The shopkeeper looks at me suspiciously as I place the coins in his hand.
A black breeze on my face, the material of my veil is not heavy. A woman is created in the space between his cornea and her skin. He is angry that his gaze is obstructed.
All his life he has expected women to provide unthinkingly what he wants. I feel him, resentful, wanting to explore me, to carry a piece of me away in his mind.
He is surprised when I speak, as if fabric could block sound as well as sight. Men are so limited. He examines my eyes, imagining me naked and brown, smelling of musk and sweet spices.
Unseen, I am free to transform. I am a creature woven from moss and twigs and wrapped in ivy; a shining lizard, jewelled and rainbowed, secrets of every life in history tattooed across me in angel's script; I am made of pure white light.
To him, I am a shadow, a woman-shaped void. I have become something else, not a woman, not a man.
What possibilities for a new kind of person?
His face says 'hypocrite'.
Perfume, lipstick, wax. I buy them for myself.