Summary: Haru orders pizza. Snowflake eventually becomes blizzard.
Flipping channels. Blood everywhere: on the news and in television dramas Haru's never watched long enough to learn the names. He tosses the remote onto the cushion by the living room table and lurches into the kitchen. He pries the fridge door open and stares in growing confusion at zested lemons cut in half, a jar of pickled plums almost gone, and a plastic container of plain rice. His hand knocks against a near-empty carton of eggs as he fumbles inside. Mackerel… where did he put the mackerel..?
The phone drums obnoxiously against the end table. It's always Kisumi.
Did you get home safely? he chirps against the gory backdrop of yet another crime series Haru will never bother to follow.
"Yeah," he sighs, his voice as empty as his head.
You had dinner yet?
"Not yet…"
Is it going to be mackerel again?
Haru frowns. The fridge door slams closed behind his back. "I'm out of mackerel."
Oh wo-how! come the amused high notes. Never thought I'd hear that one!
"Shut up," mutters Haru.
You can always go to the seaside market, it should still be open at this hour, right? replies Kisumi without skipping a beat.
"I don't want to walk," grunts Haru, his brow crinkled in annoyance. A hum follows.
Time to treat yourself to take-out then! Ooorr, how about eating out with me for a change?
"No." The answer is always immediate, always the same. Even Kisumi's laugh rings the same: the buzz of mosquitoes, the shriek of sandpaper against splintered wood.
So cold…! he whines in a mock pout that grates with a dry burn Haru wishes he could scratch away. Well, good night, Haru! See you tomorrow!
"Night," mumbles Haruka as he presses End Call and then lets the phone clink against the end table once more. He still isn't sure why he occasionally gets these calls from Kisumi – so unnecessary, since they work at the same restaurant and see each other way too often for his liking. Nevertheless, the calls always seem to come on darker days, and Haru, though he cannot express it, is sensible of there being some kindness in the gesture, a kindness that is nonetheless lost on him right now. He's out of mackerel. Someone is screaming – probably the murder victim… and Haru is too tired to walk another mile.
He drags himself into the living room and plops down to his laptop – another needless thing, since he hardly uses it for anything except work e-mails and Skype calls with his mother, whose initial complaints that he never smiled into the camera eventually led Haru to cover the webcam with a piece of duct tape and lie through his teeth that it was broken. Her complaints soon changed to his not getting the computer fixed as he ought, but somehow that's still more bearable than being urged to smile. Besides… Haru kind of likes it as it is, with its scuffed dolphin sticker on top and a weathered Squirtle charm hanging from the side. The search engine comes in handy too, and never more so than tonight, when look as he might, he cannot find a single flier in his apartment for some dime-a-dozen fast food place that could help chase away his hunger for another night. A few clicks inform him that there are several options in his area, but none of them carry mackerel dishes. What a waste, he thinks with a frown that deepens when he adds, Kisumi would probably find this funny, too. With just a few weeks of acquaintanceship under his belt, Kisumi was fairly quick to observe that for someone who makes twenty different dishes a day, Haru's preferences were suspiciously narrow.
Mackerel.
Water.
Sleep…
After five more minutes of tedious scrolling and clicking, he finally happens across the website of a recently opened pizza place called Sasabe's that Haru initially reads as Saba's and feels a twinge of excitement before realization hits and disappointment sets in like a dull headache. He has half a mind to close the tab as punishment for being deceived, but the slick design of the site draws him in, invites him to linger at the virtual table as the menu rolls across his screen. He could count the number of times he's had pizza on one hand, and isn't quite swayed by the menu – again, no mackerel, at least not at first glance –, but unlike other take-out sites Haru's visited so far, this one lets him place an order online (Good, he hates phone calls), and even has an optional Instructions to the Driver section.
Please let us know if you have any instructions for us, the box says, informing him he has 150 characters left to do so. Haru fidgets.
After a minute of contemplation, he refreshes the page, places an order for a simple cheese pizza with his name, address and phone number, and into the box, he simply types,
mackerel
