I duck into the Uber, and the driver tells me I could receive a blessing tonight. She adjusts the “What Would Jesus Do?” lanyard around her neck while Jesus himself hangs off the rearview mirror. God, he has better abs than I do. You look handsome. Meeting anyone special tonight? She must assume I am a man. My hair trim, greased, and stiffer than my father at church. I wipe the rainwater from my blazer and hear him—women don’t dress like that—I reach up to straighten the collar of my shirt and feel my mother’s hands on mine—come here. Her hand on my breast. Let me fix your blouse—I was 15. There was always something to fix, to check, to touch—don’t you want to show those off? —even though they could be seen in an oversized sweater—I can feel them now in my binder. I answer the driver, just going out to play pool. She sighs, well, you never know. I sink into the wrinkled leather seat and glance at the rain. Droplets are beading down the window. Some collide into each other with more precision than I possess on the billiard table. I’m not much of a straight shooter. The driver is talking again, asking me if I’ll accept Christ as my savior and I’ve tried that. My transgressions: the drinking, the transness, the playing pool. The driver reaches my stop. She claps her hands together, looks at me and says, praise Jesus! I get out of the Uber and look onto argent streets, look onto people huddled together holding Marlboros between their teeth, cupping their hands around each other’s cigarettes—praying that they’ll light. Look onto people already drunk, already singing. All is damp.