga-sized, blue eyes, then studied the lid. "Well, who is she? Gonna see her again? Dish! Dish!" he said, ready for gossip.

Reluctantly, I told him about the amazing connection I thought I had with beautiful Pooja. At the end, I made the mistake of using her name and mentioning the white ski vest. My brother was also an expert at jumping to conclusions.

"You asshole!" Evan said. It was the second time in one day I had loudly been called that. My brother was pissed and going into one of his fast-talking rages. "You're talking about Pooja from the clinic! Petite, darling Bengali girl wearing this lipstick shade and she said she lost her white ski vest today! I can't even go to one fucking meeting and you're already hitting on trans women you think are weak and will just drop to their...."

I reached across the table and knocked on his head. "Hello,,,McFly!...I met her at the bookstore. How would I have known there? Where did she say she lost her vest? How would I know that? I gave it back to her when..."

"Oh," he relaxed his angry face, "okay I guess, but my support groups are a not dating service for you," he replied. He went on to criticize my minimal social life.

"Pooja is anything but weak. It doesn't matter now, she hates me anyway." I sadly dropped the white lid, its vivid dark red lip prints, reminiscent of that perfect, kissable mouth of hers, into our brown bag of trash.

The next week was filled the usual work routine, and a fresh dislike of unpacking cardboard boxes. Saturday was depressingly cloudy, and after I dropped Evan at his meeting, I took the taxi on to a different coffee shop a few blocks away, so as not to upset Pooja, in case she appeared at the one in which we met. Maybe I was really avoiding her, I thought to myself. Sitting alone and not really reading the screens of my iPad, I thought about what dating her might have been like, if she was even single, had I not clumsily stumbled into her safe space.

3

Evan was all smiles in contrast with the miserable day, but I was just looking forward to a big, unhealthy lunch and returning home to sleep off my self pity. I kept getting the feeling he was up to something.

That night about ten I got an unexpected text.

'ty 4 returning my vest mr nosey'

At first I thought it was my brother fucking with me on someone else's phone, but only Pooja would call me 'Mr. Nosey'. It was her! I was ecstatic.

'sorry I called u a-hole I dnk about Evan' she texted.

'np J I know u were anxious 2 get the vest back since its from ur princess leia planet hoth cosplay set'

'very funny u r such a major geek :P '

'how r ur ankles?'

The jokes and movie references continued until we gave up on texts and she called me. I loved that accent. We had a really nice chat, nothing too personal. We talked more about music, movies and believe it or not, old furniture. About midnight, her phone began beeping about its low battery, naturally she forgot to charge it. I quickly made a date with her, just a casual day outing to some antique malls and dealers down in the Virginia countryside. It was to be the following Saturday morning, which was Thanksgiving weekend. We hoped to avoid the traffic and bloodthirsty holiday bargain shoppers.

The next morning I thanked Evan for talking to Pooja; it must have been the reason she texted me. I asked him what he said.

"Oh honey I lied like a rug. I told her you were a decent, great guy," my smartass brother said, "It's not my fault if girlfriend believed it."

It took forever for the week to go by, and Thanksgiving and the Friday off, usually relaxing, were just slow-moving obstacles on the way to Saturday. Finally I was pulling into the driveway of Pooja's house in the Maryland suburbs. She lived with a cousin and his girlfriend, the house having been left to them by the grandparents that raised them. The residence was an older split-level style, popular in the sixties and seventies.

The orb of the sun reflected in the front windows. It was early. Eight AM as we had agreed, since there was a bit of a road trip ahead of us south of the Potomac. The doorbell was answered by a curvy, pretty, early-thirties blonde woman, with spider web tattoos bristling from beneath her half-sleeves and neckline. Dressed all in black, she looked familiar for some reason, but I dismissed the thought.

"Pooja! Your man is here!" she called out back over her shoulder. I wasn't sure I had earned that title yet, but didn't mind it either. My pulse raced. I was nervous, afraid I would screw things up again.

