In 1989 in New York during rush hour on a 5th Avenue subway train, a very well-dressed businessman is looking at me intently. He is trying to get closer to me. I am trying to find an alternative centimetre of space to stand in. Too late.

"Can I help you?"
"How could you do it, Cheryl?"
I remember saying, "Sorry?"
"I never thought you'd go through with it"
"With what?"
"The operation of course. How can you be so blasé about it, Cheryl?" he said in a whisper.
I asked him how he knew me and he seemed quite insulted.
"We had a relationship, a very special relationship. Greg. Remember me?"
"So you think I am someone called Cheryl who went out with you and then you left her when she wanted to become a man and you believe I am this man. How can you be so sure I am this girl?"

By now there are a lot of people in this carriage listening closely. He was convinced I was her, no matter how much I told him about my history. Cheryl too was English, from Brentwood, Essex I learned and she had the same eyes, colour hair, same shape lips and nose. She had a large mole near the same ear. My appearance outweighed all other factors as far as he was concerned and he couldn't understand why I was lying to him as if I was trying to forget about my past.

The atmosphere on the carriage was more than a little tense and Greg was very close to tears. When, at last, the next station arrived he was inconsolable and all I could do was pat him pathetically on the shoulder and say I was sure that Cheryl would be out there somewhere.