For the second time in a month, I have been mistaken for a lady. The first time might have been understandable, as it was the long way across a trolley car. Today it was at point-blank range.

I don’t get out much. I can’t help wonder if this indicates a trend. People often assume I’m gay, or an artist. Often they assume I’m British. Or Danish, or Dutch, or German. Men seem suspicious of me; often women seem protective. Am I becoming more feminine? Maybe it’s just a coincidence.

Today also I confused a waitress, just as the meteorologists predict the first big snowstorm of the year. I can’t say I blame it, or them; it seems the perfect night. The house creaks. The outside world sounds like a morose beast, angry at the light that seeps through the curtains. As I peer, the lake churls outside my window. I felt compelled to lock the doors for the first time in a while; just one of those premonitions that never lead anywhere.

If I had a story to tell, this would be about the right paragraph to come to the point.