Danielle lights a cigarette and takes her seat on the wooden stool at the back of the store. She flips through a fashion magazine, the only thing that could give her an escape from reality. Shoes, she loves them. She loves how different every kind is; pumps, stilettos, kitten heels and wedges. She remembers how she, as Daniel, would stare at the shoes of her former female partners with love and longing, how she would quietly try them when they were still asleep. How she has avowed to transform her then-male self into a female so she could one day, fit into those shoes…

Danielle knows that nothing was going to change her for who she is – a woman. She smiles to herself, flipping the fashion magazine casually, she is happy, just like every other fashion-crazed teenager, she finds herself filled with an unusual euphoria with that magazine. Like how drugs are to heroin addicts, shoes give her a certain high that nothing else can. To support this fetish of hers, she works in a little shop in the heartlands, a haven to schoolkids in the neighbourhood, who flock to her candy store like bees to honey. These children see Danielle as the next Willy Wonka, making her little business their immediate pit-stop the moment they get off their school buses. Danielle loves kids, and she knows every single one of them who visit regularly, always throwing in an extra sweet or two in the packets which every child buys with his diligently-saved pocket money.

What Danielle loves about children is their unquestioning innocence. Very much unlike adults, who treat her with the respect they would towards an animal, because of “unnatural” anatomy. Children, however, make her feel loved and worthwhile. For every 10 dagger-like glares from her adult counterparts, a toothy smile from a child more than makes up for it.

She looks up at the clock on the wall that reads 1.30pm. the shop will be aswarm with schoolchildren very soon, bracing herself for half an hour of arm-numbing candy selling, she puts aside her beloved magazine, and props herself up at the cash register, in anticipation of the peak hour of the day. Soon enough, a flood of children was jostling at her counter.

“There you go Bryan, that will be 2 dollars, and I added one more sweet for you! “ chimed Danielle “Oh Gloria, I saved these marshmallows for you since they ran out yesterday” she proffers a bag of deliciously fluffy marshmallows that produce a wave of pint-sized bidders around the counter.

“Oh hey there… Timothy…” Danielle stammers, very much unlike her usual confidence in talking to children. “Are… Are these all? That will be one-eighty, no, no… One-fifty please.” Her hand shakes slightly as she stretches out her palm to collect the money from the cherubic-faced boy at the front of the queue. Smiling faintly as his nails brushed against her palm while he drops the coins into her hand, unaware of the 30-cent discount she gave him. “Thanks, aunty.” Timothy beams as she hands him his candy filled bag. A wave of elation rushes through her by just seeing that smile, and those eyes… Timothy has her father’s eyes.

Memories of times with her dad, decades ago, whizz across her mind. These flashbacks preceded ones of her with former partners, of wild nights partying till dawn, staggering out of beds of anonymous hook-ups, no strings attached, no responsibilities. Danielle shudders. The ghost of her promiscuous past lingers in the hazel eyes of Timothy… The eyes of her father… Her eyes… Her son.

Her wistful gaze follows Timothy as he bounces out, gleefully digging into his bag of cavity-inducing goodies. “Excuse me, aunty?” the next kid in line prompts, jerking Danielle back into reality and the hustle and bustle that still pervaded the shop.

After the school crowd has subsided, Danielle retreats back to her magazine, before shortly being pleasantly surprised by a visit from her oldest friend, Mike. Mike had been with her since her days as Daniel, and he was the only one who knows of her past identity and stuck with her through the years, the only one whom she could trust totally. It was through Mike that Danielle found out that Timothy was her son, the careless product of a tequila too many 9 years ago. He had been put up for adoption, and fortunately landed in a home that has treated him well. When she found out, Danielle felt noting but remorse and regret. As much as she loves every part of her female identity now, she can’t help but feel a sense of loss in Timothy’s bringing up, that she had failed, as a parent.

But she’ll never bring herself to acknowledge Timothy. Is   it cowardice? No, Danielle chooses to believe that Timothy is better off never knowing the identity of his birth father.

“What’s this?” Mike asks, drawing out a thick medical report folder from Danielle’s crocodile skin bag. Danielle whirls around and tries to snatch the report from Mike’s hands. It was too late; Mike had already read what was on the first page: AIDS, terminal stage. Mouth agape, Mike confronts her “Is there any hope?”  Cheeks flushing, Danielle turns away. Tears come to her eyes as she slowly turns to face Mike. “No more. I’ve tried.” Bravely putting on a faint smile, “But I’m happy how my life has worked out. Things have come full circle. I am happy with who I am, and I’m not turning back.” Heaving a long sigh, “My only regret is Timothy, a person whom I barely know. Look out for him for me when I’m gone will you? That’s the last thing I ask of you.” Mike turns away and heads for the door.