Lauren is still getting used to her world. Her world is still getting used to Lauren. She stumbles where she would swoosh, stammers where she would speak, sits slowly, still unsure of how to swing a skirt over even a low bench. She still sings; music moves her the same, although "man, I feel like a woman" now sends shockwaves, shivers, spineward. Lauren gets looks. Lauren gets looks of curiosity from children, of love from those who know her, who know where she comes from; Lauren gets looks like Lauren came into the world on the bottom of a boot. A boot that had walked through a hundred miles of shit. Lauren gets looks from herself, posing back at herself, posing as herself, posing. She poses. In front of clothes-shop windows, reflection as feminine as the mannequins without heads who stare with their slender shoulders into the flowing of bodies on the street. Lauren looks at the looks she gets, lucky to get good looks or to feel good-looking and even luckier to not care. Tho...