2:25 pm, Saturday

April 15^th, 2017 – Ikebukuro, Tokyo

The first gift shop is cleverly situated in the middle of the halls full of exhibits. Skylights and large windowed walls are allowing the sunlight to stream in, giving visitors a break from the dimly lit passageways designed to mimic the dark habitats of the deep-sea marine life. The shop’s location is well thought-out because it’s so big that any visitor could reasonably assume upon reaching it that this would be their first and only opportunity to grab souvenirs, encouraging him or her to empty their wallet thoughtlessly while in the very middle of their exciting undersea adventure.

We don’t realize it at the time, but there’s another shop closer to the exit.

Marveling at the vast expanse of shelves, Jackie and Georgia split off in different directions, both rushing over to something that has caught their eye. Meanwhile, Sander is running his gaze over all the otter-themed stuff closest to us.

I sidle up to him just as he’s examining an otter plush toy. He’s holding it up and smiling at it as though it were a newborn baby.

“I never finished telling you about my friend with the pet otter.”

He flinches, like I’ve just caught him out, and dumps the toy back on the shelf. Then he folds his arms and doesn’t look at me.

“What I was going to say,” I continue, “was that when she wasn’t busy taking him for walks, she’d dress him up in tiny little clothes. Sometimes she’d stick a mustache and monocle on him. That’s when her and Detective Flipper would head out and solve mysteries.”

“Otters don’t have flippers,” Sander comes back, but then he shakes his head down at the floor. He probably realizes that arguing is just giving me more ammunition.

He eventually shrugs in defeat.

“I like otters, okay! Am I not allowed to like things? Surely you like things. What do you like?”

I snort and stare out the window. “I dunno. Hard liquor? Sniffing out and preying on the weakness of others? Maybe you should ask Georgia. She’d probably tell you I intentionally avoid liking things so that I can limit my disappointment when they’re taken away from me.”

Sander scoffs and gives me a look. “You’re really something, aren’t you? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before.”

I have to try hard to remain impassive at this.

“Well,” he sighs, “you’d better start liking things quick because as my thank-you for your help last night” — he motions toward all of the displays and smiles — “pick anything you like.”

Huh, really? I gaze around over everything in the shop.

All the souvenirs are sorted according to the creature they represent. Nearest, of course, are the otters. There’s stationery, keychains, plush toys, clothes, and even a fountain, depicting three of the creatures splashing one another in a pool. The corner contains a similar collection of dolphin stuff. Toward the back of the room, everything is fish themed, and the corner beside the window is donned with pelicans.

A little stricken with choice overload, I begin to finger through the otter-themed stationery in front of me.

“You don’t have to buy me anything,” I urge. “Besides, I’m not a big souvenir person anyway. I usually wind up just stuffing these things in a drawer somewhere and forgetting about them.”

Sander pinches the pencil out of my fingers and sets it back on the display. He then rests his hands on my shoulders, spins me around to face the rest of the souvenir stands, and leans down to whisper in my ear, making the hairs on my neck stand up.

“Don’t care. Pick something — something better than a pencil.” He then gives me a shove toward the center of the room.

I turn back around and look at him piteously, only for him to point me back in the other direction.

He mouths at me sternly. “Go.” And unsure quite what to make of his incessant generosity, I resign to just accepting it.

It doesn’t take long before I’ve run my nose over pretty much everything in the store without narrowing down my choices. If Sander is insisting on buying me something, I want it to be something useful — something that won’t end up in the junk-drawer — and yet I sense he’d probably block my path and challenge me to a duel before letting me walk out of here empty-handed.

And so I keep on looking.

I’m browsing half-heartedly through a shelf full of octopus-themed children’s toys when I notice a display dedicated to eels. I’m soon wandering over to continue in my fruitless search.

I gaze over a blue and white tea set. It’s painted with eels dressed up in frocks having a tea ceremony. Next to it is a set of pencil cases each shaped like a different species and designed to look like the creature has just swallowed all of your stationery.

I bend down to the bottom shelf and flick through a selection of products dedicated to electric eels. A torch… A pen… A pen that doubles as a torch…

I run my fingers over a little coiled-up eel on a keychain, surrounded by a yellow plastic trim that’s meant to look like electricity. The creature is screaming, cartoonlike, and has a jagged pink tongue zigzagging out of its mouth.

I quickly scan the label attached to the chain.

Oooh. I see.

Satisfied with my selection, I conjure up a plan and snatch one off the rack. “Sander!”

He bobs up from behind a shelf.

He’s still in the otter section.

“Did you find something?” he asks.

I snake in and out of the stands until I’m back beside him.

