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Come On You Girls By Aardvark The usual disclaimers about possibly offensive literature, although there isn't much to get offended about here except for a little straight sex. If anyone wishes to put this story on another site, contact me for permission first. *** Harriet walked into Dixie's a half hour before the start of the Everton-Sunderland match. The pub had history. Pictures of Everton teams going back a hundred years lined the walls, mutton-chopped and slick-haired veterans, warriors of the past, hard men who had given little quarter and had taken none. There was the famous 1927 side with the incomparable Dixie Dean, the 1966 team that came from behind to defeat Sheffield Wednesday in the FA Cup, the famous sides of the the mid 1980's, and a niche for the European Champions of 1984-85. Dozens of pictures of recent Everton players who'd visited the pub stood by themselves on a special wall: luminaries like Sharp, Ball, Southall, Reid, Duncan, and plenty more less illustrious alumni. Harriet's father had made sure the Everton legacy ran Blue in her veins. She could still recite every FA Cup, league title, and the names of everyone who'd played for Everton for the last twenty years. Her first visit to Dixie's had been when her father had been alive, and long before the single-most world-changing phenomenon in history. The EU called it the Universal Gender Reversal Event, but most people simply called it "the Event," which, not so coincidentally, had turned Harry into Harriet. Ronald, the bartender, looked up as Harriet pushed her way through the door, and gave her a cursory sweep. Harriet was a looker in her late twenties, with a head full of rich auburn hair, the kind men liked to run their fingers through. Ronald used to be Rona, a former waitress whom Harry had known, a decent sort, if wild at times, and her personality was still there if one looked hard enough. "Harriet, you look especially nice today. How is everything?" She'd figured him out months ago. When he went personal, it meant that he was free and checking to seeing if she were available, but Ronald wasn't Harriet's type. After recent events, she wasn't sure if she ~had~ a type. "I'm fine. Nice to be back at my home away from home. How about a pint of what I like?" "Sure." As he pulled the tap, he motioned with his free hand towards the big screen at the far end. "I don't expect many to show up, as it's the anniversary." The pre-game theme was playing. Maybe a dozen, nearly all women, were gathered around, drinking, talking, and munching on chips. A couple of friends waved to her, and she returned one of her own. "I thought this was the day everyone wanted to forget. Brussels didn't even make it a holiday." Ronald passed the ale across the bar. "Oh, I could find a way to celebrate, burn a bra or a box of tampons. Don't know what you lot would be doing, making love, I suppose - with someone who knew from lots of personal experience how to make a woman feel good." He winked. "Thanks for the ale, Ronald." Ronald grinned. "Sure thing. Hope we win today. Could use the points." Harriet sighed. ~What a difference a season makes.~ "That we could." Harriet sat down in front of the big screen, but a few tables back, not ready to join the others. She took a sip, and lay back, relaxed for the first time all day - or for several days. She was very nearly resigned to moving out. Pat had done his best; she had done hers, but it hadn't been enough. It made her sick when she thought about it, but she was damned if she'd cry again. At least, at Dixie's she had place to go to. This was Everton football, her team, her roots. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, someone not in blue and white. The pre-game was droning on about some injury to the Sunderland keeper, and she turned around. The visitor was maybe in her early thirties, a blonde with hair down well past her shoulders, which meant that she'd either had long hair before, or had accepted herself early on. She wore a business suit, a black skirt and white blouse with diamond studs. The woman came over and set her purse down on the table. "I'm sorry if I'm wrong, but didn't we meet here something over a year ago?" the woman asked. "It was for the SK Brann game, first leg. Your name was ... Collins, I think." Harriet put on a grin and offered her a chair. "That was a good match. It's a pleasure to welcome back an old mate. Not as many Toffees at these games as there used to be. My name's still Collins, Harriet, now. Sorry, still don't recognize you." The other woman turned up a corner of her mouth. "Not surprising, that; I was Frank Peters, Francine, these days." Harriet furrowed her brow, trying to place her. Most of the time, male or female, there was some sibling-like resemblance to the old person, and there was something about the shape of her face. Harriet narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. "I remember you now. You're a Red. You were here slumming, or whatever you call it." Francine sat back in her chair and looked at her askance. "Don't see as I need to defend myself, but for what it's worth, that isn't true. Back then, I decided to give you support, you know, from one English team in Europe to another." It was possible. Rivalries were often put aside when English teams played in UEFA or the European Champions League. She'd done it herself, although she'd never actually ventured into someone else's pub to watch a fixture. Then again, Liverpool fans were generally the most arrogant bastards, thought of themselves as royalty because the owners were rich enough to buy themselves a team. They were even worse than Manchester United, or manure, as everyone called them. Harriet knew that she wasn't being quite fair, but after what had happened between Pat and her, she found that she wanted to be angry. "If so, then thank you very much. That was then. Why are you here now?" Francine considered her words carefully. "I came tonight because I remembered that I had a good time. I've been so bloody busy that I haven't seen a game in ages, and Match Of The Day doesn't do it for me. What's got your knickers in a twist?" ~My knickers in a ... twist?~ *** The night one year and a day ago started off well, with a goal by their powerful striker, Yakubu, in the eighth minute, his nineteenth of the season, and Goodison Park erupted, pounding the seats and cheering, and no-one more than Harry and his mates in the rowdy Lower Gwladys section. Harry shouted and sang the Everton songs until he was hoarse. Unfortunately, despite the chant, "Feed the Yak, and he will score!" the big Nigerian barely saw the ball after that, and West Ham equalized midway through the second half. The result wasn't a total loss, but a point at home against a team in mid-table wasn't what they'd hoped for. Harry paid the cab off a hair past midnight and made his way up the stairs. Patricia was asleep on the sofa in her nightgown, but unfolded her limbs in a wonderful female way, and rose with a yawn, brushing a lock of blonde hair aside before coming into his arms.. "How was the match?" she asked him sleepily. His wife only asked because he cared, but that didn't make it any less important to him. "Bloody draw," he said, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "We're two points behind the Red shite now. Going to have to take all three points against them in an away game." "You'll beat them," she said, going to tippy toes to give him a kiss. "Now come to bed. At least one of us has to get up in the morning." Harry was mid-way through the two-week off cycle of the two on, two off schedule of a North Sea rigger. Patricia was a policewoman who'd joined the force to help society because the world, in her words, was "shit." By preference, more of a social worker than hard-boiled police officer, she liked Labour's idea of working on the root causes of crime. Harry grinned. "I'll slip you something