Casa de Mella

[grimoireofkenji]

 

It started with the smoke alarms going off. I was intending to walk out of my apartment annoyed, and even psyched myself up to throw my door open and yell "Alright, this is the third time this month!" To whoever the hell was hanging out directly outside my door and letting their fucking coffin nails waft through the narrow vent above the peephole on my front door. The dying sunlight filtering in from the deathtrap of a balcony on the other side of my apartment barely illuminated the doorway as I headed towards it, my blood pumping. Every time this happened, I'd grab a broom and prod the smoke detector's off button, slump back on the couch and wonder what kind of loser asshole would keep doing it despite definitely hearing my loud, annoyed swear from behind the door.

A high school burnout? Some junkie looking for trouble?

I grabbed the doorknob firmly and twisted. It made a loud click and I realized it was still locked. No doubt they just heard that failed attempt. Would they run away and be halfway down the stairs when I got outside? 

It was in moments like these that I realized you actually think a lot faster than it feels like you do. I was outside of my apartment in a flash after unconsciously unlocking the door. The knob flew out of my hands for a moment because I had ripped it open too strongly, and I stumbled outside, still angry.

"Alright, what the FUCK is your problem!? I know you hear that smoke alarm every time you do this."

That's what I wanted to say. Of course, as with all other critical speech checks in life, I failed.

"Alright! You hear that fucking smoke!?" I stuttered over my words as I nearly fell on my face.

"Hmm?" Spoke a rather singsong voice in response. Regaining my footing, I realized that all my anger was gone, replaced by that feeling you get when you're talking to someone way above your social standing. It's a strange feeling. I'm pretty sure it's a learned thing.

Leaning against one of the supporting poles that held up the walkway for each flight of apartments was a short-haired redhead woman in typical office attire. She looked down at me with what I could only assume was a mixture of curiosity and pity. I must've looked like one of those videos of a small animal falling down soft carpeted stairs. She took a drag from her cigarette, turning away from me to exhale a plume of smoke, presumably so as to not blow it in my face.

Well, at least she was considerate.

"You good down there, dude?" Her voice was considerate but in the way a guy who jerks off all day imagines a considerate tomboy to sound. Her ponytail was messy, stray hair misplaced, and the tie that would've brought her work attire together was all but untied, hanging around her neck weakly. Her tights had runs in them, and she was holding a pair of heels in her free hand.

"Y…yeah, I'm good." I replied, the wind taken from my sails. She seemed far worse for wear than me.

"So, where's the fire?" She chuckled a little as I got to my feet and brushed the dust off my clothes. I don't think the super had ever swept these walkways, probably due to the assumption that since they were exposed to the elements, it wasn't necessary. 

"I was trying to… find out who was smoking outside my door." I audibly stopped myself from taking an angry tone.

"Oh." She responded. It didn't seem like she got it.

I waited a moment, just kind of looking at her. She dropped her heels in surprise at the sudden revelation.

"Oh, shit dude. That's you who's always cursing?" She exclaimed, genuinely shocked.

"So I'm guessing it's you who keeps smoking directly in front of the vent for my apartment?" I replied, feeling like I'd finally cornered a murder suspect or something. 

"Yeah! I live next door. Sorry for that."

She ground her cigarette on the railing and flicked the butt into the distance somewhere. The cold early spring air seemed to respond, sending a chill down my spine. I was just wearing a t-shirt, not expecting to be out here this long.

Come to think of it, what did I actually expect to be out here to do?

If it wasn't some disheveled office lady, would I have been so calm? I'd probably have gotten my ass kicked.

"I learned so many new swears from you, dude." She laughed out loud. "Looking at you now, you definitely don't seem like the type." 

Blood rushed to my cheeks as I recalled some of the choice words I barked at my smoke alarm in the past. I certainly wouldn't want anyone hearing me like that. And yet, she had.

"S-so, we're neighbors, then?" I stammered, trying to change the subject.

"Yeah. I'm Mella, by the way." She replied, holding out her hand. I grabbed it gently, trying not to seem too eager. If I can be honest, I wasn't sure why I cared so much. Her hand was clammy and sweaty. If she had been holding the cigarette between two of these fingers, I'm surprised she could even light it.

The wind blew through the open walkway again. I shivered, holding my arms tight to my body after pulling away from Mella's grasp. Her olive-colored skin had an odd glow in the fading sunlight, the orange light seeming to project its warmth through her. Her loose hair shook slightly in the breeze.

"Do you wanna, like, go inside, dude? I can offer you a drink if you want." Mella fished her keys from the bag slung over her shoulder in a rather unsteady manner. I would've offered to hold her heels, but… that'd be odd, wouldn't it?

