2:20 pm, Thursday
April 13th, 2017 – Setagaya, Tokyo
The rest of the day proceeds slowly, and the heaviness in the air dissipates only to collect as puddles on the sidewalk. Thankfully, I brought an umbrella.
I’m alone this afternoon on the walk home. Georgia, always eager to play tourist, decided to stop off in Ikebukuro1 to figure out which of the indoor theme parks she’ll be dragging me to in the coming weeks. I’m still not sure I won’t weasel my way out of it somehow because I fucking hate rides. Once, when I was four, my grandfather hoisted me over his shoulder and carried me like a potato sack to the top of the stairs in my mother’s house. He was trying to be playful — I get that now — but I was so distraught that I started crying and apparently wouldn’t talk to him for the rest of the day.
Now, I’m twenty, and I can assure you that my reaction today would be no different, hence why I am not interested in being thrown around by a rollercoaster.
When I finally approach the dorm, I gaze at the dreary grey building and count the windows up to my room on the fifth floor. I then spot my two-day-old laundry dangling from the window-balcony. It’s flapping about soggily in the rain and wind, but I hardly spare it a thought. All I can think about is how nice it’ll be to sleep off the rest of this hangover in the warm, cozy bed behind that windowpane.
Yes, I’m still hungover.
Told you they were bad.
Propelled by the thought of crawling into bed, I hurry past the front gate and through the sliding glass doors of the building but stop when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.
3:40 pm
Wanna get started on this assignment? I’m downstairs now!
I peer down the hall toward the common room and catch sight of Jackie through its window. She’s swishing her hand around furiously, beckoning for me, and holding a packet of chips up to the glass with the other.
And just like that, my heart sinks.
Shit. I forgot. She lives here too.
Managing a half smile, I nod to her through the window and try to accept the fact that my nap will have to wait.
I shut the common room door behind me and turn to offer Jackie a weary smile. She’s already made herself comfortable in one of the larger, squishier-looking chairs scattered about the room.
“Feeling any better?” she calls over.
I reply with a noncommittal sound and another weak smile.
The common room is the central meeting place and designated hangout spot for all the residents in the dorm. It’s usually pretty busy at night, but there are only a few other people in here at the moment. Some huddle around textbooks, some just sit around in groups chatting, and others play games on their phones or computers.
Armchairs, couches, and coffee tables in starkly different patterns and colors are strewn about the large, carpeted room. It’s like whoever went shopping for it all wandered into a furniture mart with a blindfold on and began pointing randomly around the showroom screaming “That one” a few dozen times. The only thing that looks like it was bought intentionally is the fancy widescreen television fixed to the far-right wall.
A dank, musty smell is wafting through the air in here today, probably from all the humidity and rain. I’m also detecting the faint smell of wine soaked into the furniture. Word has it that people play drinking games in this room after hours, and up ‘til recently, I secretly hoped I’d one day be invited to join in. But now, given my less than pleasant morning, I’m not sure I ever want to drink again.
I pull a chair up beside Jackie, and after a few short minutes of deliberation, we quickly agree on a topic for our presentation: barbecue culture. To her credit, Jackie is sacrificing a lot of creative control given that barbecues are more of an Australian tradition, but we both agree it will probably be a more interesting piece than whatever the other groups choose.
Jokingly, I offer a compromise and suggest we could discuss techniques for grilling mutton. She responds by hurling a takoyaki-flavored2 chip at my forehead, and with our laughter, we naturally veer off topic.
At some point in the conversation, she pauses and raises an eyebrow at me. “So, fill me in. How was the party last night?”
I smirk at her. “I don’t know, Jackie. Maybe you should have been there.”
“I was busy!”
That’s a lie. She was holed up in her room watching soap operas.
I roll my eyes at this, just as she raises another, more suggestive, brow at me. “What I’m really asking, is how you supposedly ended up talking to some European hottie for half the night?”