“I’ll take this one,” I say, holding up the eel. “Pull its tongue. It makes the funniest sound!”

Clueless, and seemingly just pleased that I’ve finally made a decision, he takes the creature’s tongue between his fingers and pulls. He then yelps when he receives a jolt of electricity straight to his hand.

A few patrons around the shop look over concernedly. One clerk behind the counter giggles. She’s clearly seen this gag before.

“Isn’t it great?” I comment, completely blasé, and then I shove the eel’s tongue back into Sander’s palm, making him cry out a second time. “See, you can even use it like a taser!”

He snatches the keychain out of my grasp and begins nursing his hand as he frowns at the label. “Is this seriously what you want?”

“Yes. I’m in love with him. I already know where I’m going to put him.”

I swing my bag around to my chest and pull out my phone. I then grab the straggly remains of the beaded charm hanging off its corner and tug at it. The cord breaks without much effort.

I point to the now vacant corner of the phone. “Right here.”

Sander stares at me in disbelief and then starts toward the cashier.

“I can’t believe I’m about to buy you a thank-you weapon you just used against me.” He turns around and grins menacingly. “I was going to say we’re even, but now I’m going to have to get you back.”

I laugh. “Hah! I’d like to see you try.”

And with that, we approach the checkout.

Sander dumps the eel and an entire basket of souvenirs for himself onto the counter.

Over the next hour, the four of us continue working our way through the maze of exhibits. Eventually, there comes a point when all the fish begin to look the same, and when we realize we’re going around in circles, we take it as a sign that we should call it a day and get some lunch.

We’re soon stepping out of the arcade and into the afternoon sunlight, at which point I begin rattling off the locations of various restaurants I took note of when we arrived. Consensus begins to build quickly around chicken, and so, assuming the role of leader, I direct my three friends through the thinning groups of pedestrians and up a narrow flight of stairs, tucked away along a nearby walkway.

As soon as we pass through the curtains of the smoky second-floor izakaya, we are welcomed by a bunch of male servers who are passing mugs full of beer around the room. Groups of patrons are sitting around wooden tables, some of which are sunk into the floor. Others are in sectioned-off rooms with screens. Walking past them, you wouldn’t even know anyone was inside if it weren’t for all the shoes lined up outside the paper partitions. The atmosphere feels warm and welcoming, and the whole place smells strangely like a western barbecue restaurant.

The stained hardwood floor creaks beneath us with every step as a server leads us to an empty table. We’re still sliding into our booth when he hands us our menus and points to a small button on the end of the table, instructing us to press it when we’re ready to order. He then pauses and stares at us a little awkwardly. I can tell he’s unsure whether we understood anything he just said, so his expression quickly switches to relief when I thank him and ask him to bring us four beers.

He nods and quickly scurries away. Jackie then cocks an eyebrow at me from across the table.

“I don’t drink, remember?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have yours,” I offer, and when Sander slides into the booth beside me, I feel the insects in my stomach begin to stir.

Georgia chuckles under her breath. “Of course you will.”

I shoot her a warning look. “Do you have something you’d like to say to everyone?”

“What?” she laughs. “That you’re an alcoholic?” And I find myself glancing down at the table in embarrassment.

Sander apparently notices this.

I wasn’t sure he was listening — he looked busy trying to read the menu — so I’m not expecting it when he glances up and shoots me a reassuring look. “Do you drink before class?”

I shake my head innocently.

“Then you’re not an alcoholic. Sounds like you’re just an Australian. Nothing too serious.”

His lips curl in an adorable smile, and I immediately feel grateful that I’m sitting because I’m sure my legs would be buckling under me if I weren’t.

“D-do you drink before class?” I manage.

The server quickly returns, clasping two glass beer mugs in each hand. I immediately pull two toward me and thank him before he disappears again.

Sander grabs the third and takes a sip. “Depends on who I’m teaching. First-years sometimes warrant a shot in the morning.”

Georgia eyes us both up incredulously. “You two deserve each other. Honestly.”

At this, I bury my head in a yakitori¹ menu while the other three continue to chat.

It takes me a while to decipher all the different cuts of meat and begin narrowing down our options. I’m hoping to avoid accidentally choosing anything too bizarre, but there’s a huge selection to choose from, so I decide to be systematic about it. I instruct everyone to raise their hand if they’re in favor of me ordering a particular dish.

“What do we think about soy chicken thigh?” Everyone puts up a hand, including me. “Okay, what about chicken liver?” Only Jackie keeps her hand up. “Chicken heart?” Still only Jackie. “I think you’re outvoted, Jackie. Figure out what you want to drink. I’m calling the server.”

