October 4th

I seriously don't know how I'm going to explain this to Keiko. She's cool and all, but somehow I feel the idea of telling her that Yoshio came by mail will be pushing it, maybe just a little. This is all I can think about while Yoshio and I are on the bus; minutes already pass before I realize he's pushing my head onto his shoulders. How I'm supposed to be relaxed by that, I have no clue, but I figure that since Yoshio hasn't pulled anything horribly appropriate while we were alone in the apartment, he's harmless enough. I hope.

This is going to be the most expensive three-day trial in the history of the entire universe. Because now I may have to purchase him a room at the hotel, and it's not like I qualify for the employee discount yet, and the bus fares around here aren't that kind to me either.

The early-evening sun gives a warning that it'll descend soon, like a yawn. The radio is playing an advertisement for something I don't understand, and the bus driver is jolly like usual with his fancy hat and driving gloves. Yoshio frequently tilts his head up in interest, smiling because he understands what the radio ad is about. I keep my fingers bent in a death-grip around my phone, after receiving a text from Keiko. Now she knows I'm coming, and I'd told her it was kind of important.

"What's that noise?" Yoshio asks, looking down at me and blinking in concerned curiosity.

"What noise?"

"That." Like a mouse afraid to finagle cheese out of a trap, his fingers tremble before they settle on my stomach. "Your stomach sounds funny. Are you sick?"

I roll my eyes. "Seriously? I thought you were supposed to be smart. My stomach is making noises because I'm hungry. And because you showed up and I have to take care of you, I'm missing dinner."

"I'm sorry." He gives an apologetic half-bow in his seat, his bangs spilling over from where they had been neatly combed over the top of his head, like a black mini-curtain. A shadow casts itself upon his forehead and half his face, and I can almost perceive sadness.

"You know what, don't worry about it. I'm sorry myself. I'm just a little frustrated, and my nerves are going haywire, and… you get it."

"I could have cooked for you."

"There's nothing in my kitchen to cook."

Silence.

"Maybe you could tell me more about yourself."

"What do you want to know?" I lean my head back against the seat, eyes closed.

"Well, anything. How old are you?"

"I'll be twenty soon."

"Where do you want to go for our first date?"

Eyes still closed, I raise an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you prefer outdoors or inside, day or night…?"

"Hardly an appropriate question the first day meeting someone, if you ask me." Then, in a hushed voice, "That's how I can tell you're really a product and not a real human."

"I can see you're displeased, and I'm really sorry. It's just that I haven't seen you smile yet, and that's what I was made for. But we've only got three days together, so will you at least think about it?"

I still see Kenichi standing casually in his signature preppy jacket on a spring day, etched inside my eyelids. By comparison, he was a guy of less words, and somehow it was understood between us that we were going to be an item. It never became a question of giving Kenichi a chance, but nonetheless the same overall gentlemanly charm was there. Is that why I'm acting so hostile to the faultless Yoshio?

"Yeah, I'll think about it," I give in. "Thanks for asking."

Is one exempt from being polite to another just because that person isn't actually a person?

Was the Divinity Series living mannequin made for the desperate? Is it designed as a temporary fix, or for an entire lifetime? Is it like a pet to comfort the lonely widows? Or is it meant to be like a Chippendale dancer, meant to look at but not for touching? Or is Kronos Heaven simply competing against the booming escort business?

I wonder how much Yoshio costs.

And I hope he can make his actual buyer happy someday. Provided that she doesn't mind that he's weird.

But what am I going to do with him for now?

The bus has stopped.

"Oh crap. Come on," I say, mindlessly grasping him by the wrist, like a little kid. "This is our stop. I'm taking you to where I work."

"Awesome! What do you do? Are you an architect? An artist? Or just a cute waitress?" I can't help but notice the way the white undershirt clings to his body shape. He's skinny around the waist, almost like a girl, and the way he self-consciously pulls it down over his jeans is human.

"Where do you come up with these ideas?"

"The Divinity Series goes through an indoctrination on real people, when we're first tested. I have the certifications in your manual at home," he says, nodding confidently. There's an almost imperceptible dimple next to his mouth as he grins in satisfaction. "Women in Japan are moving up in the workforce. They can have careers in anything now."

"You almost sound like my Business Management textbook."

His eyes widen in shock, then he brings his hands into a tight bundle and clutches it to his chest. "You're a business manager? That's so great, Cheryl! I'm so honored!"

That kind of assumption can only really bring out a deep sigh.

"No, but I have a book on it. I work at the hotel downtown because I'm trying to save money for college. And once that's over, maybe someday I can be a business manager. Or whatever else."

"It would be cool if I could be something one day," he says, staring down the street. It's hard to determine whether he's actually seeing, or has been built with a sensitive detection system. Maybe all he sees is grids with square-ish diagrams.