It’s clear her and Georgia have been gossiping.
I introduced the pair to one another a week ago, and if you ask me, they complement each other. Georgia is a cynical, independent, know-it-all, and Jackie just wants to eat snacks, hang out where it’s warm and dry, and dream about the day when a man will come and sweep her off her feet.
“I’m a wizard when I drink, Jackie. Things just kind of happen.” I say this matter-of-factly as I sprinkle imaginary fairy dust from my fingers.
“No, really,” she presses, “what actually happened?”
I decide to give in and tell her the unflattering truth. “I blacked out mid-conversation with Georgia and then came to mid-conversation with him. I don’t know how it happened.”
At first, Jackie looks at me disbelievingly, but when she finally gauges that I’m telling her the truth, she nudges me approvingly with her foot. “Well, nice work, Cinderella.”
It was kind of like Cinderella, trying to race off and make my escape before midnight, except that I wasn’t sober enough to keep track of the time. I suspect Georgia must have dragged me home. And somehow, there was a game center involved? God, I need to debrief with her.
I let out a sigh and shoot Jackie an impassive look. “I’ve got a boyfriend. But yes, ‘nice,’ I guess. It’s better than being the kind of drunk that has to be carried away on a stretcher.” I lean back into my armchair and eye her once over. “What are you like when you drink?”
“Oh, I don’t drink,” she replies.
I pause. I’d forgotten some people can function at parties without liquor.
“Well, good for you and your liver.” I pull my laptop out from a cushion beside me. “Shall we make a start on this then?”
She nods. “Sure. But are you any good with PowerPoint?”
“I know a thing or two.”
And so, we get started.
As we begin work on the visuals, Jackie and I simultaneously discuss the script. She types it out while I make a presentation to accompany it. Some of the puns we decide to include are so terrible that our snickering begins to attract odd looks from around the room.
A few hours pass in this way, and I hardly notice when the sun begins to set through the window. By quarter to eight, the common room is packed. Everyone appears to be full of energy — probably gearing up for the weekend — and our talk on barbecue culture is already half-done. It seems like we’re the only two people left in here who haven’t yet shelved our textbooks for the night.
I’ve just finished instructing the gas bottle and paper plates on the screen to ‘swivel’ and am stretching out into a yawn when Jackie’s bright pink flip phone begins to ring.
She glances up from it. “Sorry, Rach. Do you mind if I get this? It’s my sister.”
I shake my head, motioning for her to go ahead as I continue working, and it’s not until she begins speaking fluent Mandarin into the receiver that I remember she wasn’t born in New Zealand; she’s actually Taiwanese. It’s that stewpot at work again.
I take a moment to skim over our work, at which point I figure we’ve made decent progress and have earned a break. I’m also thinking I should take everyone’s advice and rehydrate before bed, so I decide to head over the road to grab a sports drink.
I motion for Jackie’s attention, mouthing I’ll be right back, and I’m about to stand when I notice the door to the common room swinging open, making way for a tall, familiar figure to come strolling inside.
Instantly, my heart lurches in my throat.
Oh, fuck.
I throw my eyes back to my computer and anchor myself in my chair.
There is no mistaking those goddamn arms.
Keeping my gaze directed firmly at my lap, I click around aimlessly and watch him inconspicuously over the top of my screen. He’s carrying a small tablet computer, and he’s scanning the room with those stunning blue eyes as if looking for someone.
My clicking begins to accelerate, and I almost don’t notice that Jackie is throwing me a red-alarm look.
“Did something happen?” she asks, holding a palm over the receiver of her phone. “Please tell me we didn’t just lose all our work.”
I can’t even respond to this. For some reason, I am flooded with nerves right now. But then, to make things worse, the pair of legs across the room turn.
He’s facing this way. Oh, my God. Oh, my God, please don’t come and—
Jackie snaps at me. “Rachel!?”
And all at once, I’m yanked back to reality.
