If my gender was a ghost, it would be a stern Victorian schoolteacher haunting the third floor of a Maine Street mansion. She’d wear a floor-length dress, hair pulled back into a severe bun. He’d wear rings on every finger, even the thumbs. He’d also wear a corset, and walk with stately posture and silent solemnity. She’d have a jawline large enough to be cupped by the hands of a ghost coal miner, or a ghost farmer who mows weeds with a scythe. She’d call out to passersby in a lovely baritone, making them look twice, curiously, at the window.