Pooja's cousin, a tall dark guy also in black appeared a moment later. After introductions, they told me to relax and have a seat, that she had never been on time in her life. She must have been getting ready, and they were sure she would be 'down any minute'. They apologized for leaving but they were on their way out the door to work.

So I sat in the cluttered living room, amongst furniture and decorating that still matched the era of the house. There were seven or eight stairs up to a hallway, I assumed to the bedrooms. I heard a little noise, cabinets shutting and water running as I waited. After about fifteen minutes I began to wonder if she was okay or even knew I was here after all.

My questions were answered and then some, as one of the most pivotal moments in my life began.

Turning the corner from the hall came Pooja, headband in her hair, which was gathered in a sloppy knot on the back of her head. Ear buds implanted and phone holding her attention, she began to hop barefooted down the carpeted stairs to the living room and kitchen level. Apparently unaware of my presence, her face was covered in a lumpy, bluish-gray clay mask, peppered with dark specks She was wearing only a thin cotton, pink cropped tank top-and-shorts pajama set on her subtle hourglass curves. My eyes instinctively locked on her.

As the raven-haired beauty bounded down the abbreviated staircase, her free, near-handful breasts quivered wildly, the protruding domes of her soft nipples pressing against the fabric. Below her taut, narrow, light brown stomach and inside the shorts, a partially-coiled penis jolted up and down, battered by the bouncing testicles below it, all cradled in the tight pink cotton that was not designed for such a sweet bulge. The end of the jumping, flaccid dick exhibited the bloated but tapered profile of an elongated, unaltered foreskin. Breathtaking, she was, all of her.

I will never forget the sight of her on that staircase. Just seeing a girl braless is a treat, but this was simply spectacular. Any doubts I had about pursuing her instantly vanished. I wished there had been a thousand stairs so I could keep watching the symphonic, arousing movement of her tempting flesh. But there were only eight steps, and Pooja's progress toward me halted at the bottom.

My silent revelry was shattered by an ear-piercing shriek as she looked up and saw me, stationary and holding the old Redskins magazine I had been thumbing through. The staircase was near a window, and she jumped behind a drapery, covering herself from head to knee as she screamed her questions.

"What the fuck! What are you doing here? How did you get in?" I could hear her begin to hyperventilate. Obviously I wasn't supposed to see her so barely dressed for her private time, and another secret had been revealed. A secret I had, being honest with myself, hoped for since the moment I realized she was a trans woman. Chromosomes be damned. Pooja was as beautiful, as intriguing and as enigmatic as any woman I ever met.

"Pooja, Pooja, calm down! Remem-ber?" I said in a parental tone. "Antique shopping in Virginia, Saturday, eight A.M. you, me? Dex and Sadie let me in!" I said, referring to her cousin and his busty blonde girlfriend.

"You fucking idiot!" she screamed. "That was for Sunday!" she yelled from inside the ugly olive green drapery, then said timidly, "Oh wait...wasn't it?"

"It was today, Miss Forgetful." I approached the girl in the cocoon of heavy synthetic material, and began to pull it down from around her face, which was now a mess of cracked gray like an old statue.

"Trent, please! Get away! I'm disgusting!"

"You're perfect." I looked into those brown eyes, closer than I ever had before. They were just mesmerizing, even with her zombie-like appearance. Her drapery cocoon, while shielding her body from view, also became a restraint, as I was able to hold her shoulders and lean in close enough to kiss her. I could have kissed her on the mouth, even with the clay, but the dusty smelling drapes were a mood killer, and it was not a very romantic spot for a first kiss. I gave her a peck on the top of the head.

"Go get ready, auditions for Avatar Two are over," I said, referring to the spotted mud mask. She stuck her tongue out at me, then demanded I enclose myself in the powder room as she got coffee and retreated to get ready. As I sat on the closed toilet lid, I could only imagine how great she must have looked, prancing around braless and pantyless, and to think it was probably a habit of hers.