Lee stares at him, bewildered and floundering. She feels like she had been standing in shallow water when the ground gave way under her and she wasn't ready to start treading water. Her free hand goes to the back of her neck — nearly setting her hair on fire from the lit cigarette she's still holding — to see if she's bleeding again, but her fingers come away clean and she stares at them like she expects otherwise. Her head is pounding, it's hard to breathe.
Her mind keeps going back to that moment after the cops had come in. Lee knew bars like that get raided all the time, but she always slipped out before she was seen. She'd never escape their notice; they make the ones like her, who aren't wearing three or more 'gender-appropriate clothing items,' go into the washroom for 'gender checks.' This time nobody got out fast enough, and when they'd been pulling her out of the bar in handcuffs she'd felt numb, not angry. It was only when someone threw a rock and the crowd surged forward, pulsing at her back, that she felt that stab of fear. Michael. What if she died? What if they arrested her? She'd be locked up, hospitalised, maybe even deported. She might never have seen him again. The last thing she might ever have said to him wouldn't even have been I love you. It would have been I'll see you later.
She looks at the street. It's quiet. The cops are still around, but their sirens and lights are off, they're just observing, invisible in plainclothes and unmarked cars. The tourists left when the action stopped, and most people are in hiding, regrouping and waiting for the rain to pass. The tension weighs heavy, keeping her rooted in the spot, but at the same time feeling like if anyone lets go of her she'll float away out of her body again. Michael wants her to leave. Michael wants her to come home.
She's hurting him. How could she ever do that?
“Okay.” She feels like she's betraying somebody. There are people who have nowhere else to go. “Okay.”