Butch at the Airport The plane is late. I am in a black suit, big-ass brass belt buckle and strutting the airport corridors. Every moment until I can hold her is the sweetest oshi I have yet to taste. I wonder if it is these thoughts that are getting me attention? But, really it is the flowers. Three spectacular deep maroon and yellow calla lillies in a simple bouquet. Most people look at the flowers then me. Men nod. Women smile, some ask me things. A group of old women from England ask together, 'if she is special?' Yes she is, I reply. They take me in, flutter, smile, one bold butch-looking gal grins wider. Finally I settle against a pillar. To wait. My heart is beating with anticipation and the realization that I have not been so adamantly butch in awhile. Everybody around me thinks I am a man waiting for his grrl. Those that have spoken to me know that I am a woman in a man's suit. This is not so different than most days I walk in the world. The crowd gathers as passengers begin to come through the sliding doors. I grip the flowers and feel pride standing there waiting for the the fem I love. And there she is. She sees me and takes it all in. Suit, flowers, stares. Those first moments we embrace hold me up. Every situation I navigate as a mannish, not quite right woman is smoothed. I am happy. She loves me so much more for that which is my most sacred butch self. We leave to begin another adventure and I am humbled yet again for how radical and invigorating butch-fem is in my life. Jenni- Canada