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Ihoped so, because that would give his new life legitimacy in hisown eyes.He was no longer my mildly whimsical, lightly ironic, even-temperedhubby. Some mornings he'd awaken a littlesolemn, maybe mournful, maybe impatient, though he never saidanything.I could tell because in that mood he'd never volunteerto share stories about his day, only answer me listlessly, and he'dapply his make-up as if it were a boring routine, not an artfulhonor.Those mornings he'd always get a pill before I left forwork, if it wasn't a Saturday when I knew Doreen would be feedinghim one anyhow.
I'd tell him to relax by gardening, to put on hisflared shorts and a halter and get into the sunshine and fresh airand cultivate our flower beds.
That he had nice legs, especiallynow that they were waxed smooth and Doreen's treatments had madetheir skin so soft, that he should show them off more. The neighbors saw a lot of my crossdressing sissy husband on those days: a strangeblonde woman impeccably made up, moving among our lawns and shrubsas if in a dream, combing the soil between plants.
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