to help you sleep." "Mm," she said, rubbing her body against his. "I'm counting on it." It happened to them that morning very much as it did to the other billions. Harry rolled over and knew something was incredibly wrong right away. It was pressure against her chest, uncomfortable, even painful. She woke up, reached for them, felt them. "Bloody Hell?" she cried in a strangled voice. She sat up angry, at first, sure that she was the victim of an insanely elaborate prank. She played frantic pat- a-cake with her body, then produced a foul curse when the worst was confirmed. She reached for her throat and face and saw herself in the reflection of the mirror over the dresser. She looked down. By her side in the bed, the familiar form of her wife was gone, replaced by a long-haired blond man. Harry slid off the bed, breathing hard, and stumbled to the bathroom, off balance on wider hips. Harry slept naked, and the full-length mirror told the tale. Her formerly powerful body was gone. She was now unmistakably female, a woman with a mullet - she'd kept that -- and she looked familiar, like her mother in pictures when she was younger. Harry gripped the sides of the sink, searching for control. She wanted to scream, and she had a inkling who the man in bed with her was - the long blond hair was too familiar. It was beyond belief, but there was nothing to do but face it. Harry went to the closet and pulled out a clean Everton shirt and shrugged into it. It could have been a tent. The room, the door, the ceiling, everything seemed larger and, except for the floor, farther away. Deciding that she'd rather be safe than sorry, in case Patricia woke up in a panic, or if it wasn't her after all, she went to the dresser and retrieved Patricia's police baton. Harry prepared for the inevitable confrontation. She crept into the kitchen and put on the coffee. Everything would be as normal as she could make it before waking this strange man who might have been Patricia's brother. "Babe," she said, pushing the man's shoulder. The man moaned and shifted around like the woman she had known. Sighing, Harry put down the steel rod and shook his shoulder harder. "Babe, wake up. Don't go loony on me now. Some bloody bastards have changed our sex!" Patricia woke up with a yell. It took a few moments to explain everything and to calm him down. Wrapped in Harry's robe, Patricia drank the coffee Harry had prepared, holding the familiar cup in two hands as if it were the link to reality. Harry joined him on the couch and turned on the television with the remote. The news was grim. Shocked news readers in ill-fitting clothing told of panic around the world, news blackouts in China and Russia, new men and women running naked, screaming in the streets, and riots and shootings all over the Middle East. Harry shook her head, trying to absorb it. The entire world? It was insane! She couldn't think of anything she could do, but the same wasn't true for Patricia. Harry picked up the phone, checked for dial tone and placed it in his hand. "Likely they'll need you down at the station as soon as you can get there. I expect that the other officers are going to need some proper uniforms, and so will you. You call, and I'll try to find something to wear to drive you." He stared at her in surprise. "My God, yes." She started punching digits, and told the other officers to come to the station and to bring in their spare uniforms. Harry handed Patricia some clothes, but none of Harry's trousers were quite large enough except for a pair of drawstring exercise bottoms. After he was clothed and ready, it became Harry's turn. Patricia had been 5'6" and about 125 lbs. Harry was shorter by three inches, a fact which bothered her. "This might work," Patricia judged, laying out some of his clothes on the bed. "I suppose you'd best try them on, see what fits." She pulled off the shirt, and Patricia bit his lip to stifle a gasp, seeing her breasts for the first time, and lower, to what was gone. It was no easier for Harry, who grew steadily more angry looking at the feminine articles. She went for the first item that would give her the greatest decency. When she pulled them on, Patricia made a faint sound, a woman's cry with manly overtones. "Pat, what is it?" Harry demanded, standing with her hands on her waist. Patricia could barely look. "You have a woman's voice and your body ... your body --" "Well, damn it. Tell me something I don't know already," the new woman said angrily. Patricia took a deep breath. "I could see you as long as you were wearing your Everton shirt, but now ... you're wearing just my knickers, and they fit you perfectly." *** "So, my knickers are in a twist, are they?" "I don't understand your hostility. I'm only here to watch a match." Francine smiled and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. "I promise that I won't root against Everton." Harriet's anger was an extension of her mood, she knew, and she had no real cause to be rude. If a Red shite wanted to cheer for Everton, or stay neutral, why should she get angry? Francine's cheery attitude, though, was off. Harriet tried again: "You seem a good sort, if a bit odd - for a Red." "How so?" Harriet shook her head, feeling ridiculous that she'd have to explain the obvious. "Mersyside Derby ring a bell? Hello? Everton and Liverpool have had a rivalry for over a hundred years!" "True, but we've hardly been enemies." "I don't believe you said that. You Red fans screwed us over at our peak." Francine rolled her eyes. "Not that 85' disaster, again.* Come on, now, how old were you then, six?" *Note: In 1985, Juventus and Liverpool played for the European Cup Final in Heysel Stadium, Brussels. Liverpool fans rushed across a fence partition after apparently being tormented by rock-throwing Juventus fans. That caused part of the old stadium, which was in poor condition, to collapse, killing 39 people, mostly Juventus fans. There was no official investigation, but Liverpool fans were blamed. As a result, English teams were banned from European football for five years. Everton was at its peak and was hit hardest, had to sell many of its best players to survive, and never quite recovered. Harriet gave her a hard look. "My father was a Toffee, as was his father, and so on, back to the turn of the 20th century. I respect you Reds for all the silverware you've won, but success comes rarely to any team, and lording your winnings while forgetting about that little affair is insulting." Francine looked nonplussed for a second. "Some of our supporters are rude bastards. Fair enough, I suppose." "The fact is," Harriet said, "that twenty years later we were robbed again. If you're a football fan at all, you'll know what happened a year ago." Francine's eyes twinkled in amusement. "You mean when unknown aliens changed the sex of every human being on the planet? I don't think football was uppermost in my mind that day, but I know what you mean. They terminated the season in place and we beat you." She formed a wry grin. "Everton were playing better than you've played in two decades, and were giving us a go. We kept waiting for you to fold as you usually do, but you surprised us." She leaned forward. "Confidentially, some of us were worried. We had to beat you for fourth place, or be out millions of pounds from missing the Champions League, but I think we would have beaten you anyway." "Bollocks," Harriet said, stabbing the table with her finger. "The first time we played, the ref gave you so many breaks the FA banned him for a match. A fair game would have meant a draw or a win for us, a three to six point swing. So, by all rights, we should have beaten you last year." Francine pursed her lips before speaking. "Harriet, if I concede everything you say, will you let me ask you a question to help make a point?" "Go ahead." "I remember that you were here with a pretty young lady about your age." ~Just like a bird to change the subject midstream,~ Harriet thought, except that she was a bird now, too. "She was Patricia, Patrick now. He was my wife. Harriet glanced down, saw the ring on Francine's finger, and grew annoyed. "What has that to do with football?" she demanded. "A lot, actually. How many men and women are here? Barely a man in sight, and those that are, I'll bet were dragged to the pub by their girls." She nodded towards the screen. The pre-game show was introducing the Everton players. "That blonde there is your captain, Penny Neville, used to be Phil, of course, and there's Michelle Arteta, that cute raven lassie, and Andie Johnson ..." Francine shook her head. "A shock to see that one with hair, much less a ponytail, isn't it? And there's Josephine Yobo, and Victoria Anichebe - which is strange because doesn't Yakubu usually start up front alongside Andie when you play a 4-4-2?" Francine asked sweetly, finishing with a gleam in her eye. ~Typical Red.