Why didn't I fuck her? Sam thought on her way home from the bar.

Earlier, Martine allowed plenty of openings, including a slow kiss with tongue. During, Sam thought back to her life as Ty. There had been a handful of masturbatory sessions spent thinking of Martine, and her lips were just as soft as Ty/Sam had imagined they'd be.

Yet, as attractive as Martine was, she wasn't Antoinella.

You're not married, just go for it. Antoinella will never know.

A male side of Sam screamed for her to go through with it. As Martine's hands settled on her hips, she thought of how there was no male side within her, only a myriad of human sides.

Using her old memories and desires to excuse her present behavior was wrong. It was less than Antoinella deserved.

Regretfully, Sam pulled away from Martine.

"I can't. I'm sorry. I with Antoinella."

Martine tucked her thick, dark hair behind her ears. "Okay, I understand. I didn't know you two were still together."

Sam shrugged. "It's not like I didn't wanna be here. Trust me."

That's enough. Stop talking. Walk away, her conscience insisted.

"See you at the next meeting," Martine said.

"See ya."

Sam swallowed her desire, watching Martine walk down the street to her car.

At home, Damon and Ty drilled Sam about her meeting. Most of her answers consisted of "I don't know". She was anxious to climb in bed, call Antoinella, masturbate a bit. With Antoinella's help, she had learned how to properly pleasure not only her partner, but herself. And boy, did she enjoy the work.

~*~

Contrary to her promise, Sam didn't see Martine at the next meeting. When it was over, Sam went to Group Leader Campion to inquire about her friend's sentencing. Had she been released early?

Campion chuckled. "No, my dear. She requested to move to a different group." He gave her a pointed look. "She said it was for private reasons."

Sam pedaled to Good Time, damning herself for not taking the car to the meeting. Martine was working the closing shift, and they had to have some words. She confronted the Cuban beauty in the back of the store.

"Why'd you switch groups? 'Cause I wouldn't go home with you? You were the only thing that made group bearable!"

Thankfully, there were no customers around to overhear Sam's plea. However, Wallace was watching, his eyes nerding over with interest.

"Are you two..." he gulped, "...dating?"

They answered together, "No."

His disappointment was comical. "Oh."

Martine pulled Sam to a quieter corner of the store. There, she began typing words on her interface.

"What are you--,"

Martine's finger on her mouth silenced her. "Wait," she mouthed.

After a minute, she typed a paragraph onto her interface. She held it up for Sam to read.

-Can't talk. (Pretend to laugh so they think I'm showing you a video).

Sam stalled for a moment before chuckling and reading on.

-We're being watched, even more now since we're in group. They saw us together last night. We broke the rules. To keep up both out of jail, I had to switch groups and promise to convert. We can't talk, or see each other ever again. Just walk away now, please.

Suspended tears magnified the beauty of Martine's eyes. Sam re-read the text, trying to make sense of it. She was near tears, too, angry tears. She resisted the urge to hug Martine. Instead, she did as instructed. She walked away.

"See ya, Sam!" Wallace called after her.

He saw Martine's blotchy face.

"What's wrong with you two girls?"

~*~

Basura, Damon thought.

He watched It fix Its hair in the mirror, and the action nearly made him laugh. Like a dog, preening.

"Going to work?" Damon stretched in bed, making of show of waking up, but having no intention of leaving bed until ten minutes before the start of class.

While re-arranging short curls, It responded, "Yeah."

The last few days, It had lost chutzpah. Instead of scathing remarks and tons of cursing, the thing moped around the house, muttering one-word replies to most questions. 

Could be the deterioration of its brain, he thought with fleeting fascination.

In class, Damon and another classmate argued moot issues, as they often did. Clones were today's topic, and Damon had a personal stake in the claim. He argued against rights for clones, and argued against the use of clones altogether. His classmate countered with the idea that all humans were essentially clones, off-shoots of other genes heaped upon more genes.

"We're all copies, of a sort," one girl said.

Damon rolled his eyes. "There's a difference between a creative re-write and a faxed copy. One is detailed, and one is a shitty reproduction. Why should we encourage shitty reproductions?"

"You're oversimplifying. Why does this topic get you so worked up?" 

"Haven't you met me?"

The class laughed, but he was serious.

Later, he got home and saw a note on his desk. The handwriting resembled Ty's, but differed ever so slightly. Ugh, the thing left me a note.

Thought you might need more fuel for the printer.

-S.

Nothing more. Damon expected the note to end with 'douchebag', at the very least. He was a bit disappointed, but that vanished when he noticed the brand new canisters of hydrogen propped up next to the printer. Fuel for the printer was expensive, and it's not as if It made a lot of money at Good Time.

