What's it like being that girl?
That girl he left behind in a burning house?
No one ever warned Motoko that life wouldn't fall into place like a mosaic after graduation. She often found herself seesawing between extreme spells of wanderlust and misery. An artist lived inside of her. Eager and just as ripe as the banana she peeled. She found poems in the rickety fan that blew up her skirt and within the emptiness of her family shop. The cracks in the tile floors — inspired a metaphor about lost love. The bucket filled with mop water, in her mind, was a pond filled with the secrets of sad women.
But she leaned against the counter, counting her failed dreams along the cash register's buttons. Three rejection letters lingered in the back of her mind and the strife between her and her parents. Instead of studying, she was too busy drawing stars in her notebooks. Stars and a boy's name that hardly seemed worth the heartbreak.
'I wonder if Yuki is well?' she thought to herself.
It had only been a month or two, and she was already over the rubble and ash at her feet. It was strange how fast she came to a resolve; that that indeed was not love. Because when love is supposed to arrive, it wouldn't create a chaos inside of her. And when it would leave, she wouldn't be left with an aching sadness. Or maybe it was just one of her extremes. Motoko could never straddle a fence. She always had to choose a side. Either or. This or That. It helped her believe that she in control at all times.
I wanted you to find a home inside of me.
In my palms is where you'd sleep.
My fingers would juggle the sun. The moon.
My wrists will hold down the sky.
And my blue veins will weave together the constellations.
When she did find her mind looping back to that brief moment; when Yuki beamed down at her as she sacrificed her sanity, Motoko would quickly wish something bad on him. Burying it for the hundredth time. Allowing herself to fill up with bitterness. Because it was easier that way. To be mad and spiteful.
'As if it really mattered,' she rolled her eyes.
The bell whistled as a customer dragged through the afternoon but she only stirred slightly. Motoko finished the banana, holding her eyes down at the cracks in the tile. The four o'clock glow poured into the windows and washed everything in a pale orange.
'I'm not a good person anyway.'
'I don't deserve love.'
The rubble and ash was at her feet, the flames were gone, but her chest was still filled with smoke.
Bags filled with onions and leeks were plopped in front of her, breaking the overcast of her gloominess. She wrinkled her nose and snorted, her fingers viciously jabbing into the cash register. The total blinked in bright green, and she looked up at the customer. Her lips parting to speak but she instantly became lost in his light eyes. He dug in his pocket for his wallet, and his gestures reminded her of unfolding silk sheets. And his glare, beneath the fall of his bangs, reflected a deepness only older men could possess. But he didn't look all that old.
Or he could be pretending, just like she pretended to be disenchanted with him as she reached for his debit card.
"Dinner by yourself?" She was compelled to ask. The thought of him with a woman was interestingly masochistic.
"Am I that transparent?" he said dryly. Rather taciturn.
"You didn't buy a lot," she canted confidently.
He didn't respond as he collected his bags and his debit card.
"It's sad to eat alone, yea?" Motoko urged him once more.
"Sadder things have happened." That was the last thing he said. He made off with his bags.
She dreamily stared off at him as his shoes scuffed against the floor. The bell sang again and the door clapped shut.
"What a shame!" She breathed aloud, her eyes melting onto the counter, her fingers reaching for the banana peel. But as she shifted around the counter to mop the floors, she noticed what appeared to be a driver's license on the floor.
Hatori Sohma
Birthday: July 10
Height: 6'0
Expiration date: Next year.
And she daydreamed about what kind of person he might be well into the evening. His tiny facts became a mantra that lulled her into a dreamless sleep.