~ "You know bloody well why she's starting; it's the same reason we're in the middle of the table this year. The Yak got herself pregnant." Francine covered her mouth with her hand. "No! Are you telling me that Everton's best striker is a pregnant Yak?" Harriet turned to regard her. "You know, it was barely amusing the first time I heard that. I'm still waiting for you to get to the point - if you have one." "All right, all right, getting to it now. To begin my point, Harriet, I need to explain that it's all about nature vs. nurture, and nature wins hands down." *** When Harry returned home after dropping Patricia off at the police station, the mobile rang. It was Patricia. She was still startled to hear a male voice come from her wife's mouth. "Harry, I have to stay at the station today, likely even tonight. It's desperate here. Men are rampaging, women are rampant, and no-one respects women in uniform as they should. They need males, raw power to take back the streets, and there aren't many of ... of us." Harry sighed, feeling utterly useless, but she was determined not to whine like a woman about it. "I understand. Return when you can, then. In the meantime, be careful." "I will. And you'd better stay inside today," he said seriously. "These new men are ... some of them aren't rational. You could be ... well, you could be raped. It's happened already this morning. I love you. Have to go now." "I love you, too, Babe," she said, then disconnected. When she put down the mobile, what Patricia had said hit her. "Raped?" she said to herself. It wasn't a word that made sense; the possibility was incomprehensible. There was frustratingly little to do inside the flat except eat and watch television. The phones were restricted for emergency use only. The European Council went in session to handle the crisis, and martial law had been declared, with the Army deployed into the streets. She saw pictures of them, nearly all women in too-large uniforms, heavily bloused and tucked in. They, at least, looked dangerous with their assault weapons at the ready. Every once in a while, a police siren blared or a military vehicle rolled by their building. The electricity stayed on, which was a sign that everything was under control, but Harry hated being caught inside and in her clothes. The sweat pants were too hot, so she took them off, and then she had to fasten a bra after the shirt she was wearing started to chafe her nipples. Everything annoyed her. She wanted to be male. She went to bed that night, angry that she had to lie on her back, and furious at whoever it was that had destroyed their lives. The next day, about noon, Patricia returned. He wore a male policeman's suit and needed a shave. He looked exhausted, but grinned like a warrior who'd been through a battle, and swept Harry into his arms, giving the surprised new woman a bone-crushing hug. "Oh, it's good to be back," he said. "What a mess! We're cleaning it up, though, slowly but surely." He released her and pointed to his sleeve with a grin. "Look, they promoted me to Acting Sergeant, but I think they're going to make it permanent. Have you been all right?" he asked, concerned at her expression. "I ..." ~Of course I'm all right! There wasn't a damn thing to do here, and you can see for yourself!~ She couldn't say that, though, not with Patricia looking so worried. "I'm fine," she said, but that wasn't quite the truth, and being held helpless in his arms hadn't been reassuring. Patricia was asserting himself like a man, not that she could blame him -- exactly. Harry had always said that whoever had the balls should use them. It grated that Patricia was worrying about her as if she were a weak woman, but what could she say that wouldn't make her sound like one? It was frustrating! She wanted to show Patricia that she wasn't useless, but there wasn't much for it, except ... Harry hesitated because it was like digging a hole, but Patricia was the one working and taking risks. He deserved what support she could give him, no matter what it looked like. ~Damn it, this is what a woman is supposed to say.~ "Could I fix you a ... a bite, or something to drink?" Patricia smiled. "A beer to put me under maybe. I've eaten already, but I need some sleep desperately. I'll have to return this evening. I'm sorry." Harry came back with two beers as a measure of equality, although she didn't really feel like one. "You must do what you must in this emergency," she tried to say with authority. "Do you have any news at all?" Patricia took a long gulping swig of beer. "Yes," he said, looking down at her, then gestured to the couch. "You'd better sit down for this. I'm not supposed to say anything until the announcement tomorrow morning, but you shouldn't hear this from the Beeb." Patricia explained that extraterrestrials of an unknown nature were responsible for their change in sex. The aliens had left three brief messages for all major governments at the highest levels: This was not meant to be a hostile act. It was permanent. There would be no further communication. Harry pounded her fist into the couch. "Damn it to Hell! I don't believe it!" ~I'm going to be a woman forever? My wife is a man?~ Patricia put his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Harry. I've known this for several hours, so I've had some time to get used to it. When we heard, the entire station went into an uproar. The men and women did a lot of crying, so I know what you're going through. If we try, I truly believe that we can help each other through this." Patricia brought her into his arms, much gentler this time. "It's all right, Harry. Let it out. You need to let go." Harry froze at first, still in shock and anger, but in his strong arms, she released a few sobs. Harry stopped and pulled away, stunned. "Why did I just do that?" Patricia shrugged helplessly. "The same thing happened at the station. Nearly all the new women and most of the new men, me included, cried when we heard the news. I don't think any less of you for crying; it doesn't mean that you're weak. Being a woman now - it's just a different way of dealing with stress." Harry opened her mouth, unable to speak for a moment. "This can't be real. It can't be." Patricia sighed. "You might as well get it all now. From what I've seen at the station, men and women are hetero. A couple of the former lads were a pair, and Margaret and Lulu were cozy in that way, too. They're all straight now, and they aren't happy about it." Harry stared at him. "But I don't ---" "You'll feel it eventually. I think it takes contact with the other sex, which is why it hasn't hit you yet." Patricia shook his head sorrowfully as Harry backed away from him. "I know how you feel, but it's true. I'm going to go to bed now. Watch the telly. If I'm right, you'll see for yourself soon enough." Harry waited until she heard Patricia snore before she turned it on. Channel Four was showing movies now instead of news. ~Keeping the masses entertained so we don't have to think of the mess we're in,~ Harry thought. Gradually, she understood what Patricia had told her. She recognized good-looking women as attractive, but they didn't do anything for her anymore. Men's arses, shoulders, and the strength in their arms, however.... ~Damn it.