October 4th - afternoon

"Uh… what?" I jump back in embarrassment, bringing my hand to my neck to soothe the chills.

"Oh. You speak English," he says this time, leaning back on his palms. "I said it's nice to meet you… my girlfriend." His stare is patient, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

"There has to be some mistake here," I panic, my voice cracking. "You see I didn't quite understand what I was getting when I put in my order, and I thought it was a dating service, and -- What are you?"

"Your ideal boyfriend." He runs his long, slender fingers through his feathery black hair and flashes me a toothpaste-commercial smile, the way the boys smiled in their pictures on the website. "And I'm happy to finally see you. Let's get started."

"Get started?"

"Yeah. We have lots of getting to know each other to do. But first…." Flexible, he bends over and tears open the plastic all the way down to the end of his refrigerator-box coffin. Standing upright, he stretches his arms like any regular person waking up in the morning, then kicks the box aside.

My knees quiver as he approaches me. He towers over me easily, but not in an intimidating way, and he takes caution not to put his hands on me.

"So what's your name?"

"Cheryl Niigaki."

"And what's my name?"

"What?"

He shrugs casually, and I am most intent on not looking down at his nakedness. Having not seen a naked man in a very long time, I feel multiple levels of discomfort of having one in here so easily, without even wanting one.

"You don't have to give me one if you don't want to. I just thought that, with a name, I could make this relationship feel more real." He speaks in an extremely soft-spoken baritone, rich but gentle. I hear him speaking as both a confident adolescent and a kindergartener on his first day of school. If that makes any sense.

"Real. Which you are… not?" Without realizing my rudeness, I point a finger at his bare chest. His smooth, flat pecs.

"Nope. I was created entirely for you. Whatever you want to do with me." He spreads his arms out wide, welcoming either a hug, or… worse.

"Don't be shy," he adds.

At long last I draw up the courage to see him fully, my eyes sweeping up and down, but not without shame.

But the first thing that comes to mind is, Adonis. Sure enough, he looks like a carved, masterpiece statue of a god. Well, maybe part god and part soccer player. Not only has he got the outlines of a six-pack, and the 'V' shape between his hips that male models have, but I don't even want to talk about how… well… that which makes him male… would be promising to a woman with that particular kind of mood and appetite right now. Wow.

"I--I can't even think straight right now," I stammer, squeezing my eyes shut in dizziness. I can't understand why overwhelming anger is starting to take over.

"Don't feel well, Cheryl? Then you can sit down." Hands on my shoulders, using no force, he walks me over to a barstool and sets me on it, my ankles dangling weakly a few inches off the floor. At this point I could have been knocked over with a leaf of paper.

"Thanks, but… I'm really sorry; this is a lot for me to take in at once. You're just not what I was expecting in the mail today." All the while he doesn't seem to be paying any attention. Comfortably, in his first few moments of real life, he somehow picks up on what I'm needing, and finds an unopened bottle of iced apple tea in the refrigerator.

"This looks refreshing," he says cheerfully, twisting the plastic cap off. "You should drink this."

"Thanks. It's my favorite."

"Good! I can't wait to learn all of your favorites." He looks at me with eyes that remind me of Keiko's three-year-old nephew. Honest, sincere, innocent. It almost hurts to look at them.

That's when I first realize it's not his fault. Nobody just asks to be sent to my apartment, and certainly no real human being acts this way around somebody he doesn't know.

"I'm worried about you not feeling well, Cheryl. I was actually hoping you'd be happy to see me and meet me, but you're not," he admits sadly, laying his comforting warm hand upon mine own.

I take a hard, stinging cold swallow of tea, the sweetness of apple spreading across my tongue as I rush to find words. I concentrate my gaze on the smiling Hello Kitty kitchen clock.

"It's not your fault. I'm just really surprised you came. It's just that I can't have a serious conversation with you while you're naked," I tell him, struggling to gain my composure.

"Well then," he says with an understanding nod, hands folded elegantly across the countertop, "that can be fixed. I just need to find some clothes."

"I'm broke," I explain. "And without transportation, so there probably won't be any going shopping today."

He kneels in a modest position by his box, investigating with a thoughtful expression on his gorgeous face, then reaches in the depths of plastic wrapping.

"My default clothing is a white undershirt and a pair of straight-cut jeans," he announces proudly, waving a flat, square package in the air.

"Then why were you delivered naked?!"

"Honestly?"

"Never mind!" I interrupt him quickly, waving my hand. "Go into the bathroom, shut the door behind you, and put those on. Come out when you're done."

"I see you want to do things in a traditional manner," he says with a smile and a deep, respectful bow before retreating into the bathroom. I'm not quite sure what he means, but it affords me an extra minute to calm down and figure out what to do next.

