"Homeward" by Jean Ray. Published in the December 1956 issue of The Ladder.
   
   The day had been unusually difficult. The doubts and indecisions of the past week had nagged at the edges of her consciousness until she had been forced to work automatically, using all her will power to keep her thoughts in check. By 5:00 she was exhausted.
   As she walked the few blocks to the bus stop, she concentrated on regaining some amount of self control. She was so engrossed in her "am I, am I not" trend of thought that without quite realizing it she noticed her bus nearing the stop and weighed the worth of running to catch it or waiting for a later one.
   Suddenly, out of the throng before her, a girl with gorgeous red-gold cropped hair darted into the bus. Almost against her will, she speeded up, barely clearing the closing doors. She stood before the meter, breathless and without change. As she fumbled for a seat, she looked hastily around. Again unwillingly, she found herself taking the seat from which she could best see the girl with the red hair. And there she sat; miserable, confused, one moment near tears, the next near laughter, eyes straight ahead, with a terrible feeling of flushed excitement.
   The bus made several stops before she had courage to glance again at the girl. Great God! She was looking straight at her! Oh dear, she thought, is it that obvious? Everyone on this bus must know what I am--but am I? Is she? Furtively she surveyed the girl again. Beautiful skin--not pretty --but that wonderful hair. She looks so young, so sure, so poised. And I am all flustered and must look like a lecher.
   She glanced at the other passengers. A woman across the aisle was staring at her with marked disapproval. Does it show, she wondered. Surely they can't read my thoughts--and I have been very careful not to give any clues in my actions--but have I? Good heavens, she suddenly realized--I don't know how they act--I've never observed that closely. I've seen the obvious ones whom anyone could spot, but I should think it would be something like a fraternity handshake--if you were discreet only one of your own kind could recognize you.
   Somehow the thought comforted her and she found courage to gaze at the girl with red hair again. After all, she thought, I could be just admiring her hair. I used to do things like that in the blissful past, when I was unaware of all this and of my attitude toward it. I've always had a keen appreciation of the beautiful. Why must everything be so suddenly changed and terrifying? I must get out of this--I'll ring the buzzer right now. I Can't stand this any longer. What if she gets off at my stop? I can imagine myself being forced to follow her if she gets off first. Oh, God, I hope she rides past my stop! In this mood I'm perfectly capable of following her--and then what would I say? Is this your stop, too? My, you have beautiful hair--are you one of us? Aw I one of you? O, merciful God, what has happened to me? This is the evil of unprejudiced thinking--of the tolerant mind. One must have a safeguard of terror to keep oneself in leash. Yet, can I deny my heritage --can I refuse to recognize myself? Isn't self knowledge my avowed code--the goal to strive for--the greatest goal?
   Suddenly she realized her stop was next. The bus was almost there. She rang the buzzer and rushed frantically for the door, stumbling as she was propelled to the sidewalk. Then, as the bus moved onward, she turned, overwhelmed with the sorrow of her loss. She ran after it a few steps, yearning for the girl with the red hair. She stood gazing into the darkness for a time. The rain began to fall. Slowly then, she turned homeward.