Twice a week he altered his clothes. Soon it became habit to visit “his girls,” as he started calling them. Every time without fail, his heart warmed, his determination hardened as, hand on the shop’s doorknob, he anticipated the jangle of bells that accompanied his entrance. “Bon jour! Bon jour, Monsieur Maillon!” The shop erupted with high-pitched squeals. Even the substitutes wanted hugs. “Here, here,” he placated their affections by distributing bottles of his father’s latest vintage. “I have another case chilling in the car.” Was this what his father had meant when he had said he needed an identity? Always on the lookout, the thought constantly invaded Second’s mind until one winter afternoon all his searchings were put to rest. Standing on the measuring pedestal above Clemence, his favorite chocolate-haired laundress, Second realized he had actually become two people constrained by one flesh, the sensitive young man he wanted to be and the sordid pervert his body made him. However hard he tried, he couldn’t bridge the divide. On the spot he ceased hiding his insecurities. “Ooo la la, Monsieur Maillon,” Clemence said eyeing his inseam. Arms akimbo like a minor hawk, Second allowed himself a display of public embarrassment. Second had finally become a man.