A three-day trial means a light at the end of the tunnel, for me. I have until Kimberly comes home, which will be soon, to figure out a plan. I had a hard enough time hiding her last birthday gift, and that was just a CD. There's no stuffing him in a closet or underneath the couch, especially with that big box in the middle of the place.

There's only one alternative, and I'm going to get so much shit for this.

"Look, Cheryl! Flip-flops!" he says as he emerges from the bathroom.

"That's great, now put them on," I tell him hurriedly. "I need you to help me carry your box outside. Make sure all your belongings are taken out of it, because I'm taking you to meet a friend of mine tonight."

"Awesome!" His chocolate eyes light up and he immediately crouches before the box, elbows-deep in plastic. "What shall we tell your friend that my name is?"

I roll my eyes toward the ceiling and search for a random male name. Something safely Asian, perhaps something I've read in a book. It's sad that the first things that come to mind are video game or popular culture characters.

Sora? No. Kingdom Hearts is well-known.

Gackt? You're kidding me.

Genji? I don't know the damndest thing about the classical novel, other than its ? Waaay too obvious.

"Shit, um… Yo---shi---yo," I randomly grope for sounds. "Yoshio! Is that bad?"

"Not at all! My name is Yoshio." Enthusiastically, he claps his hands together and presses them. Which, by the way, is kind of cute and hilarious to see someone do at, say, twenty-plus years of age.

"I don't know any Korean names."

"Only my face and my body are Korean."

"Then we'll say you're half," I say impatiently.

"Niigaki Yoshio?" he suggests, taking the other half of the box and lifting it. Together we advance toward the door.

"Not buyable. Let's call you Ishihara Yoshio." It feels better being busy while I have the strangest of crises at hand. I'm beginning to discover how good I am at thinking on my feet and telling lies. It's actually kind of scary.

Miraculously, nobody is out in the hallway while we're lugging this gigantic box. This time it's not heavy, just cumbersome. The air is thick with the smells of home-cooked Japanese food, and after living here for some time, my nose is now keen to the distinct scents of seaweed and sauces rather than just steamed rice. Right now, I dearly wish I could sit down and have something, a real meal, without worrying about such a daunting task as raising someone like a child. Or restoring someone from the dead, whichever way you want to look at it.

"Let me tear it up for you," Yoshio volunteers himself, breaking down the towering cardboard, standing with me next to the consolidated garbage bins. "While being outside of this box is nice for a change, it's strange that I feel I might miss it, somehow."

"What are you talking about?"

Yoshio and I turn around to find none other than Kimberly, arms laden with plastic grocery bags. Today she wears tight khaki pants tucked into fur boots and a sea-green shoulderless sweater, bra straps sticking out and all. Stars and hoops dangle at her earlobes, and an iPhone in her pocket plays a muted song from some emo band I don't recognize.

"Kim, this is Yoshio Ishihara, and he's a new employee, and he came to the apartment 'cause I left my wallet there and he came to bring it back, and we were just going back," I tell her.

"You said that all in one breath," she points out with cocked eyebrows, then flips her hair back a little and gives Yoshio her thorough scan. Oh God, here it comes.

And the next thing you know, the two converse in Korean. Which is the most complicated language I've ever listened to. Kim's face contorts in a series of different surprised reactions, Yoshio continually bowing and laughing modestly. The casualness of open Korean acquaintanceship with polite Japanese mannerisms. It's like an airport out here.

"Then what was with the box?" Kim asks.

"The Tanida family got a new fridge delivered to them today and they needed some help."

"Well that's just weird. The Tanida family also just got a new microwave the other day. And since Mr. Tanida didn't get the promotion he was expecting, and with their three kids, it's a wonder…."

"Yeah, well…." I can't think of anything to say. I've already exercised my stretching the truth enough.

"Do you want help with the groceries?" Yoshio asks, and I curse under my breath.

"You can next time," Kim says flirtatiously over her shoulder as she makes her way in. "I've got some other stuff to do today. Have Cheryl bring you back soon, okay?"

"Okay! Nice meeting you!" he calls after her cheerfully.

"What were you two talking about?" I demand.

"She thinks I'm funny because I told her I came from a box, and she wanted to know my birthday, and I told her it was today," he reports stupidly.

"How old did you tell her you are?"

"She didn't ask. She just said happy birthday."

"Anything else?"

"I promised her I was gonna be the best boyfriend ever for you."

"WHAT?!"

"But she said you're not in the market right now because you had relationship problems in the past. Did you get your heart broken, Cheryl? I'm so sorry." Adoringly, he rubs my shoulder and offers a sympathetic smile.

"That's not something you and I are going to talk about," I tell him firmly.

"As you wish. Where does your friend live?"

"We're taking a walk to the bus stop, and taking a bus a little ways downtown."