~ She turned off the television and held her face in her hands. ~I don't believe it. I don't believe it.~ Bound and determined to be useful, yet feeling more like a wife than a husband, Harry did the laundry and cleaned the flat. When Patricia climbed out of bed and went to take a shower, Harry had supper ready. Patricia came out of the bathroom in a pair of exercise shorts, running Harry's electric razor across his face like he'd always used it. Harry realized that she hadn't had a shave in days and she'd likely never need one - at least not on her face. Patricia grinned, and said in a warm manly voice, "It smells wonderful. What's for dinner, Honey?" Patricia had sometimes called Harry, "Honey," but it sounded different coming from male lips. It was better than being called, "Babe," she supposed. "Chicken and dumplings. Unfrozen pie for dessert." It only got worse for Harry: Patricia looked handsome with his hard musculature and flat abs, and Harry felt herself responding to it with a sort of melting. She tried to avoid looking at him during supper, but it was impossible. "Honey, is there something wrong?" he asked her. Harry looked up briefly, then turned away as her face flushed. "You're feeling it, aren't you?" Patricia said gently. "It's disorienting at first, but it becomes normal in a hurry. Some at the station - adapted rather rapidly." "You're saying that you've adapted?" Harry asked nervously. Patricia gnawed at his lip. "Well, yes, in the way you mean, but that's not what I meant. I meant that some at the station have had sex already. The Watch Commander went tits up with the Dispatcher at the end of the day. Perhaps I should have told you immediately, but I wanted to give you some time. When I walked through the door yesterday, I thought you were beautiful - or you shall be when your hair grows out a bit. It's something to see you from a ... a male point of view." Harry swallowed and felt more blood rush to her face. "I see," she said.. Patricia nodded in sympathy. He dropped his fork on the plate and got up. "It's all right, I understand. I'll leave the room for now. I want you to know that I'd never force you to do anything you didn't want to do." He left to go to the bedroom and put on his uniform there, leaving Harry to ponder his words.. ~You won't force me to have sex with you? Oh, doesn't that sound bloody wonderful!~ *** "Nature over nurture?" Harriet made a sound of disgust. "Rubbish. Nothing in life is so simple." Francine lifted an eyebrow about halfway. "Indeed? Brussels made the best decisions they've ever made: the mandatory name changes, making the new boys and girls attend school in the proper clothing, and forcing everyone to stay with their jobs. It worked for the most part. Construction workers showed up in jeans belted around their narrower waists, and wore borrowed bras - or just went without - and built; secretaries came to work with scratchy faces and hairy legs, sat down, and typed, organized, and answered the phone; former stay-at-home mothers, now men, gave their infant new sons and daughters bottles and changed nappies. In this day and age of automation and the service industry, we carried on without dropping more than a few beats. What was your occupation before the Event?" Harriet looked down into her ale. "I was a rigger. North Sea." "The kind that wrestles pipes and drilling equipment around?" "The same, and my secondary specialty was diesel mechanic. Some jobs need a man's strength, and I was damned good at it. I lost ninety pounds of solid muscle, about what my wife gained." "Ouch." "Right, so save your 'we're all the same' for the Gender Equality Commission." Francine reached out and covered Harriet's hand in sympathy. "You're the exception that proves the rule, but in general, what I said was right. It's all in the body: men and women, after the initial confusion, adjusted to their sex, have become men and women in both thought and preference. Many are changing jobs and having children. I'll wager that your wife handled the transition better than you did." Harriet took a long swallow of ale before answering, gripping the mug hard enough to make her fingers white. "I suppose you could say that," she said grimly. *** After the EU decree, Patricia and Harry drove to the police station, each in their respective required clothing. There, Harry, stunned and ill at ease in blouse, brassiere and skirt, sat down for an identity photograph and became Harriet, one of the permitted transfer names, and a moment later Patricia officially became Patrick. Patrick drove Harriet back to the flat. She left the car in a daze and climbed the stairs with Patrick right behind her. Her hands shaking, she managed to fit the key into the slot and turn it, but stood there at the threshold, breathing hard and shaking her head like a rag doll. "Harriet ... Harriet, are you all right?" She turned around at the second mention of her official name and looked up at him, a (handsome!) blond-haired man with a fresh haircut, solidly built in a police uniform. "My mind still tells me that I should be on the way to Scotland to board a helicopter going to my rig, but according to the EU, I have no job, and I'm ... I'm your wife?" Pat nodded reassuringly. During the course of his job, Pat had already met similar responses from dozens of people. "I know. It's tough and disorienting, but it's an adjustment we all have to make." "Pat, you don't understand. This is completely backwards. I was the man!" She waved inside the flat. "I'm going inside to do what, play housewife? This isn't the way it's supposed to be!" He took her by the shoulders and said, in a calm, easy, but no-nonsense way, "Riggers are on the exempt list, but I'm sure you'll find another job when the time comes. In the meantime, try to enjoy yourself." Pat brought out a brochure titled "What Every Woman Needs To Know About Her Body" and handed it to her. "You left this in the car. It's something you should look at." Pat smiled and touched her face, a gesture that Harriet found more strange than comforting. "I've got to run. I'll be late again this evening, but I'll call you before I return." Patrick gave her a serious look. "Don't leave the flat before I return. There are still some nutters out there and likely will be for some time." Pat's assumed authority rubbed her the wrong way. "I can take care of myself," she said angrily, and went inside. Harriet put on the pot for tea. There was little to do. The brochure was mainly a set of pictures of a smiling manga girl, pointing and describing reproduction and feminine hygiene in excruciating detail. Worsening her disposition, although she'd expected it, Sky News informed her that the football season had been cut short. About the time it turned dark, she decided to leave to work off some of her anger. She brought the mobile phone with her in case Pat called. It was the first time out alone since the Event, and nothing was as it was. The few cars on the street seemed bigger and faster, and the men she passed were huge and made her leery. It only made her more determined to carry on normally. Harriet refused to be afraid. She slowed down deliberately and began to get a feel for the world she was forced to live in as a woman. Few men and fewer women were out on the pavement, and those women she spotted were in the company of men or in groups. She looked at them in bitterness. They were often attractive, but they didn't affect her as they had, and they passed her over, or simply gazed at her, uninterested, a far cry from the response she'd had the week before when she'd been a prime specimen of British manhood. In that state of mind, she lost track of time, and it wasn't until she saw stars that it occurred to her