I look down and stare at my fingers, unable to figure out why I’m averaging about ten nervous clicks per second on the touchpad. But then I glance up again and am forced to take a wide-eyed look at my answer.
Sander is towering over the two of us. His eyes are bright and inquiring, and his brimming smile has just deactivated every working neuron in my brain.
“Playing games?” he asks cheerfully.
Jackie’s eyes widen up at him and then cut across to me. All at once, understanding blossoms on her face, and she shoots me the most sinful fucking smile I have ever seen.
She returns to her conversation without saying a word.
Jesus Christ, Jackie.
I choke, struggling to find words. “Ah-ha, nope. Just… making a PowerPoint!” I force my finger to stop clicking and begin to twist at my necklace instead. “S-so, how’d you pull up after last night?”
Sander’s eyes follow my fingers for a moment. He looks like he’s thinking something over. But then, after what feels like an eternity, he meets my bewildered gaze and nods.
“Yeah, just fine. What about you?”
“Not too bad,” I lie, waving a hand in dismissal. “I think being good at drinking must be an inherently Australian thing.”
He chuckles and makes himself comfortable on the arm of a neighboring chair. “We Norwegians descended from Vikings, you know. Even if I couldn’t withstand that formaldehyde you were drinking last night, I think my ancestors would have given you a run for your money.”
Before I can check myself, I’m making a face. Even under that satiny-smooth voice, his tone exudes familiarity. It’s like we’ve just picked up from a conversation that was left hanging last night, and something about that is making me feel at ease. So much so, I manage to retort.
Cleverly.
“Is that a challenge? You do realize that’s like being in a schoolyard and saying, ‘I’ll get my older brother to beat you up,’ right? Except that your brother, like, died hundreds of years ago from the bubonic plague or something?”
Sander’s tongue is in his cheek, and I can tell he’s fighting back a smile. “Actually, the Vikings were killed by the English, and then the English were killed by the plague.”
He perches a foot up against the coffee table in front of us and lays a forearm across his knee. He’s studying me with that combative look in his eye, and it’s obvious. It’s so obvious. He’s ready for another word-fight. But looking to hold on to the position of dominance I’ve earned myself just now, I coolly shut it down before it starts.
“Anyway, I’m guessing you’re here to admit you lost our little debate last night, right?”
At this, Sander looks taken aback for a moment. But then he recuperates and stares me down with a smugness that makes me want to bury myself alive.
“Absolutely not, Rachel.” Oof, he said my name. “I still need a little more time to think, but maybe we can” — he quotes me, and I cringe at his admittedly hilarious imitation of my awful accent — “fight about it over some tea sometime?”
I can see Jackie shooting me animated looks in the corner of my eye, but I ignore her and raise a brow at Sander instead. “Bring it on. You think I was quick last night? You just wait ‘til you’re dealing with me sober.”
“Ah— speaking of which, are you sure you don’t want to do this over some shōchū?” he offers. “Seemed like it was supercharging your reasoning skills last night, hm?”
I don’t answer this. Instead, we stare each other down like foes. And in that extended moment of penetrating silence, I begin to wonder whether I still look as appalling as I did when I first woke up this morning or if the color has had enough time to return to my face.
I have a terrible feeling I look like something a dog could’ve shat out.
Feeling my resolve finally weaken, I break eye contact and look to Jackie. She’s grinning at us both uncontrollably. I’m pretty sure I can hear her sister beckoning for her lost attention through the phone, but Jackie snaps it shut and continues to observe Sander and me instead.
This is much more exciting.
This is like a drama to her.
I watch as Sander shifts. He looks like he’s about to excuse himself and let us get back to whatever it was he interrupted. But just when he goes to stand, something inside me is compelled to stop him.
I want to fight with him for a little bit longer.
