And in the morning, he and Eleanor would go to the hardware store—together—and buy a new shirt.
Not flannel.
"What are you doing?" Leo asked.
Leo stood up. He didn't cry—the testosterone had made that harder—but his chest felt like it was splitting open in the best way.
On the third day, Leo walked to the south field. The scarecrow lay in the dirt, its flannel rotting, its straw hat crushed. He knelt down. He could repair it. He could prop it back up, a wooden soldier for a lie. asian shemale tube porn
She stood up slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes traveled from his short-cropped hair to his jaw, to the shape of him under the men's plaid shirt he'd bought at a thrift store on Halsted Street.
Eleanor sat back down. She picked up a pea, put it in the bowl, then picked it up again. "The scarecrow," she said finally. "It's lying face-down in the south field. Arms all twisted." And in the morning, he and Eleanor would
Then she squinted. "Leslie? No. No, you're not."