how far she'd come. She checked the time. Unless Pat returned early, there was enough time to get back and start dinner. She snorted. It was a as wifely a thought as she'd ever heard of. The temperature cooled on the way back, and she rubbed her bare arms to keep warm. The skirt she wore, the only type of lower female garment in the flat that fit her, was little protection. The lights from her flat were barely within view when she heard a sound from an adjoining alleyway. Before she could turn, an enormous hand wrapped around her mouth. She fought, but his strength, more than twice hers, held her under control. As Harriet struggled, to her horror, she felt an erection against her backside. The man leaned forward and panted in her ear. "What luck, a bit of a skirt out for the taking!" Harriet wanted to scream, but that, too proved impossible. He lifted her off her feet and began to carry her, still kicking and fighting, into the darkness. A tremendous force blasted them from the side, throwing them both to the ground. A metal club whistled in the air twice, striking the man's wrists, making him scream and freeing Harriet. "You're under arrest! Face down on the ground and get your hands behind your back! Do not test me, sir. I have a pistol and will use it if provoked!" Harriet looked up from the pavement, splayed and sitting on her bottom. Amazement overcame her fright as she realized who it was. "Pat?" she exclaimed. "How --" Pat regarded her in fury, and pointed her baton at her. "I had an idea you'd try something like this, so I had your mobile tracked. I'll speak to you about this later." The full force of what had nearly happened struck when she was making her statement for the police report. Harriet made it through without stammering or crying only because she was numb. On the way back, Pat drove, seething in silence, and waited until they returned to the flat before laying into her. He shouted into her face that she was about to be raped and probably worse. Harriet couldn't say a word, because it was all too true; the nightmare had been very real. Finally, with a great sigh, Patrick reached forward and placed his hand gently to the side of her face, then ran it over her hair. "I understand what happened, and I hate yelling at you, but you have to learn that you aren't the same." Pat swallowed hard and rubbed a few tears from his eyes. "My God, if I'd lost you...." He placed his hands firmly upon her narrow shoulders. "You were very brave tonight, but you're not a man anymore. You're a woman, and not a very large one - smaller than I was." Pat had mistaken her silence for bravery, but Harriet knew better. She'd fought back instinctively when the time had come, but when she thought about men at that moment, beings so much larger and powerful than she was now, she choked to the point where she could barely make a sound. It wasn't her fault: women had grown up with men all their lives, so they were used to it, and, like most women, she would eventually become accustomed to life in a woman-sized body, but at that moment she had no defense to the reality. Pat looked straight into Harriet's face. "If there's any bright side to what happened tonight, it made me realize that I still love you." He brushed her hair back as Harriet looked up, her brown eyes wide open in amazement. "Yes, I love you. Loving you as a man is different, but it's very real. Harriet, promise me that you won't go outside until I say it's safe. I couldn't stand the thought of this happening again." The combination of experiences overwhelmed her. She was still frightened, and Pat, already a powerful man she was attracted to, had saved her life, and now said that he loved her. She found herself nodding. "I promise, Pat. You won't have to worry." An internal voice told her that it was all backwards, but it was a murmur in the background of her emotions. She was grateful to be alive and safe and wanted to be held. She took a step forward, and he brought her the rest of the way. Before she knew it, he was kissing her. It was strange at first to kiss up and to be kissed, but this was Pat, someone she knew and who loved her. With her eyes closed, it was easy to forget the rest. Soon, his hand was on her breast, then on her nipple, squeezing, rolling, and circling in a marvelous way, softening her like butter over a low flame, and, as she descended into bliss, all she knew was that she was comfortable and warm and that Pat was solid and made her feel safe. From Pat's point of view, Harriet was a wonder. Harriet was so much smaller than he. The past few days had been hectic but incredibly rewarding. Once part of a team, he now led teams of formerly male colleagues, most of whom he had looked up to as Patricia. They obeyed him now, and through his own energy and performance, had won their respect. His nascent male urges met wonderfully feminine responses he recognized very well from his time as Patricia, which encouraged him further. He lifted her up and placed her on the bed, lay down beside her and kissed her on her neck. Barely believing what he was doing, and wanted to do, he slid his finger underneath her skirt, around the base of her knickers and inside her. Harriet panted, felt herself getting wet, knew for the first time a longing inside her for a man. Patrick unzipped her skirt and slid it off. Her knickers followed, and then he freed her blouse and breasts to the air. His mouth descended to her nipple, now erect and agonizingly sensitive. Harriet gasped, arching her back. "Holy ... holy shit, Pat." "I've wanted you for days," he breathed in her ear, now confident in his control and reactions. "You'll find that I know how to please a woman." Pat brought her to the edge with his finger, and then over, making her thrash and moan in her first orgasm. She desired him inside her with a hunger she'd never imagined, but Pat knew that more could be done, and she was at the end of her tether and almost begging to be penetrated when he finally slid into her, breaking her hymen in a sharp twinge of pain. She didn't care, needing to be filled and joined, and held onto him with internal muscles she hadn't known she had. Pat, having no experience with that, gasped. Force he'd never felt before built up within his groin and he exploded inside her, driving seed forward violently, unbelievably different than receiving, and if the pleasure faded faster than he was used to, its intensity and instant gratification made up for it. Harriet's was a general, all-over sensation that took longer. Her legs were spread. Pat was inside her, and all was well. When he finally subsided, she was barely disappointed, but couldn't possibly complain. It was impossible to be embarrassed. True, she was a she, with breasts and a vagina, a clitoris and all the rest, but the emotions had been so pure, and the lovemaking so beautiful, there was nothing to do but be happy about it. Harriet looked up, saw Pat's smiling face, felt his hand on her cheek, and relaxed against it. From his face, she knew that it had been much the same for him. With the tension and fear gone from her system, it gave her a chance to think about how it all happened and she came to the right conclusions. She determined that she would never be caught out so vulnerable and unprepared again. In the meantime, Pat rolled off her and looked at her from her elbow. "Wow," Patrick said. "That was ... something, Harriet." She could hardly deny that, and smiled. "That it was, Pat." He looked down at her, proud as could be. "I just took my wife's virginity," he said. To Harriet, his words brought mixed feelings. Regardless of what the EU proclaimed, she didn't think of herself as a wife, more of a Harry-in- a-woman's-body. That Pat thought of her that way struck her as an arrogant assumption. Technically, he was right, though, and she didn't want to argue about it. "Yes, that's true, and you took my virginity," she said. That last in itself was a strange thought. She