“Alexis”

The nylons slide up my legs like the figurative glove, as if they've always wanted to be wrapped around my long, slender pins. The high heels are not so comfortable or accommodating, but I've been practicing and I can walk in them well enough. I lift up my dress with raised arms and let it slip down over my head, over my shoulders, down over my bra and panties.

I sit down in front of the mirror and run a brush through my hair. I put on eye shadow and mascara, I rouge my cheeks and paint my lips. This is all a comforting ritual, a prologue to the night's events. Later on, when I come home, I will remove these outer adornments and that will be the epilogue, the closing credits.

I take a cab into town, exchanging meaningless pleasantries with the driver. He looks in the rearview mirror, trying to glimpse my face, but I lean back and sit in shadow. When we arrive at the hotel, I step out of the car unaided and walk into the building, my shoes clicking against the stone pavement and then the marble flooring of the lobby.

The hotel bar is dimly lit, as I half expected. I perch myself on one of the high seats at the bar and order a drink. Just tonic water for now. I’d love something stronger to settle my nerves, but I know that I need to pace myself. I raise the glass to my lips, mouth a silent “cheers” to the bartender, and take a sip. Then I breathe in and out, slowly, steadily, calming myself.

I can feel eyes on me, and I suppose that shouldn’t come as much of a shock. Any girl in a slip of a dress, sat alone in a bar, is considered fair game. But I keep my eyes ahead of me, looking at myself in the mirror beneath the rows of bottles. I stay calm by going through the ritual in my mind: eye shadow, mascara, rouge, lipstick. Nobody approaches me because do not want to be approached – I’m waiting for someone.

I purse my lips together as if to kiss somebody, and place the cigarette between them. I remember rehearsing this in front of the mirror when I was younger, copying the way they used to do it in the movies. The old movies, the black and white ones where every story had a femme fatale and a worldly wise hero. I scissor my index and middle fingers around the cigarette and gently remove it from my lips, a trace of red now visible around the filter. A girl could grow old sitting at the bar like this, waiting for somebody to walk up and offer her a light.

When the man walks into the bar, she is the first thing he sees and after that he knows he need look no further. She is sat at the bar, poised over a large glass tumbler filled with ice so that it tinkles whenever she lifts it to her full, red lips. She looks lonely, he thinks, so he walks over and sits next to her. He doesn’t say anything to her yet, doesn’t even look at her but from the corner of his eye. He motions for the bartender to come over.

“I’ll have a vodka martini,” he says, “and this lady will have whatever she wants.”

The woman smiles.

“A martini would be lovely,” she responds.

“What are you drinking there?” He gestures to her now nearly empty glass. She smiles again, not so coyly but almost as if embarrassed.

“Just tonic,” she admits. “I thought it best not to get too drunk, being on my own as I am. Somebody might try to take advantage.”

She’s flirting, brazenly, but the man was anticipating this and he welcomes it, relishes it. He only hopes that the chase won’t be over before it’s even begun.

“Don’t worry,” he leans in a little closer, “I can look out for you. If you want.”

“Like a bodyguard?”

“Sure, why not. I’ve got no other plans tonight.”

Neither of them is in the mood for subtlety, he can tell that right away. She downs most of her martini before he even inquires as to her name.

“Alexis,” she says. “And you?”

“Sebastien.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“Thank you, so is yours.”

They talk about nothing, but another conversation is taking place under the radar of words. They are both fluent in body language; they both know how a simple look or the angle with which you turn your body can affect a person.

She's a handsome woman. Obviously he had been drawn to her from the moment he walked in, but the attraction had been initially sparked by the position in which she sat at the bar, the way she held herself… now that he is close enough, Sebastien can see what exquisite features she has. The strong, sculpted look of her cheekbones is offset by long, delicate eyelashes. The line of her jaw might seem similarly severe if it weren’t for the soft glow of her skin. She’s a beautiful contradiction; a concrete rose.

The night winds down, other patrons leave and when the two of them are told by the steward that it is time to close up the bar, they are both surprised. How oblivious to their evening was the clock, and them to it?

Sebastien stands, and holds out his arm to assist the lady down from the chair, which seems all the higher now. Alexis laughs, and stumbles in her high heels. Sebastien pulls her towards his body, to steady her, and she falls into him. She’s obviously let her guard down about drinking too much. She steps out of the shoes and walks barefoot out of the bar, stilettos dangling from one hand.

They walk together to the lift, and Sebastien takes her up to the fourth floor. There has never been any doubt as to whether she would come up to his room or not, not since the second martini, after which she let her put his hand on her thigh and it stayed there for the duration of the next two drinks. Sebastien unlocks his room, leads her in by the hand, and closes it behind them. Now, he thinks, things are going to get interesting.