She makes an attempt for my arm but misses when I slam down the call button.

“Damn it,” she whines, and she begins scanning hastily over the drink menu. “This is too much pressure.

It takes all but a second for the server to reappear, and as soon as I finish placing our order, I look to Jackie who quickly orders a Coke. By the time our towering platter of food arrives, it’s already five o’clock — pretty late for lunch — so we waste little time digging in.

Judging by the silence around the table, everyone seems just as satisfied as me with our selection. The skin of each skewer is blackened with charcoal grill marks, but the meat is juicy and tender on the inside.

I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.

I’m just about to start on my fourth skewer when I hear my phone chime from my bag. I quickly wipe the juice off my hands and fish around under the table to check it.

1 Unread Message – Matt

…

Crap.

Something in my stomach sinks when I remember the promise I made to myself earlier this morning.

I have to break it off with him. Tonight.

I place the phone facedown on the table, careful to obscure my wallpaper, still set to Matt’s photo, and just when I make a move to eat my feelings, Jackie snatches the last skewer off the plate in front of us.

I resign to grasping at my second beer mug, which I’m now noticing is almost empty. I’m always astonished at how unconsciously I manage to empty a glass.

“Shall we order some more?” I suggest.

Everyone nods in unison, and without warning, Sander suddenly perks up. He turns to me, a devious smile playing at his lips, and then directs a more innocent look across at the others.

“I have a fun idea.”

Before long, we’ve ordered two massive jugs of beer and another helping of grilled chicken, except this time we’ve made a point of ordering the cuts we were initially hoping to avoid.

Jackie is overjoyed.

Sander casts me an aggrieved look. “Can you tell your friend to stop eating all the hearts?”

I frown across the table at Jackie. She’s chewing on a mouthful of organs. “You heard him. Save some for the game.”

“Well, hurry up and tell us the rules!” she snaps.

Sander perches an elbow on the table. “So, this is Truth or Dare. If you pick dare, you have to eat one of the strange skewers. If you pick truth, the game proceeds like normal, except if you refuse to answer the question, you have to chug a whole glass of beer. Understand?”

Everyone nods, and Sander turns to Jackie. “Seeing as you enjoy giblets, you always have to pick truth. And seeing as you don’t drink…” He looks between Georgia and me for ideas. We both shrug. “I guess you have to answer everything.”

Still gnawing on a mouthful of hearts, Jackie nods in agreement.

The game starts when Sander points a finger across at Georgia. She looks entirely unafraid.

“Truth or dare?” Sander asks.

“Dare.”

Sander plucks a large foot off the platter in front of us. They’ve somehow managed to stick a skewer straight down what I think is the chicken’s ankle and out through its sole.

“Eat this foot,” he orders.

Without hesitating, Georgia pinches the skewer from Sander’s fingers. He and I both cringe when she bites off a toe.

Jackie looks disappointed.

“Please save me at least one,” she whimpers.

Georgia grits her teeth at us and mutters. “You’re gonna have to let me work on this for a while. It’s very chewy.”

“I guess,” Sander concedes. He seems eager to uphold the rules of his new game.

Next, Georgia points to me. “Rach. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” I can tell she already has a question in mind.

“Why the hell are you such an alcoholic?”

I silently reach across Sander for the large jug of beer, pour myself a glass, and begin chugging.

“You can’t drink away from your problems forever!” Georgia barks. “I’ll just have to ask you again.”

At this, Sander suddenly perks up again. “Oh, sorry. I forgot to mention that you can’t ask the same thing twice. So, maybe save your best questions for when she’s already drunk.”

“Damn it!”

I flip Georgia off as I continue to chug, and everyone watches silently in amazement when I polish off the glass.

Sander looks between the other two as if trying to confirm he’s witnessing the same thing they are.

“Is she bottomless or something?”

“Probably,” Georgia snorts. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind letting you find out for yourse—”

I shoot her a fierce glare as I swallow the last of the glass’ contents, and instantly, my eyes cut to Sander. He’s pursing his lips and directing a look of surprise at the wall across from us.

He’s figured out what she was going to say.

Were I not comfortably liquored up right now, I would probably be reeling after this comment. I would also be tempted to punch Georgia in the mouth, but admittedly, the look on Sander’s face isn’t one of alarm. It’s also not disgust, thankfully.

It’s not even really surprise.

If I had to guess, I’d say it’s more of a Huh. Well, that’s news.

The second he catches me studying him, his eyes lose their liveliness, his face goes momentarily blank, and straightaway, I can tell he’s back in his head, manning the helm of his brain. He’s probably devising ideas about what he should be asking me if I pick truth.