hadn't even thought of being a virgin until she wasn't, but it seemed to have some real importance to him. A new sensation came over her, one less pleasant, fluids dripping from her, between her legs and onto the bed. She looked down at a sticky mixture of him and her and rolled away, coming to her feet. She said, "Come on. Between us, we made an awful mess. These sheets need to be cleaned, and I need a shower." "Right." He practically jumped out of bed. She set the wash with him by her side and they went into the shower together, facing each other. His hand slipped down between Harriet's legs. At first, she wasn't sure how she felt about that. It was a reminder that from now on, it would likely be Pat who started things, but her body seemed to be made for touching and caressing, and she gave into it, beginning to get turned on again. "How did you like sex as a woman?" Harriet had to collect her thoughts for a moment to give him an honest answer. "It was incredible. You played me like an instrument. It's so much more ... intimate. I suppose the biggest difference is that I wasn't in control." He nodded, as if that was about what he expected.. "Sex as a man is the opposite as a woman. I felt so powerful making love to you." It was like reminding her that she was weaker again. She tried to be a good sport about it and said, "Well, you are a strong, good-looking man." "You say that so easily, but this is very new to me." Pat looked at her in sympathy. "If I'm feeling strong, then you must be feeling vulnerable." Harriet didn't like the direction the conversation was going. "I know that any large man could snap my neck if he wanted to. Is that what you mean?" "When I was a woman, I felt secure around you. I'm saying that I intend to return the favor; I want you to feel the same way around me." Harriet looked away uncomfortably. "Pat, give it a rest. Reminding me that I'm not as strong as I was is not making me feel good right now." He grinned mischievously. "I'll make you feel good." Pat bent his head over her breast. Harriet's nipples swelled; her knees lost strength, and it shocked her to feel herself getting wet again so soon. As she gasped, Pat let up for a moment. "Women have power, too, you know," he murmured softly. "You're beautiful, or you would be if you were made up properly. I can show you how." "Beautiful? I don't even know what that means. How am I supposed to respond to that?" "I used to say, 'thank you.'" Harriet pushed herself away from him. "Stop it! It's like you have it all planned out for both of us, but I don't. I'm attracted to you, and making love with you is fantastic, but that's as far as it goes. Just because we've changed sexes doesn't mean we've switched personalities. I don't want to have any more sex tonight. Christ, I could be pregnant!" Pat looked more thoughtful than alarmed, and that frightened Harriet more than anything. She refused to have sex with him until he found a condom, and obtained a prescription for birth control pills as soon as she could. She was actually relieved when she started her first period three weeks later. *** Harriet took a gulp of ale and said, "I can prove your nature over nurture is a load of bollocks." "I doubt that very much," Francine replied. She waved her arm to encompass the room. "The evidence is all around us. Men are behaving as men and women as women. The laws of nature don't change simply because we trade sexes. People have adapted and life goes on much as it did before." "The Middle East --" Francine shook her head. "That disaster isn't due to the change in sex, it was all about the unequal sexual roles. It could be that, in two or three generations, they'll find a way to explain it all away and be back at square one." "You Kopites have an answer for everything, don't you?" Francine turned up a corner of her mouth. "Well, we know how to get back to the Champions League year after year." Harriet rolled her eyes. "All right! Explain this: four-fifths of the marriages failed after the Event. Some were due to the age difference being reversed, but that doesn't account for all of it." "I could say that it was due entirely to personality differences not translating well, but I concede that you might have something there. Still, I don't think it's 'nurture' in the sense I used it. There have been no studies that I know of, mind you --" "Someday, I'm sure you'll get to the point." "Patience, my Blue friend, and you shall learn. I'm saying that when we changed, there were no guidelines, no established 'nurturing' or learned values to bring to bear. We made do with what we had, which is to say, nothing. It was all scatter shot." Francine pursed her lips in thought, then continued. "Let me try to explain it this way." She held out her hands face down on the table. "This represents two people who know each other They have a base, a history, if you will." She flipped her hands over. "These are the same two people with their sexes reversed. In many ways, deep down, they're the same, but it may go undetected because they simply don't look the same, nor, to a degree, act the same. In a sense, it's like, like --" "Are you referring to first impressions?" Francine cocked her her head to the side and looked at her. "I think you've hit it on the head. It's very much like two people meeting for the first time. And if they get it wrong --" Harriet twisted her face into a frown. "I think I understand. And first impressions are sometimes damned hard to overcome." "I would think so, especially this sort of impression. If the history can't guide you, it may be all you have." *** "All I'm saying," Pat said, so patiently that it had the opposite effect on Harriet, "is that you would look very nice in heels and make- up once in a while." "I can't believe that you're trying to dictate how I look. Even I didn't do that to you." "You didn't have to. When I was your wife, I tried to look my best for you." "You grew up a girl, into frillies and foundations. Not my thing. Darn it, Pat, I wear lip gloss for you. I was done up when we went to see your mother. It's called a compromise and that'll have to do." He gazed at her wearily, disappointed. "I had so hoped by now ... Harriet, yes, you look fine, but I don't think you understand how much better you could look. Most of the other women --" He stopped at her glare and growled, "You're stubborn as a bloody mule. That's all it is." He grabbed his hat and headed for the door. "I'll be at the pub until dinner's ready. I'll see you then." He slammed the door behind him as he left. Harriet would have stomped her foot, but she knew how stupid that looked coming from a woman of 115 lbs. ~How in the hell did I get myself into this?~ Two months had passed since the Event. Pat could be nice, but he was also a controlling son-of-a-bitch at times. He didn't like her going downtown because he was afraid of her getting into trouble. He was always trying to mold her into his idea of a perfect woman, and lately, he'd been hinting that she drop her job search and become a full-time housewife. It wasn't that they needed the money. Pat's sergeant's salary covered what was necessary and enough extra to make a difference. Still, why couldn't he understand? She poured herself a beer to calm down and went to the sofa to think. ~Why am I even here?~ She snorted. ~Well, the sex is good.