Roger Sheffer Iowa Cross Dresser One click past the border, blacktop breaks into gravel. He checks his face in the side-view. Left eye's prettier. He shifts his head to make the right eye vanishleft, right, leftuntil he's dizzy. Mother's plastic overshoe, shaped to fit a high-heeled pump, is tucked in the glove compartment, in a paper bag. Take it out. His foot arches. He could drive a hundred miles and not get caught. When she was at work he'd wear the snowmobile suit around the house, the quilted blue-gray thing in ladies' triple X. Mailman saw him hanging up the wash and winked. All her stuff fits-pants, shirts, wool socks. They vote the same but he feels safer in another state, steering the truck with his knees as he lights the last of her Camels. He trembles at detour signs, places he could stop and try the boot and comb his hair. He ought to double back.
Summer â€˘ Fall 2006
The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho