Her name is Marie, or so the shiny name badge, pinned to her crisp, white and blue striped blouse, proclaims to the world of early-morning, caffeine-deprived people who stumble into the coffee bar, grunt their orders, swipe their cards, take their drinks, and leave.



She treats each customer as if they were the most important person she has seen that morning.

‘The coffee was too hot yesterday. I want to drink it before I reach the office, without burning my mouth.’

She looks up at the frowning face while her hands continue to create the best coffee in town.

‘I’m sorry it was too hot for you yesterday. I can make it cooler.’ She adds two small ice-cubes to the drink before slipping on the lid and waits for the customer to sample the temperature. He nods and reaches for his wallet.

‘It’s on the house.’ Marie says. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy your coffee yesterday.’ She turns to the next in line and listens to their request while slipping the last customer’s receipt into her pocket. It nestles next to others. Each to be paid at the end of her shift.

‘Iced coffee is not on the morning menu, but, for you, I can make one,’ she says and smiles at the request. It takes longer than a standard coffee, but she prepares a tall latte for a regular customer at the same time, waves him forward and receives a rare, ‘Thank you.’

There are impatient huffs when she takes a large order, but she remains unflustered.

‘I can print out a separate receipt for each coffee if that makes your day easier,’ she says and takes more orders while the eight receipts print, her steps choreographed between coffee machines and the till, each receipt is taped on the correct cup before it is placed in a sturdy paper bag.

Her customers believe it is the magic dark liquid that launches them into their day with energy and enthusiasm.

They are wrong.

A grunt, complaint, or the occasional nod of gratitude when the aroma of fresh coffee leaks from the take-out cup, are all accepted with a smile which shines from her soul and twinkles through her eyes. The last smile, given freely at the end of her shift, is as bright and genuine as the first.

As the morning continues, golden-red hairs peek out from her pristine white cap, she ignores them. At nine o’clock an older woman takes her place. Ten minutes later Marie returns, and the rebellious hairs are nowhere to be seen.

In the last week, the name on her badge has been used twice.

‘Marie, I’m still waiting for my order.’ The customer taps her long, painted nails on the clean counte top. ‘How long does it take to make a cup of coffee?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Her eyes widen and she looks at the refilled, overworked machine as if she can influence its efficiency. Moments later the steaming drink is passed to the customer, who scowls at her smile.

The second time her name is used a nicotine-stained finger shakes as it points to her chest. ‘Your name’s Marie, right? I can get you into trouble with the manager, right?’ An ugly sneer darkens the unwashed face, and the scent of stale alcohol wafts across the room.

‘Yes, you could.’ Marie answers honestly. ‘Can I take your order?’ Her voice is calm and unjudging, he is as worthy of her time as the well-dressed man behind. His eyes narrow as he attempts to focus on the list of drinks above the counter. Impatient people shift to the side of the queue to catch her eye, but she waits.

‘Black, strong and two sugars.’ He leans across the counter to watch her graceful moves. He nods his thanks, wrapping his dirt-encrusted hands around the cup and pushes a few coins towards her.

It’s not enough, but she goes through the motions of opening the till and giving him change. He doesn’t take the receipt. It joins the others in her pocket.

She doesn’t glance at the clock when her shift ends but continues to work. Her smile remains genuine when a flustered woman, dragging her hair into a ponytail and unsuccessfully forcing it under the hygiene cap, bustles into the small space behind the counter.

‘Sorry love. Whatever you do, don’t have kids, they steal your life away.’ The woman turns to the waiting customer. ‘What’ll it be today?’

Marie disappears out back, returning five minutes later in loose fitting trousers and a floral -shirt, her golden-red hair now free to swirl around her face. She ties her signatory scarf around her neck as she walks over to the office. The receipts are in her hand, she adds them up and hands her boss the correct amount.

‘Thanks Marie.’ He looks up and wins a golden smile. ‘But it’s not…’

Marie holds up her hand. ‘If you don’t want the money, give it to a worthy cause.’ She places the stack of coins and paper on his desk.

‘I’ve found one.’ He pushes them back towards her.

She shakes her head. ‘Every day I walk past people who have nothing but a thin blanket, and defeat in their eyes. I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve been given a second chance.’ She nods at the money on the desk and leaves.

Marie’s smile remains as she walks away from the coffee shop and meanders back to her small studio flat. She absorbs the smells and sounds of the small town like a gardener absorbs the scent of his flowers and the sound of the bees pollinating them.

She shares her contentment with the people she passes, receiving surprised, hasty smiles in return. Some nod in recognition, others avert their eyes and pass on by, too busy to risk a conversation. Her long gait does not falter, and her arms swing, relaxed by her side. She turns her face to the sky as if to soak in the sun’s rays, accept it is overcast and clouds threaten to drop their load.

The freshness of fruit displayed outside a shop tempts her inside. Picking up a basket she savours the colours neatly sacked together before choosing a large shiny pepper. Her mouth waters with anticipation as she imagines what she will bake inside this green crockpot. Two tomatoes, one potato, a small onion and a sprig of fresh herbs soon nestle beside the pepper.

‘Marie, what can I tempt you with today?’ The owner grins a greeting and beckons her to the exotic fruit section. ‘We have star fruit, or the sweet figs you cannot resist tasting as soon as you leave the shop.’

Marie smiles. ‘I do love those figs, sweeter than sweets, but today it was the strawberries who stopped me walking past.’ She counts her money carefully, wages were slim today, and chooses six strawberries, before placing her basket on the counter. Everything is transferred into a sturdy paper bag, and her receipt tucked into her wallet when the owner drops a handful of sweet figs into her hand. She glances up, eyes wide.

‘Thank you. You’re so kind.’ She pops one into her mouth. The fruit bursts its sweet goodness on her tongue, she closes her eyes and revels in the moment.

The owner chuckles. ‘My pleasure. Eat them as you walk through town, and be sure to tell everyone you meet where you bought such delicious happiness.’

‘I will.’ Her heart flushes with heat and her eyes soften with moisture. She is learning to cope with kindness.

In her small flat she unloads her shopping, tidies the already tidy space, grabs a tall biscuit tin and a small wooden box and sits down. She empties her wallet onto the table, not much. She swipes the coins into the tin. Replacing the lid, she shakes it, it’s almost heavy enough to pay this month’s rent. The tin is returned to the cupboard above her sink. She pauses to look out of the window onto the road below.

Her smiles slips as she thinks of another road, in another town. She shakes her head and pulls away. Only one person in this town knows her secret, and as she has doubled the takings in the coffee shop, she is sure her boss will not tell.

Sitting back down at the table she picks up the wooden box. The lid is stiff and opens with a creak. She smiles as she adds the three notes from today. It is almost full. Leaning back in the chair she closes her eyes, cradling the box, and dreaming of a better future. A future where she can, at last, be herself. But as sleep creeps across the floor towards her, memories crowd into the flat. Her body is too tired to run, and the memories smother her.

Another town, another time, and a different Marie. An awkward teenager, answering to a different name. A face painted with acne, teeth behind metal bars, eyes red from ditching glasses in favour of contact lenses, limbs too long to be controlled, an alien body. A perfect target for the tormentors, unless she denied her soul and became what she hated.

Tears roll down her sleeping face.

‘Give me your lunch money or eat my acne.’ Her demands were backed up with a clenched fist and laughing companions. The skinny boy in her grasp trembled, a face red with the effort of not crying as he reached into his pocket and handed over a few meagre coins. She dropped him and he stumbled away, sniffing, wiping his nose on his sleeve. ‘Tell and you’re dead.’ Her companions growled with glee before high- fives were shared and they bunked off school to buy some fags.

The tears have stopped flowing, but the memories haven’t finished with her yet.

‘What are you doing?’ Her mother shrieked as Marie pranced around her parent’s room, wearing her mother’s clothes. Marie froze, they were supposed to be out all night. Why had they come home early? Her heart thumped in her flat chest as if trying to force her body into a different shape, a shape which would fill the dress she wore. Her brain scrambled for an explanation. ‘Fancy dress party, I was looking for something…’ It was weak but her mother’s anger was blinding.

‘Not in my dress. Do you know how much that cost?’ She stood, arms folded, eyes blazing. ‘And is that my makeup on your face? And my necklace?’

‘Sorry. I was just mucking about.’ She flung the necklace onto the bed before running to the bathroom. She peeled off the silkiness, letting it slide over her body. She shut her eyes, not wanting to see her ugly nakedness as she washed her face clean.

Her hands twitch as she tries to claw out of her sleep, but the memories hold her tight.

‘Who’d you fancy tonight?’ The music pulsed, lights flashed, and bodies sweated their desires. She pretended not to hear the question, pushed away from the wall and walked outside. Her stomach clenched at the sight of girls leaning against walls, arms around necks, kissing as if it was the last day on earth, her friends grinding their overactive groins between willing legs.

Her nails dug deep into her palms, she could pretend no longer, she ran home to confess.

Her body twists, a long moan of despair escapes her mouth, but the memories are relentless.

Living, before declaring her true self, had been torturous, after it was impossible. The few seconds of relief felt as her mouth betrayed her hidden self, turned to horror as she watched her parents crumble. Her mother had permanent grief streaks, destroying her carefully created face until make up was abandoned. Her father, speechless for the first time ever, left the room when she entered, head down, face a frozen mask, in total denial.

If looks were knives, she was sliced and stabbed as she walked through the town. Doors shut and people murmured, old friends crossed the road as if she was infectious. Even her teachers turned away, refusing to meet her eyes.

Marie falls sideways in the chair, her head hanging over the arm as she accepts the end.

There had been so much blood and pain. The first cut hurts the most, the songs had said, and yet the second cut unleashed an anguished cry and darkened her world. She woke in the hospital, defeated and ashamed. Wanting to pull out the drip, to tear open the stitches, to finish what she had started, but her numb body refused to move. She closed her eyes when the nurses came to change the dressing, to clean her self-inflicted wound, to assure her all would heal and function properly. She screamed in her head and manic laughter spilled from her lips. They upped her dose of painkiller.

She curls up, pulling her head back, wrapping her arms around her legs, allowing the memories to complete their task.

‘Michael.’ She’d opened her eyes to see a young man with a pretty face sitting in the chair beside her bed. ‘My name is Susan.’ He said and leaned forward. She saw small breasts beneath his t-shirt. ‘I can talk you through your choices, treatments, and even surgery. You no longer have to be Michael, and you no longer have to be alone.’ Sweet words of hope.

A buzzer sounds.

She opens her eyes, rubbing the stiffness from her neck before turning off the alarm on her phone. Time for her hormone tablets, she stands and the wooden box tumbles to the floor. She gathers the scattered money, holds it to her nose and inhales the possibility of having the body she was meant to be born into.

She folds the notes back into the box and returns it to the cupboard, next to her tablets. One tablet, swallowed with water twice a day, transforming her into Marie. She smiles and glances at the table.

A brown envelope, battered by its journey to her flat, with her name, Marie, on the front. Unopened.

Her heart misses a beat, she clutches the back of a chair, its uneven legs tap a rhythm on the floor. She pulls it sideways and sits down. Her fingers trace her name written in a tight neat script she knows too well. Her mother’s handwriting.

Marie slips a painted nail under the torn edge of the envelope, prolonging the agony of uncertainty. Inside she finds a folded letter and a small white envelope. A cheque falls onto the floor as she reads her mother’s words of sorrow, grief, acceptance, and the desire to help her son become her daughter.  

Tears fall and the inked words spread across the bottom of the page. Marie fumbles with the white envelope and smiles as a silver and blue necklace clatters onto the table.

With shaking hands, she fastens the necklace around her neck, and picks up her phone.