I quickly concoct a plan and begin hinting in the wordiest Japanese I can think up for Jackie to give us some alone time. When the string of conjugated verbs finishes spewing from my lips, I grit my teeth at her, hoping she understood. The instructions I just gave could loosely be translated to: ‘My good friend, would you please do me a favor and remove yourself for circa fifteen minutes while I enjoy the company of this fine gentleman?’
Perhaps it’s little wonder Sander’s jaw has just fallen open in astonishment.
“Wow! Your Japanese is so good. What did you just—”
“Sure thing!” Jackie blurts. She’s already throwing herself out of her chair and slinking toward the exit. “I’ll be back soon” — her eyes dart around shiftily — “with the charger. Yeah, the laptop charger!” And with that, she disappears.
Cool. She understood.
Sander turns to observe Jackie as she accelerates out of the common room. And failing to ascertain any understanding from her escape, he turns back and cocks an eyebrow at me.
“The laptop charger? That seemed cryptic.”
“Did you understand any of what I just said?” I demand.
He shakes his head innocently, at which point I finally exhale a breath of relief.
Sneakily, I lean in close and motion for his ear.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Jackie needs to take her medication at this time every night, or she becomes a little unhinged, kind of like a gorilla.”
I meant for this to be a joke — like, a funny joke to divert his attention — but when Sander’s expression turns genuinely alarmed, I find myself shaking my head and trying to assure him that Jackie will be okay.
At the end of our fifteen minutes, I make a mental note that Sander is very clever but also as gullible as a lemming — a minor flaw for someone with the body of a slim-fit jeans model and a pair of eyes that make me want to implode every time I look at them. He also seems sweet as hell — friend material, even. He’s got that fun, easygoing character I would have killed to find in a friend during high school.
When our string of baseless arguments and banter finally dries up, I start to notice several things I quite like about the guy.
For one, he’s excitable. He does this thing where he’ll start prattling on about something and then suddenly backpedal like he’s worried he may have inadvertently offended somebody.
Case in point: he was telling me about his visit to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and describing all the bizarre things in the exhibits that were preserved from the wreckage of the atomic bomb. I was nodding along while he gushed over just how “incredible” and “fascinating” it is that everyday objects could withstand such a blast when, without warning, his face went cold like he’d just seen a ghost.
Realizing that after five minutes, he’d failed to mention the devastating loss of life the memorial pays tribute to, he frantically clarified that he not only left the place “drenched in his own tears” but proceeded to have nightmares about it for several days.
I was amused that he didn’t want me to think he was an insensitive asshole.
The other thing Sander spoke a lot about was his research. He explained that he was in Tokyo for six months to work more closely with one of his PhD supervisors studying a recent string of tremors in the Kanto3 area. At first, it seemed like he could talk on the topic forever, but gradually, I noticed it was beginning to sully his mood.
I quickly got the impression his work wasn’t going too well.
“We submitted our work to one of the best academic journals in our field,” he’d said, “but they desk-rejected us — said our theories are the work of fairytales.”
He didn’t miss a beat calling the editor a “shortsighted son of a bitch,” then promptly took up his usual light tone like nothing had happened. It was like a beast had been let out of its cage for just a split second before being subdued, and moments later, he was smiling at me again like one of those lucky cats with the happy curved eyes.
“Well,” Sander shrugged, “even if the whole project goes up in flames and I have to be buried with my half-written thesis, at least I can say I saw an entire museum dedicated to cup noodles. Have you been yet? It’s pretty interesting!”
I told him I hadn’t been yet; it’s one item on a long list of things I’ve yet to see.
He expressed that he had a similarly long list.
“In that case,” he said, “let me know if you decide to plan any day trips. I’d love to come along.”
It was at this point that I made a mental note to plan a day trip immediately.
Oh— and we exchanged phone numbers.
So, score, I guess.
It wasn’t long before he was being ushered away by friends to play card games, but just before we parted ways, he said something to me — something strange that I didn’t understand.