I thought It hated me.

He picked up the canisters, unsure in his assessment of It for a brief moment.

Even a dog brings a bone to its owner once in a while.

~*~

Though Sam had returned to work, she was worlds from okay. Ty recognized that her apprehension stemmed from something apart from the forced Prominent meetings, but he didn't know the details. Life was too busy to initiate a quiet sit-down. Once they got home, he was physically and mentally exhausted. All of his energy reserves went towards taking care of Helia, and when his energy was gone, he had little motivation to begin a lengthy conversation.

Sam was hardly available outside of work anyway. Straight after her shifts, she attended two-hour Prominent meetings. Damon wasn't too tired to ask Sam about her gloomy attitude, but the only full answer she gave him was the middle finger.

Halloween was two days away, and Good Time was busy, though a manageable kind of busy. Ty hated to admit it, but the kiosks created an efficient atmosphere. What he resented most was when customers asked for human assistance only when the lines at the kiosks became too long.

"Do you have a Guy Fawkes mask?" It was a question Ty received often.

He told the customer he didn't have the mask, but a store kiosk could print him out a composite.

The line at the kiosk was fifteen people long.

"I have to wait in that line?" The customer frowned.

"If you'd prefer, I can get you the code to print your own composite from home," Ty said.

Wallace and Martine were stretched as thin as Ty was, ringing up more returns than purchases. One customer was angry their costume hadn't fit properly.

"Wait in line at one of the kiosks to print out the right size," Martine informed the man.

"I don't wanna fucking wait." The man had a perceptible fog to his words, and Ty figured he must've had a stoke awhile back.

Other customers were staring. The man glared like he wanted to shove a fist into Ty's eye socket.

In similar situations, Ty had ordered ornery customer to leave the store. Once they started cursing, any Good Time employee had the right to deny them service and ask them to leave. Cursing signified an intent for violence in private business settings. However, Ty did not ask the man to leave.

Again, he explained the options to the customer, even offering fifty-percent off the entire purchase. None of his suggestions appeased the man. After verbally abusing Ty, he asked to see another manager.

With great relief, Ty called Pen to the front. He excused himself. Although the man hadn't called him names like idiot or asshole, he had called Ty a terrible person. The insult had hit hard. Ty was seething.

If only there was something he could punch.

Antoinella walked passed him, picking up on his mood. "What's wrong?"

He relayed an abridged version of his customer encounter. "I wanna put a hole in a wall."

"Or, you could have yourself a good cry instead," Antoinella said slowly.

That's gay, Ty was about to say, but he caught himself. "I don't cry."

Antoinella looked amused. "Everybody cries to release frustration. Why do you think women do it so often?"

Because they're weak, came his automatic thought.

Antoinella read his mind. "Crying efficiently purges your emotions. No one gets hurt, and nothing is lost. What you gain is peace of mind." Despite Ty's lemon-face, she continued,"I read in a magazine, people who cry regularly are more emotionally healthy than people who constantly hold it in."

"Cause magazines are always right," Ty drawled.

"Laugh it up, but how many of the recent shootings featured women as the perpetrator?"

His arrogant grin disappeared. Damn. She was correct. Ty couldn't think of a shooting incident involving a woman. They always seemed to be on the wrong end of the gun.

Cheered by his silence, Antoinella made one final push.

"Go to the bathroom, have a good cry, then splash some water on your face. I do it at least every two weeks, twice a week during Halloween season."

Deliberately, Ty stepped in the direction of the bathroom. "I'm only going because I have to pee."

Antoinella winked. "Suuure. I won't tell anyone."

He really did have to pee.

Only, after he was done, he stood thinking on what Antoinella had said. Crying as a form of release. Even thinking about tears made his manliness prickle. Why did crying weaken a man? Who deemed crying to be a woman's sole domain?

Ty was so angry, and so tired. He remembered what the customer had told him:

"You're a terrible person."

Maybe he was.

His wife had left him.

Damon hated him.

A wetness formed in his eyes, and he welcomed it. When the tears fell, Ty's exhaustion and aggression fell with them. It was like a reservoir emptying out, one that hadn't been emptied in years.

Finally, the tears stopped. He splashed cold water on his red face. The water was cleansing. Ty appraised the reflection in the bathroom mirror. His nose was still red, but the rest of his face could pass for normal. Even if people figured out his crying secret, he would be okay. It had been worth the possible recriminations.

~*~

A/N: If you're diggin' the story so far, press the cute little star!

Reader support and feedback has helped many of my stories grow, and I'm grateful. Thanks in particular to juzamx3! Read her fantasy novel, Avalon Wonders:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/33509032-avalon-wonders