Alexis pushes him down so that he is sat at the foot of the bed, and she places a finger on his lips, issuing a dozen silent commands. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t take your eyes off mine.

“You know,” she says, edging over to the mini-bar, “some people used to call me Sexy Lexy.” I don’t doubt it… Sebastien grins, but doesn’t say a word. He wants to see where this is going.

“Then there were the ones who liked the sound of Lexa.” She reaches into the refrigerated unit and draws out a bottle of champagne. She peels back the foil and swiftly, expertly, pops the cork. It makes Sebastien shiver. Alexis raises the bottle to her lips and drinks, then passes it to him. He drinks too quickly, brings the heavy bottle too high, and he almost chokes. Bubbles cascade down the front of his shirt as he coughs and sputters. Alexis smiles, and when he has recovered, she kisses him, running her tongue along his lips and then down to his chin, tasting the champagne.

“And I have one friend,” she whispers, “who just calls me Alex.”

Sebastien is only half-listening; he’s transfixed by her closeness. He can smell her skin, can feel her warmth radiating through the dress. He breaks the rules set down at the start, and raises his hands, gliding them softly, gently, up her legs.

“I think you know my friend, Sebastien,” Alexis tells him.

His hands disappear under her dress.

“I think you know this friend of mine, Sebastien,” Alexis repeats, “because you raped her.”

The words don’t reach Sebastien’s ears instantly, and his hands reach just a little higher, arrive between her legs, and that is when two things hit him at once. He hears what she has just said, and he feels something under her dress that should not be there.

He pulls his hands back, burned, and looks up into Alexis’s eyes but it is too late. The champagne bottle comes swinging down on his head with amazing strength. Sebastien is killed instantly.

I clean up as best I can, wiping my fingerprints off the bottle, trying not to get Sebastien on the handkerchief. I don’t look at him, lying there on the bed, his face still a picture of perfect shock. I’ve studied his face in photographs for long enough, I don’t need to see any more.

I sit down on the bed, as far from him as I can, to put my shoes back on. When I leave the room, it is at a steady pace; no stumbling, no tripping. I told you I’ve been practicing. I take the lift down to reception and ask the young man behind the desk to call me a taxi. He probably thinks I’m a call girl, and the look he gives me, half lust and half disgust, makes me feel sick. I leave the lobby and wait for the cab outside.

I have the same driver as before, but I don’t think he recognizes me and there is no attempt at small talk this time. I sit in silence for the whole journey, feeling my cheeks burn and my eyes swell as I try not to cry. I throw money at the driver when we get to my home and I don’t bother waiting for change. I walk straight through the door without looking back.

The high heels echo in the silent hallway and I kick them off hatefully, as if they are to blame for everything. I walk through the darkness to the bathroom and turn on the light inside. A voice, frightened and small, calls out from the bedroom down the hall:

“Alex?”

I stand there, a silhouette in the lit doorway, momentarily unable to reply.

“Alex, is that you?”

“It's me,” I say. The voice doesn't say anything else, but I know she is desperate to know what happened tonight, even if she is too fearful to ask.

“It’s done,” I say, and I go into the bathroom.

I might be a pretty boy, but I make a handsome woman. I can blur the line between the femme fatale and the hero who is worldly and wise. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I wipe off every trace of makeup, smearing it all over my face like a sick clown before scrubbing it away, leaving my skin pink and tender.

The dress gets thrown into a corner. I take off the padded bra, and remove the underwear that concealed the truth. I stand naked before the mirror and look at myself, at the telltale penis that dangles innocuously between my hairless legs.

Did you know? Could you tell?

This took a lot of planning. I couldn't carry it out straight away, I needed time to prepare. I waxed my legs, my forearms, my chest. Plucked the hell out of my eyebrows, pierced my ears. I don’t know when the idea first came to me; it feels like I spent my whole life getting ready for tonight.

I do remember the feeling I had when I first started putting the plan together; a sort of excitement, a dark thrill that told me I just might get away with murder. After all, who’s going to be looking for a young man? Remember that there are witnesses who saw Sebastien going upstairs with a female companion.

Never in all my life did I imagine that I could do something like this, or that I would ever be called on to commit such an act. But after Sebastien raped and beat my best friend, I knew that I could do it, that I wanted to do it. So I became a shape shifter, a modern Tiresias. Women were Sebastien’s weak spot, so that’s what I turned myself into.

My name is Alexis Grey and I am, without a doubt, a man. But tonight I made an exception, and I proved that the female of the species can be deadlier than the male.