“By the way, that was a great win last night! You’ve got to teach me how to do that sometime.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. So, of course, I just nodded along and pretended like I did, gladly agreeing to coach him in the art of winning God knows what.
And with that, he disappeared, but not before flashing me a smile that made my loins do a backflip. As soon as they stuck the landing, however, my energy levels began to fizzle out, and suddenly all I could think about was the prospect of falling into bed.
When I reach the top floor, I hurry out of the elevator and suck in a cool breath of air.
Physically, I am fucking exhausted. I’m not even in my room yet, and I can already feel the warmth and softness of the sheets against my skin. Mentally, however, I’m still on a high from talking to Sander. It’s a pleasant, exciting little high. Completely stupid, but exciting. And it’s a conscionable little high too because I’m telling myself I’m only feeling it because I’m happy to have made a new friend.
Easy-peasy. No dramas.
I’m drifting down the hall slowly like a happy ghost, grinning at the memory of the smile Sander gave me just before he left. Then, suddenly, I remember what came before that smile and freeze in the middle of the hallway. Something has just clicked into place — something that’s been bugging me since yesterday.
By the way, that was a great win last night! You’ve got to teach me how to do that sometime.
I’ve just figured out what Sander was talking about.
The flashing lights, the noisy machines.
We stopped off at a game center last night, and… I must have won something!
Recollection hits me all in one go.
Last night after we left Lucas and Elena’s apartment, me, Georgia, and Sander made a detour at a game center just outside North Akabane station. Still trashed beyond belief, I was operating with a stubbornly determined one-track mind — one I’m only remembering now. I needed Sander to know just how fucking awesome I was, and apparently, this meant risking getting us all stranded by wasting time at a game center. I must have effectively blocked out this memory because only now am I remembering just how insistent I was that everyone halt their schedules so I could win a glitzy prize in the window. You know — the standard classy-drunk behavior?
So, I’ll admit, I made an ass of myself last night. But at the same time, I also kind of didn’t because Sander was evidently impressed. Hell, I’m pretty sure I won the thing in a single shot.
I feel a flutter of excitement zip through my chest. This excitement is well warranted because unlike arcade games at home, which are stuffed full of cheap Chinese crap, the prizes in Japan are actually good. Very good. Sometimes when a new movie or TV show gets released, for a few weeks, you can only get your hands on the merchandise by winning it from a machine. I’m talking about towels, keychains, lunchboxes, backpacks, even cookware. If you can think of it, you can probably win it from a claw machine in Japan. But the point isn’t that I give a shit about the prizes themselves.
I give a shit about how much I can sell them for on eBay.
I’m moving with a spring in my step now, excited to find out what I managed to snag last night. My guess is that it was one of those terrifyingly big-breasted anime4 figurines because even drunk-Rachel could tell you they sell for the most cash online.
Oh, Lady Luck, give me those anime titties, please.
Once at the door to my room, I’m busy fishing in my pocket for the key when I hear a faint rustling coming from inside. The sound makes my euphoria take a dip as I’m forced to try and remember whether or not I shut the window this morning.
Ugh, I hope the rain didn’t get inside.
The head of my bed is beneath the window, so I’m praying I won’t have to sleep on a soggy pillow when I insert my key and shove open the door.
I waste little time abandoning my bag on the floor. I then begin hopping around the genkan, trying to pull off my damp boots. I’ve just managed to fling off the first one and am busy yanking away at the second when my eyes flit to something on the desk.
…
What the hell?
Something strange is resting on a pile of my papers — a round, brown, fluffy thing, about the size of a soccer ball.
Baffled, I reach again into my pocket and let my fingers graze against my room key.
The door was locked all day. How did—
I tense up when the ball quivers.
Did that thing fucking move!?
I slowly back away, preparing to make a run for it. But seconds before I do, I pause when a flicker of commonsense finally registers.
I left the window open. This must be a raccoon or something.