~ That was an understatement: Pat knew her body better than she did. But it wasn't enough of a reason to stay. She wondered if she could ever make Pat happy. Pat told her constantly that he loved her, but she couldn't reciprocate yet, which ate at him. She wanted - demanded - more respect, more freedom, and a job where she could hold her head high. Was that so unreasonable? Yet, it seemed unattainable for reasons she couldn't quite fathom. They had finally come to loggerheads. She wasn't happy, and wasn't likely to be. As far as Pat was concerned, she was his wife, and he took the title seriously. By the end of the beer, she decided that she would have to leave or go crazy. Imagining Pat with another woman hurt, but it had to be done. The original man and wife were gone and what was left wasn't working. Harriet wept, but when she dried her tears the resolve to leave remained, and she saw no reason to delay it. She finished cooking dinner, waited until she had done the dishes, then told him that they weren't meant to be together in this incarnation and that she wanted a divorce. Pat begged her to reconsider. Harriet broke down in front of him, something she would never have done as a man, but refused his every plea. While he was at work the next day, she made arrangements with a friend to stay for a few days until she could find her own place. In the early afternoon, she collected her belongings into two suitcases and called Merseycabs. It was drizzling outside when the black cab pulled over. A sturdy iron- haired woman in her mid-fifties lifted the boot and boosted her suitcases in. As the taxi drove away, Harriet had a last look at her old flat. "Leaving your husband?" the driver asked. Harriet looked up, surprised. "I'm sorry ..." Harriet looked to the hackney's identification card. "... Dierdre?" Dierdre said, "It wasn't that hard to figure out. You wouldn't be going to a funeral with more than an overnighter." "Am I that obvious?" "There's a lot of it going around," the older woman said with sympathy. "I saw your ring, too." Harriet wondered why she still wore it. The morning of the Event, everyone had awoken naked, with their clothes and whatever jewelry they'd worn beneath them. The ring she'd given Patricia on their wedding day was now hers. By coincidence, it had fit her, and Pat's had needed only a minor adjustment at the jewelers. She remembered buying it as Harry with Patricia. It was a gaudy thing that had cost over a month's wages. Patricia had always liked it, but it annoyed Harriet because it caught on clothes. She pulled it off and dropped it in her bag. ~Well, that's that.~ "You're a Toffee," the cabby said. Harriet thought for a second. "Right. You would have seen the Everton crest on the suitcase." She nodded. "Yes, I'm fourth generation." "This might cheer you up, then. They just announced a new season next year." Harriet sat up in the seat. "You're joking! How --" "Oh, it's going on all over Europe: the Premiership, the Bundesliga, Serie A, all the top leagues are starting again with the same players. Makes sense if you think about it. The big clubs can't be allowed to go bankrupt and it fits with the Council's "Back To Normal" theme. The Everton Ladies will be playing at Goodison in a few months. It should be worth watching. The genetics seems to have carried over for the most part. The old team still have their skills and, from what I've heard, quite a lot of athleticism." Harriet couldn't quite suppress a bitter laugh. "Genetic carry-over. If that's true, then I must be the bloody runt of this litter; I lost nearly a foot." Dierdre gave Harriet a glance in the mirror. "Count your blessings. Seriously now, losing a few inches might be a problem to a man, but not to a woman. I'd say that you could have come through a lot worse." "I suppose." Harriet didn't want to argue the point - and for the most part, Dierdre was right. For a woman, being pretty trumped height. For all practical purposes, it didn't really matter that she was 5'3"; it wasn't even that short. It was, however, three inches shorter than Patricia had been, and, despite the logic of it, it had made a difference in their relationship: it was yet another reason to move on. It was still hard to consider, but when she was ready to meet other men, it would be a relief not to have anyone to measure herself against. Harriet saw a solicitor a few days later and filed for a divorce. Pat didn't contest it, and returned the papers signed, and soon, it was over. She found a flatmate, a woman about her age, and went through three jobs in two months before finding a position as a parts department clerk at an automobile dealership. Gradually, her world changed. She thought less about her height, became accustomed to looking up to most people, and; when she had to reach for something, she simply went for a chair. Men chatted her up, and a month after the divorce she accepted her first date. She made new friends and looked up some of her old Everton mates. When the football season opened, she and thirty thousand other Toffees, mostly women, filed into Goodison Park for the opener against Blackburn Rovers. For the first time in its long history, songs with a distinctly feminine flavor filled the air, and when Tracy Cahill, the Aussie midfielder, scored the first Everton goal and went into the same familiar dance at the corner flag, snapping punches at it with her fists, the stadium erupted. With women shrieking their heads off, crying and hugging, It wasn't quite the same as before, but as far as Harriet was concerned, it was close enough. Harriet found a boyfriend who told her that he loved her. She slept with him, thought that it could become serious, but it did not. Months later, more cautious, she found another man who wanted her, but decided that she didn't want him. In the meantime, some of her mates found husbands and moved away or into different circles. She began to wonder if there wasn't something wrong with her. All her relationships lacked an undefinable element. Men fell into patterns: either she didn't respect them or they would make assumptions about her that she didn't care for. She started business classes at night to gain promotion. All throughout, the season rolled on, through the summer, fall and well into winter, and, like hundreds of thousands of Everton supporters, she breathed football. It was mid-day at the auto dealership and close to lunchtime when Pat's familiar face appeared outside the window. "Hello, Harriet," he said, adding a tentative smile. The sight of him brought back the old memories, all the way back to the time when she had been the man and he the wife, and later, when the reverse had been true, a tangle of frustration amidst bittersweetness. She looked at his hands to see if he wore a ring, immediately angry at herself for doing so. "Hello, Pat. You look, ah ... good." She rubbed her hands together in her lap, conscious for the first time in months of her breasts moving on her chest. "Did you want to order a part?" She saw that he was nervous, too, which made her feel better. "No. I came to see you. I was hoping we could get some coffee - or something." She couldn't, in the end, see a reason to say no. She asked if he wouldn't like a slice of pizza and then a walk in the park, and he accepted. Once in the park, he came to the point quickly. "It's been a while since we've seen each other. I hoped that our experience apart would give us some perspective on what happened to us. I've thought about it a hundred times, and it doesn't make sense." Harriet stopped on the path and looked up at him. "You want to go back and revisit that God-awful mess?" "Not to no purpose." He hesitated, then said, "I miss you very much. If there's a way we can work this out I want to know." Harriet buried her head in her hands. "Oh, damn it, Pat --" "Don't say no, yet. If I'm right then you've been having a tough time with this, too. If we can't work it out, perhaps we can work out why it didn't work, and then we could get on with our lives." Harriet raised her head. "Pat, those are two completely opposite reasons." "I'll try any reason to see each other again. That was my back-up, in case the first didn't appeal to you." It staggered her the way her body desired him again. "I don't know. Even talking about this can hurt us again - especially you. I'll give you credit, though. You have some almighty bollocks coming here after our divor --" He grabbed her by the shoulders, then kissed her, holding her so she couldn't get away. After a moment, she stopped resisting. He released her. "Go ahead, tell me to piss off, and I will," he said, his eyes dripping with longing. "But I had to come here and try." Harriet collected her thoughts and emotions as she gathered her breath. "Was that ... was that kiss another back-up?" Pat nodded. "It was. And it was my last." "Ah! I don't know what the hell to do with you. I'm still attracted to you, but this is the same shit! You press me and I'll press back. I don't see a good end to this." Pat threw up his hands. "Then all I can say is that it's such a waste! When you were Harry, you were a fine husband, but more importantly, you were a fine person. I was a good wife and I'm trying to be a good man. I fancy you, Harriet. I know who you are inside. I just want desperately to fit the pieces around with us so it works again." Her heart pounding inside her chest, Harriet looked up into his eyes. Pat was attractive enough, but his desire for her made her insides a pack of mush. Misgivings or not, there was nothing she could do about that - and with Pat standing there so sincere and noble, Harriet didn't really want to try. ~I feel like I'm in a bad movie.