The digital clock on the cable box reads 11:04 PM. Tiffany is peacefully asleep. She thinks our disagreement has been settled, but I'm feeling anything but that. I keep replaying everything we said. Dissecting this new desire to come out. Again. Reflecting on things I usually leave stored away and covered in dust.

The first time I came out I was 14. I declared myself a dyke and shaved my head. I wore a leather biker's jacket everyday, even in the summer. It was my armor. No one at school dared say anything to me. Either I was tough as nails cool, or too much of a freak to be worth bothering. I hoped the former; feared the latter. My parents joined PFLAG and drove me to Pride.

Later, at 18, I came out again. This time as trans. I shed my leather skin and replaced it with thick cotton button-downs that obscured my binder while highlighting my now-flattened chest. None of my friends were surprised. My family however, well, they had a lot of questions. Thank God their buddies at PFLAG were willing to answer them, because I was a bit of an all-important shithead.

By the time I graduated college everyone in my hometown knew. If they didn't know when they walked up to me, they knew by the time they walked away. "It's Xander now. I'm a guy." I had coming out down to a science.

I'm not going to lie and say it was easy. But what I was doing made sense. People needed to respect my name and pronouns, and I ensured that they did.

But what I'm contemplating now is a different kind of coming out. And thinking about it is as uncomfortable as my pillow is starting to feel. Maybe I should get up and have a glass of water, but I don't want to disturb my wife.

I try and shake the thoughts from my head. I watch how the crack of light at the edge of the blinds brighten and fade as a car drives by. Who the fuck is out driving at 11:04 at night? God, when was the last time I was even outside after dark? Definitely before daylight savings.

There was a time in my life when being out past eleven seemed normal. And it was way back then when I last disclosed my trans past to someone.

When I first moved up here it felt so weird that people didn't know about me. Like people didn't see the real me. But as much as I wanted to tell people back then, it wasn't exactly easy to bring it up in casual conversation.

"Hey new guy, how was your weekend? Do anything interesting?"

"Not much. I went to see Spider-Man 3 in the theaters. Tobey Maguire is the best. By the way, I was born a girl."

See? It doesn't really work.

I stumbled through these disclosure conversations awkwardly a few times before Tiffany and I were a thing. But once she was by my side, it no longer felt urgent to let anyone know something so private.

Unless it came up naturally, which it rarely did. The last time it did, I don't even think I was married yet.

I was out at a bar with a bunch of colleagues. Tiffany wasn't there that night, but I can't remember why not. We were young teachers at an urban public school, working long hours with no supplies and ancient furniture. On Fridays we would go drinking and swap stories. Fist fights that we had broken up. Kids who had cursed us out. Parents who were impossible to get a hold of. Mostly the negative shit that we kept pent up when we were trying to inspire young minds during the day. But we would also try to talk about happier things that had nothing to do with work frustrations.

It was June and a 7th grade English teacher named Amy was talking about her plans to go to pride with her girlfriend.

"Really, what I'm excited about is the Dyke March," she half-shouted over the music and buzz of conversation. People nodded, smiled, continued drinking.

"My parade is on Friday night, but I'm not sure I'm going," I spoke more softly, my words getting lost in the background noise. But Amy was sitting directly next to me, so she heard. We'd worked together for three years, and I'd always sort of assumed she had read me as part of the community. She wore her queerness on her sleeve and was involved with so many groups that it seemed reasonable that she somehow just knew. Not that I'd ever said anything, because, especially at work, being trans wasn't part of the normal flow of conversation.

She squinted her eyes at me. "What?"

"You know, because, well, I'm trans. The trans march is Friday." I almost whispered. I was so rusty with coming out that the words stuck to the roof of my mouth.

"Excuse me? Let's go. Outside. Now." She hauled me up. "Cigarette break," she announced, although I hadn't smoked in years.

Leaning up against the brick facade, taxis zooming by looking for fares, she gave me the full inquisition. How long ago had I transitioned? Why hadn't I ever said anything? Did anyone else know? I answered all of her questions in a rush. It was exhilarating.

But the next day I crashed. Not because she had done anything wrong, but because all of a sudden I didn't just feel seen, I felt exposed.

Who had Amy told? Were the rest of my colleagues going to find out? How would they respond? I'd released a part of myself and now I had no control about where it went.

It was almost a relief when Amy and her girlfriend moved to Atlanta that summer and then I switched schools the following year. Almost.

And now I'm in a situation again where the topic of being trans is coming up naturally. So, what will I do?

I know what I'm not doing. Sleeping.