Sometimes I worry that the clouds will always waltz so high above me, their only contact being the occasional tears of pity they cry down on this ragg...d planet, and the husks of what once lived here. I can’t remember the last time I left this tent. I lie here, staring up. And up. And up. I’ve become so familiar with the smooth fabric over my head, shielding me from those tears that fall down, full of pity for what I’ve become. The slick, cool feeling as my hand brushes against it…the canvas is. Life went on. Mark did not cross-dress thereafter. But,Cynthia observed. She saw her husband, day in and day out and herheart broke. For Mark was a shadow of himself. The lively man, whocould make her laugh and had the brightest smile in the world hadstopped smiling.It went on for four months. Mark could feel the strain on theirrelationship. He could feel the spectre of the past. He was helplessthough. It was his cross-dressing or his wife and marriage. He chosethe latter, but the unhappiness. More

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