I hardly let this little exchange shake me. I’m already slamming down my glass and pointing a finger back at Georgia, determined to get my revenge. “Truth or—”

“Truth,” she interrupts.

“Tell everyone that story you told me about the time you got gastro during your Tinder hook-up.”

Wincing, she leans back into her chair and sighs. She’s already eyeing up the jug as an escape route.

“And you’ve told me this story before,” I add, “so I’ll know if you’re skimping out on the details.”

She takes a swig of her beer and emits another sigh.

“Fine,” she concedes. And she proceeds to tell the horrific tale.

It’s exactly as gross as you’re imagining.

Before long, an hour passes. And then another. Until we run out of giblets and the night’s entertainment is reduced to a game of Truth or Beer. My view of the restaurant is thoroughly in motion now, and the crowds seated around us are getting boisterous with the continuous pouring of drinks.

It’s definitely my kind of atmosphere.

I soon realize it’s come to my turn in the game, and so, without thinking about it, I point a wobbly finger at Jackie. “Tell us about the first time you had sex.”

She shrugs. “Sorry to disappoint you, but—”

“You’re a virgin?” I interrupt, and she nods as I attempt to compute her response. “You’re not religious, are you?”

I’m now recalling the many, many times I’ve used the Lord’s name in vain.

“That’s another question,” Jackie evades, and turning away from me, she proceeds to look over at Sander sneakily. “Sander, you’re single, right?”

He lets out a gawky laugh. He’s clearly sporting a decent buzz. “Is that your question? I could’ve sworn I answered that already.”

Jackie begins to backpedal. “No, wait. In light of your views about soulmates, how do you feel about casual flings and the like?”

All of a sudden, my ears prick up, and I make a mental note to thank Jackie later. She is an unwittingly good wing-woman.

Sander begins to laugh even harder. “Jackie, are you hitting on me?”

“Well, I’m not,” she replies matter-of-factly, and I instantly retract my appreciation.

I am going to kick her ass later.

Sander swallows a mouthful of beer, perches his glass on the table, and smiles. He’s not touching me — he’s not even looking at me — and yet it’s like there’s an electricity between us that simply was not there five seconds ago.

I feel my fist clench in my lap.

Sander glances down at it, clearly noticing the change in my demeanor. And then, without searching for my gaze, he places a subtle palm down in the small space between us and doesn’t move it.

He just leaves it there.

It’s only then that he finally answers Jackie’s question.

“I’m not against anything casual,” he nods, and I can’t even pretend like the irony of our current closeness is lost on him. “I don’t see why waiting to find a soulmate should mean barring myself from having fun in the meantime.”

… Okay.

It’s possible I may be flattering myself. Perhaps my wishful thinking is making me delusional, but I’m not sure how else I’m supposed to interpret this. A thumbs-up to casual sex and a hand that’s just begging to be touched? It may as well be a contract with a dotted line and sticky label that says, ‘SIGN HERE.’ I mean, I can be pretty oblivious at times, but I’m not an idiot.

I am fairly certain I’m being communicated an offer.

But now it’s up to me. It’s up to me to make the next move.

Good God. This could actually happen… if I want it.

I’m forced to tune back into the conversation when Jackie begins nodding in approval. “A modern man. I like him.”

“What’s so modern about that?” Georgia cuts in. “ ‘Casual’ is just code for ‘uncomplicated sex.’ Men love uncomplicated sex.”

“Plenty of women like sex too,” Sander contests.

I don’t offer anything. I just sit silently, teeth clenched, trying to decide what the hell to do. And yet, the game continues.

Sander turns to me, his hand unmoving.

I still haven’t given him a response.

“Truth or beer?” he asks.

“Truth,” I say, refusing to meet his gaze. “But beer if I don’t want to answer.”

He motions around the table. “Well, it’s come out that the three of us are single,” he starts, and a cold dread instantly passes over me.

I already know what he’s about to ask.

Oh no. No, no. Not that.

All the delusion and numbness I’ve been allowing myself to enjoy suddenly evaporates, and when I aim a worried look at Jackie and Georgia, I can tell by their faces that they know what’s coming next too.

Next thing I know, Sander is cocking a hopeful brow, and it feels as though time has slowed to a grinding halt.

“Are you seeing anybody?”

I continue staring fixedly at my two friends.

The fact that I have let this man get so close to me in the last few hours should speak for itself. His question is one that shouldn’t need to be asked. And yet, I’d be surprised if Sander doesn’t realize he’s touched on a controversial subject because Georgia is just about baring her teeth at me across the table, awaiting my answer. I don’t know what she’s expecting me to say. So, when I open my mouth, I’m unsure whether she’s going to lecture or congratulate me later.