Suddenly, the fluffy surface of the ball ripples again, and two thin orange stalks emerge from its side. Whatever this is, it is definitely not a raccoon.
The stalks are a pumpkin shade of orange. They look flimsy and weak like a seagull’s legs. But they must weigh something because they’ve just unbalanced the ball and sent it toppling off the edge of the desk. It’s now resting on the floor only a meter from my ankles.
I flinch. But then, for a split second, the ball looks to be still, and so I breathe…
But then it begins rolling toward me.
Nope—!
I tug open the door behind me and hurl myself back into the hallway faster than a bat out of hell.
My heart is racing when I slam the door shut. “Oh, my God. What the fuck was that?”
Leaning back against the door, I slide helplessly to the floor, suck in a deep breath, and begin to consider my options. They’re limited at best. Somehow, I doubt this dormitory has a pest-control service.
I hear skittering sounds, followed by a loud thwack, coming from inside the room. And realizing that thing has just knocked over one of my rain boots, I reactively snarl through the door.
“You stay the hell out of my shoes!”
After another few seconds of scampering, I hear the slapping of another rubber boot hitting the laminate floor.
This is when my head falls into my hands.
God, what should I do?
I glance down either end of the empty hallway, searching for anybody who might be able to help as I continue to crouch feebly on the floor. Much to the female residents’ annoyance, the dorm security guard has a habit of wandering the women’s hallways at night, ‘accidentally’ bumping into girls scooting between their rooms and the showers. He’s never given me any trouble, but I hear the other girls whisper, so he’s kind of an unnerving pain in the ass.
Tonight, however, a little help would really be appreciated.
But, of course, he’s nowhere to be seen.
I look to my right, listening desperately for the sound of the elevator. I then look to the left, and all of a sudden, I notice Georgia strolling around the corner holding a pink porcelain mug.
She stops and squints at me when she spots me cowering on the floor. “Rach, is that you? I’m not wearing my contacts.”
“There’s a fucking animal in my room!” I screech, still fixed to the concrete.
She hurries toward me, the bottoms of her sandals scraping against the floor as she approaches. “There’s a what?”
“An animal,” I repeat, and then I slowly shuffle up the wall and manage to pull myself from my pathetic crumpled-up ball on the ground. “A furry brown thing. About this big,” I declare, motioning with my hands. “I’ve been out all day, and it was just sitting on my desk when I walked in!”
For a second, Georgia squints at me in disbelief, but then a look of comprehension takes over her face when she realizes I’m serious.
She doubles over in laughter.
I have no idea what on Earth she thinks is so goddamn hilarious.
“Hah! Wow.” She shakes her head at me. “Just… wow! You must have been drunk as a skunk last night, Rach.”
“Okay, we get it! I’m a piece of shit. Now could you stop laughing and just tell me what to do!?”
She snorts at me.
“You’re hilarious! You give me so much shit the way you call me a computer, or a calculator, or whatever. But look at you — freaking out over a stuffed animal!”
She straightens, still laughing, and she’s already strolling off on her cold computer-like way when I call after her.
“Wait, Georgia.” I swallow, trying to disregard the moving ball of fluff I saw just a minute ago. “Is that what I won last night — a plush toy?”
And still laughing hysterically, Georgia rounds the corner toward the elevator without saying another word.
… Am I going crazy?
Blurry, fuzzy images of Sander, Georgia, and a soccer-ball-sized plush toy are flashing in my mind. The toy is falling down the chute of a claw machine, which is buzzing and blinking as if to say, “Yes! You did it!”
The toy in this maybe-memory is brown, fluffy, and has orange legs.
No… that’s not possible.
Now even more baffled, I stare off down the hall, hoping futilely that perhaps another more compassionate friend will round the corner. And when no one comes, I begin to cycle through my options again. I could go downstairs and ask reception for help, but on the off chance I am going crazy, I’d be posting warning signs to management that they have a mentally unstable tenant to worry about. Alternatively…
Aw, to hell with it.