"Maybe you can," I tell him, deciding to be kind. "It's not like anybody can easily tell you're not human. If you have the interest, I don't see why not."

Big fat lie. If he came with a serial number, it's probably not going to fly as, say, a Social Security Number. Plus, all his awkwardness, and childishness, and cluelessness, would even get him locked up someday. This is why I'm feeling so responsible.

The walk to the Holiday Inn has started to feel less lonely. As the sun starts its descent, there are now two long shadows on the sidewalk instead of just mine. The roads are still packed with cars though, and the orange glare on the signs is blinding. It's a weird feeling, since I'm used to traveling in the opposite direction around this time of day. Now we begin to see more elegantly-designed buildings, roundish crème-colored concrete architecture, taller rectangular buildings consisting of mainly glass windows, pristine office buildings with traces of Japanese-ness like polished wooden signs adorned with chunky traditional brush-calligraphy.

Teenagers with bleached hair and eye-aching fashion sense congregate in the parking lot of a Family Mart convenience store on my left, slurping from straws speared into boxes of milky teas. Petite bodies with smiling faces serving customers at the counter, bowing in their uniform smocks. The evening's first businessmen perusing magazines and newspapers by the window. Even for a gaijin with limited Japanese abilities, the little store beneath a white border with green and blue stripes exemplifies happiness in the most simple pleasures in life.

"We should go in," my new mind-reading friend says.

"Not this time." My heart sinks just a little.

"But you're hungry. Come on." Not willing to take no for an answer, he seizes my wrist the way I took his getting off the bus, and effortlessly drags me to the sliding doors with the stride of a man on the warpath.

"Irasshaimase," the staff behind the counter sing in a dull tone. 'Welcome.'

Yoshio smiles and offers a respectful bow, then speaks to them in Japanese, in a rapid chatter. He 'points' at me with flat, open hands, and the two women and one man behind the counter smile at me.

"What did you say to them?" I demand quietly behind my teeth.

"I said you were hungry. They said feel free to have a look around. Look, obentou! And spaghetti dishes! Oh, that looks delicious…!"

I stop in my tracks and swerve my body around, giving him a full, hard look in the face.

"Back up the bus here for just a second. You eat?"

"I can," he says with a shrug.

At that moment, it's almost disorienting. The last time I was being looked at in the face, so directly, by a hot guy, was…. Well, it was a long time ago.

Do I ever hate cheaters. If Yoshio had been just some random guy and not a mail-order doll, I would be terribly upset by the way the whole experience with Kenichi has ruined me with guys.

But perhaps that's just a natural law. You don't get a hot guy every single time. Not twice in a row, anyway. Not me, anyway.

"Oh. Well since you've committed me to this -- which, thanks for the embarrassment, by the way -- I guess I'm going to have to buy something," I say flatly, but not without noticing the two women behind the counter stifling giggles while they stare at Yoshio. If they only knew.

"They said in the training video that if you don't eat, you'll die," he says with a frown. It kind of bothers me that he's still devastatingly good-looking when he looks sad. His eyebrows raise a little, and join together; and they're not fat, bushy 'man' eyebrows either. Some men, the few and far between that look like Yoshio naturally, look like they pluck and shape their eyebrows, even though I know they don't. And one thing he does have that Kenichi didn't, is a square chin. I think I really enjoy looking at his chin.

If he was "created" for the enjoyment of women, then there's no shame in looking, is there?

"You won't die from missing one meal. You die from missing too many meals. I think I read that it takes over a month, for your average person. Trust me. Someone as messed up as I am loves food, and doesn't make a habit of missing meals. Now do you want anything or not?"

"Maybe we can share one?"

"I'm hungry, dude."

"Okay, then I'll have what you're having!"

"The budget doesn't allow a chicken katsu tonight, so I'm having the hamburger patty with the red sauce on it, with the soba noodles on the side. Cool?"

"Very cool."

And so it turns out I bought him a meal. That's ¥240 on him so far.

"Thanks so much, Cheryl! You're very kind," he says humbly, chewing away at the hamburger patty at a natural pace. He has insisted on leaning against the cold metal bicycle rack, the way we had seen the high-schoolers do it when we came in. The cut of his faded jeans and his long legs make his body look like a pencil, his right leg crossed over the left at the ankle. Even his feet, decked out in sandals that look like Birkenstocks, look superhumanly perfect, smooth with pedicured toenails.

"It looks bad, and feels bad, to eat when someone with you isn't."

"This is the first food I've ever had, and I'm really enjoying it."

"Do you taste it?"

"Nope."

"Then why would you say you're enjoying it?"

"It feels good to do what you do."

"Not all of what I do in my life is enjoyable. You'll find that out when we go to my work. Which, by the way -- I'm ready to roll when you are."

"Yes, let's go to meet your friend."

Is it weird that I had fun doing this?