“We broke up… this morning.”

At this, Sander flinches, and donning an apologetic expression, his hand — and presumably his offer — instantly retracts.

“Oh, Rach. I’m so sorry.”

I shake my head rapidly, trying to convey that everything is fine and praying my lie hasn’t spoiled the mood of the evening, but Sander continues to apologize.

“No, really. I’m so sorry. Crap, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have been so…”

He hesitates, clearly uncomfortable, and unable to conjure up words, I just look at him bewilderedly, my face growing steadily hotter.

“Insensitive,” he finishes. “I wouldn’t have held your hand, and…” He cuts himself off again.

And it’s just when I’m opening my mouth to finally say something that his phone lights up on the table, shining through droplets of beer dotted about the glass screen.

“Shit. It’s Masa.”

He stands, wipes his phone against his pants, and begins straightening out the wrinkles in his shirt as though the professor could walk in through the door at any second and scold him for being drunk. Meanwhile, I’m still just shaking my head like a busted VHS tape on loop.

Sander’s brow wrinkles up at the ceiling as he speaks into the receiver. “Professor… Yes… Are you serious?”

With Sander’s attention off me, I exhale into my glass and glance up at Jackie and Georgia. They’ve been silent this entire time, feeling uncomfortable, no doubt, but the way they’re both staring at me right now?

You’d think they’d just watched a children’s hospital go up in flames.

“I think you blew it,” Jackie whispers.

Frantically, I grab her by the sleeves and hiss. “Help me. How do I fix it? What do I have to do? You watch enough sappy romance. You should know!”

Jackie nudges her glasses up her nose. “Well, in a formulaic romance, you’d have to chase him down before he leaves and plant one on him.”

Now Georgia is leaning in over the table. “Don’t listen to her; that’s a terrible idea. If you do that, you’ll make him feel like a rebound. Just pull him aside and say that—”

She stops herself short when Sander finishes up his phone call and returns to the table, and this is when I feel something in my gut really sink.

I’ve lost my one and only opportunity for counsel.

Now Sander is throwing a wad of bills into the middle of the table — he’s about to leave — so I know I only have a few moments left to salvage this situation on my own.

“Masa thinks he’s found something in the data that could finally lend us some credibility,” he says, sliding on his coat. “I have to go meet him at the lab.”

Think of something, Rachel. Think of something!

As Georgia and Jackie both watch with bated breath, I finally manage to string a few broken sentences together.

It comes out sounding like a plead.

“P-please don’t feel bad about today. The breakup was long overdue — a relief, really. So, I don’t mind that we… you know…”

I leave it hanging, too embarrassed to continue, and Sander casts me what looks like both a sincere and sad smile in response.

“I understand, Rach.”

And I feel my stomach knot when I realize that’s all he’s going to say.

He quickly scoops up his bag. “Sorry to cut the party short. Duty calls, I guess. But this was fun. We should do it again sometime!” And with that, he waves the three of us goodbye as he disappears.

…

I think I want to puke.

I lay my head in my arms, allowing Jackie to pat me on the back as she quietly sips at her Coke. Georgia, on the other hand, decides to rub a punishing fist into my skull.

“Why didn’t you take the damn drink when he asked you!?”

I frown up at her in frustration. “Don’t you think that would have been even more suspicious?” And then I clonk my head back down on the table.

Jackie slurps loudly at her cola. “You should have just said you were single,” she offers.

A little stunned by this simple suggestion, I begin replaying the last five minutes over in my head. I then look up stiffly at my two friends.

“Why didn’t I just say I was single?”

“Because you have a scrap of a conscience,” Georgia answers.

I continue frantically questioning my two witnesses. “Was the last thing I said sort of helpful, at least?”

Georgia snorts at me mockingly. “Yeah, how exactly were you planning on finishing that desperate plea at the end? ‘Oh, Sander. Please don’t feel bad about today. I don’t mind that we hold hands like newlyweds and that you’ve spent the whole day undressing me with your eyes.’ ”

She’s barely able to finish her taunt before bursting into laughter, and so I silently reach for the jug of beer.

I dump the last of its contents into my glass. “I’m going to drink away from my problems now, so let’s talk about something else before I vomit up chicken innards, okay?”

Through uncontrollable laughter, Georgia manages a nod while Jackie continues patting me vacantly on the back, and as I nurse the warm glass, my stomach begins twisting into knots when I remember I’ve only completed a fraction of what I have left to deal with this evening. The thought sends a wave of apprehension washing over me, so I’m forced to wash down my worries with more beer.

Sex: canceled.

Breakup: pending.

Discussion with magical super-bird: also pending.