A dash of blind courage overcomes me. I’ve grown impatient and realized I’m being stupid. So, in a single motion, I shove open the door and lunge off to the side, leaving ample space for the creature to peel out into the hallway. But, of course, it doesn’t, and so I’m forced to peer hesitantly around the doorframe.
The ball is resting — no, sitting — on the step of the genkan, its little orange stalks-for-legs dangling lazily off its edge. Upon closer inspection, I notice it’s covered in cotton, not fur. And its two beady little eyes are looking directly at me.
I frown. “What the hell are you?”
Without warning, a slender orange beak sprouts from the center of its face, making me jump. I then let out a nervous screech when I feel my phone vibrate from my pocket. I don’t dare take my eyes off the animated thing in front of me when I reach slowly into my jeans and lift the phone to my line of sight.
It’s Georgia.
8:10 pm
You just made my night. Thank you, Rachel. Yes. You won a plush toy. It was like a bird or something. Now stop panicking before you hurt yourself.
I’m staring mortified at the toy. It’s gone eerily still now, but its eyes are fixed on me. Georgia is also still texting me the play-by-play from last night, trying to jog my memory, and so I spend almost a minute flicking my eyes between the toy and my phone as I attempt to figure out just what the hell is happening.
Six messages later, and I am still no closer to feeling comforted.
I pocket the phone without replying, ball up my fists, and twist them into my eyes so hard they begin to hurt.
When I open my eyes, that thing will not be moving.
I lower my fists, take a deep breath, and cast my blurry eyes over the toy. I notice it kind of looks like a stumpy kiwi bird, except that its plush orange beak is curved, more like an ibis’.5
Does this toy have a fucking motor in it? Is it one of those futuristic robot toys — like some supercharged, intelligent Tickle-me-Elmo? Or has an animal just ventured in through the window and made a home in its stuffing?
I still have no idea.
My breath suddenly catches when the toy cocks its head, moving for the first time since Georgia texted me. Its little black eyes are now flashing with what I’m reasonably certain is life. I can’t bring myself to do anything other than stare. But it’s when the bird begins to speak that my jaw falls open, and I really start to question life, the universe, and my own loosening grip on reality.
“Hey, Rach,” it greets apathetically.
I blink at it and shake my head.
It just spoke in a deep, scratchy register that you would not expect from a children’s toy. Even stranger is that that register was undeniably Australian. I never hear the accent around here, so something in my brain has just spasmed at the sudden familiarity — a familiarity that already has me guessing that what I’m witnessing is a figment of my imagination.
Still sitting on the step, the cottony form begins kicking its legs idly as it yawns. “Sorry to frighten you. This is kind of important though, so—”
The bird is interrupted by another involuntary yawn.
I’m just standing here gripping the doorframe in fear. “How the hell are you—?”
“Goddamnit,” the bird interjects, attempting to suppress a third yawn, “this is fucking ridiculous. Do you have any coffee?”
…
I stop and slowly begin to rationalize.
Best-case scenario: I ate something funny. Possibly those weird octopus chips Jackie fed me. In which case, I’m hallucinating, and this will pass.
Worst-case scenario: this talking bird knows something that I don’t and has come to take my life like a little plush grim reaper. Maybe if I do what it says it’ll spare me long enough to tell my mother I love her.
I exhale shakily and release my grip on the doorframe. The bird is still craning its head up at me and swaying its little legs off the ledge. It looks like it’s waiting for me to say something.
“Sure,” I finally answer, feeling my insides just about turning to stone. But then I look up at the open window across the room and notice there are only a few short meters between it, the toy, and my kicking foot — a clean shot.
Third-case scenario.
“White or black coffee?” I ask.
All at once, the edges of the bird’s beak curl up into what I think equates to a smile.
It withdraws its limbs and begins rolling to the fridge.