RANSVESTIA

behind the make-up. Now I don't care. Maybe some do read me as a man, but it doesn't matter. I am at peace with myself and perhaps they should try it themselves before they start to smirk.

Looking ahead I saw the plaza that led to the entrance of the agen- cy building. The plaza was a half-block expanse of white concrete with four sets of four benches forming the corners of an imaginary square. The four benches of each set were set up to define another square with a single dwarf maple tree darting through the cement at the center of each little square. The trees were meant to brighten up the plaza, but the image of those four lonely maples stuck in the concrete with the grim gray glass face of the agency building as backdrop was nothing short of pathetic.

Drawing closer I could see the conniving Miss Clapper seated on one of the benches. There she sat, dejectedly eating a container of yogurt and damning the day she first heard of cholesterol. I moved closer confident that she wouldn't recognize me without my glasses let alone the fact that I was sure the last thing she expected to see that day was Greg, the jerk, dressed as a pretty girl.

I plotted a direct course for Betty Clapper's bench and sat about three feet to her right. I took the cottage cheese and spoon out of the paper bag and started to half-heartedly poke at the small white curds with my fork. My hope was to forge a low-calorie link with dear ole Bet- ty, a woman who lived in never-ending terror of bulges. We sat there for a moment in dietetic silence.

I sighed. Not too loud, not too pushy. Just right to get her in- terested, which it did. She looked up from her yogurt to inquire as to the source of my sigh. I looked back at her, our eyes met and I saw no trace of recognition.

"I hate cottage cheese," I said and could see in an instant that I had connected.

"So do I," she replied. "Almost as much as I hate yogurt."

"And skim milk.”

"And grapefruit. How I hate grapefruit!"'

"It never tastes ripe."

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