~ "Pat, can we try back-up number two again?" He complied with a much longer kiss. They spent the next day talking and laid down some ground rules that they both thought they could live with. By the end of the week, to their surprise, Harriet moved back into the old flat. To celebrate her return, Pat made reservations at a fancy restaurant. As soon as her things were unpacked and stored away, Harriet began to get ready. She put on a mid-thigh length red dress that complemented her auburn hair, a pair of two inch heels, and sat down in front of a make-up mirror to fix her face. Pat could only shake his head at the result. "You're beautiful." Harriet put on a nervous grin. "I ... thanks, Pat." "It goes without saying that I've never seen you done up this way before." "For a special occasion like this, I don't really mind." He placed his hands on his hips. "I'm not complaining, I suppose, but why now? I couldn't get you to put on make-up or wear nice things to save my life." "I first started when my job required it, but when I decided to see other people, I ... I thought that I'd better actually learn how to do it. One of the blokes at work showed me how." "So, it took another man to make you want to put on make-up?" Harriet winced at the pain in his voice. "I haven't gone all the way with it; I've only dressed up a few times. I'm still not completely comfortable being like this - especially around you." She forced herself to face him straight on. "Pat, you're like a man times two to me. Everything we do together is magnified, and I'm not sure if I can ever meet your expectations. I'll go as far as I can; this won't be the only time you'll see me this way, but let me choose when. If you start expecting, then we might end up the same way as the last time, and neither of us wants that." Pat nodded. Regardless of how it happened, seeing her like this was a tremendous improvement. Harriet might have looked a little like a bird with a cat outside her cage, and stood awkwardly in heels, but it was a glimpse of the woman he knew was inside her. He said, "We agreed: no pressure, but nobody said anything about encouragement. I'll just say that you look fantastic and leave it at that." He offered her his arm. "Shall we go?" Harriet let out a sigh and gave him her hand. "Thanks, Pat. Yes, we shall." For Harriet, it was almost an ideal arrangement. In some ways, it was like living her old life. When Everton played home games, she was as likely as not to be at Goodison Park with her mates in a girls' night out. Other matches she spent at Dixie's or, once in a while, at home in knickers and her Everton T-shirt, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with beer and chips, yelling and cursing at the television, a sight that Pat found impossible to get used to. In other ways, her life became more traditional. Pat worked far more hours than Harriet, and, as a result, she did most of the cooking and cleaning. Gradually, as if on schedule, she added bits and pieces of what she knew Pat wanted. She increased the days of the week she wore make-up to three, four, then five. Harriet asked Pat what he would like to have her wear, and she slowly incorporated the more feminine clothing into her daily attire. Harriet even took to wearing nighties to bed because Pat liked them - just before he removed them to make love. The best part of it was making love. In bed, she was free to moan, cry out, and be a woman with abandon, and, while in that melted haze afterglow, she was content to be very much the Harriet Pat longed for. Her return home seemed, on the surface, to be an overwhelming success, but it couldn't last. Pat's first inkling that all was not the way it seemed was in the morning at the end of the first month. Harriet had a way of holding onto him as she slept. He would wrap his arm around her and she would snuggle close, making him feel so marvelously protective he wouldn't move for fear of waking her up and breaking the moment. He described it to her one morning when she awoke molded to her after a long slumber. Her brown eyes flashed in alarm, and she drew back before she caught herself. It hurt, but the reaction had been so swift and clear that he never mentioned it again. But it opened his eyes. He realized that her progress was generally physical, with clothes and make-up. Personal conversations about her remained touchy, and Harriet would usually steer them into something else. The more he pressed her, the more reserved she became. There was nothing he could point at outright, except for a single glaring lack: she never told him that she loved him.. Pat wanted to believe that Harriet showed him in a hundred ways, but she would never say the words, and it was slowly driving him mad. He began to find fault with her. He tried to restrict where she went, which he knew irritated her to no end. Sometimes, he deliberately started a row, but, as often as not, Harriet would take it and look sad or worse, understanding, which made him feel like a heel. Months later came the tipping point. That night, he came home after working a long day. No day was routine, but there were "worse" days: That day had the usual robberies and domestic calls, but also a traffic accident that he'd handled as supervisor, and watched a four-year old boy die. Once he might have spoken of it, but not that night. Harriet was, as always, considerate and reserved. He could have shared it with her, and she would have listened, but it hadn't been the same for some time. Harriet didn't smile as often as she used to, and he hadn't seen her laugh out loud in days. She looked worried now, on edge. They made it through supper being polite, with general conversation. When supper was over, Harriet took the plates and bowls into the kitchen. He sat on the couch and watched her. She put on an apron to cover her clothes, a skirt he'd bought for her, and a low-cut blouse that showed her figure. It was feminine enough, but it pleased him less than the day before. He wondered, yet again how much she had actually changed and how much was done for his benefit. He heaved a deep sigh to rid himself of the tension. They had the next three days off. Tomorrow they would drive to London and see his father, as post Event jargon had it, formerly his mother, the first time they would meet since the Event. It was possible that the time away would do them good. Pat came to his feet with an urge. Harriet was beautiful, and available. His refuge was the same as hers, making love. One of Pat's greatest pleasures as a man, besides waking up every day without caring what time of the month it was, was his sexual freedom. When Pat had been Patricia, she had sometimes found herself ready, only to be denied because Harry wasn't. Unlike then, however, as Patrick, he decided when they would make love; unless he desired it, after all