I nodded quietly and followed behind her. Despite me being several inches taller than the office lady, it felt like she towered over me. I guess that's just the effect of being near someone you hold so much higher than yourself. It wasn't the first time, either.

My train of thought was completely derailed as I stepped into the warmth of Mella's apartment. I didn't really turn on my lights until nightfall, but on the contrary, my neighbor's lights seemed to have never been turned off. There was a slight dust film building up on the light switch.

"Welcome to Casa de Mella!" She said, her long, thin arms spread wide.

I tried to respond, but I tripped over a pile of empty beer cans. Climbing back to my feet, the first thing I noticed wasn't the smell of cigarettes and girl sweat, but the wall of CRT televisions lining the back wall where the entrance to the balcony would be. The lights always being on made sense. 

The CRTs all being on made less sense.

Each one displayed a different strange static pattern, analog snowfall on over a dozen screens. It was almost mesmerizing, and I felt like if I kept staring, I'd never be able to pull away. Each TV was one of those small ones your parents would get you to play PS1 games on when you were a kid because you annoyed the hell out of your dad to play in the living room one too many times. The electric feeling in the air when you turned on just one amplified by a dozen. Dust particles from a dozen solid glass screens floated through the air. The smoke detectors had long since been removed, though I reckon she had them handy for whenever the inspector came through. I wonder if he had a problem with the televisions.

"You trip a lot." She said, nonchalantly unbuttoning her dress shirt and chucking her heels into the piles of stuff that took up most of her living room's space. 

"You sure don't help." I responded, trying not to sound snarky. I'm pretty sure it came out snarky.

"Just be more careful! I'm not responsible for what you fall into… or for." She winked at me. 

"Eh?" I replied, not quite getting the picture.

"Oh, dude, check this out." Mella began pulling off her pencil skirt. Without its restrictive band, I could see she had a slight stomach pudge, and was wearing plain panties beneath her sheer tights. She was definitely more fit than I expected, given her very clear lifestyle as a career alcoholic.

"I'm like a quick-change artist! I'm already in my pajamas!" 

I sincerely hoped she had a closet full of dress shirts if she was implying she just slept in whatever she was wearing. 

Mella's apartment was a mess, but a few areas seemed distinctly cleaner than the rest. Her kitchen, and the computer desk in the corner of the room. On top of it were two monitors, but it extended far enough that you could fit other things. And fit them, she did. On the far side of the desk, by the door to her bedroom, sat an old, fat computer monitor. Next to it, also in a yellowing off-white color, was a massive computer tower. I'm sure that thing would sound like a jet turbine if it were powered on. The only clear spaces on the messy carpeted floor were directly in front of the desk, and a path, cut like an adventurer through brush, to the impeccably clean kitchen. It was beyond parody how tidy it was in comparison. 

"You want me to order a pizza or something?" She called from the couch. It seemed in my few minutes of standing around and taking it all in, Mella had flopped onto the couch, tights covering shapely, yet chubby legs and thighs. I trudged through snack wrappers and piles of clothes likely pulled off in careless haste.

"Your kitchen seems clean. We can just eat leftovers. I mean, I live next do-" 

"Of course my kitchen's clean! All I have in there is cereal!"

How do you respond to that?

"Of course you have like… stuff in the fridge, right?" 

"Milk."

I had to see for myself. I got up to my feet and kicked a Strong Zero can over to the side. Mella laid on the couch, tapping away at her phone. I walked into the kitchen area, which was made up of a few thin walls and one of those bar window openings so you can hand food to people in the living room area. The carpet stopped abruptly and turned into sticky tile as I walked in. I knew I shouldn't have run outside in my socks. The kitchen itself was clean, relatively speaking. A dull incandescent lightbulb on its last legs flickered ominously and cast an insufficient, yellow glow on the appliances, which looked like they were all from the 90s.

I opened the cabinets with silent trepidation. 

One bowl. It was a normal one, like you'd find at any housewares store, white ceramic with a brown stripe down the middle. To the left and right were several boxes of assorted cereals. Cereal I didn't even know existed. What the fuck is a "fruit hoop?" Of course, there were more recognizable boxes, but every single one seemed to have been opened and poorly re-closed. How did she decide which to eat, I wonder?

“So, why cereal?” I inquired, poking my head through the little bar window. 

“Uh, my mom.” She replied, sitting up. Her eyes were a nice shade of green. They felt piercing, even despite the shitty lighting. "She said "you should try and eat at home sometimes!" So I at least try to eat breakfast. and lunch. And dinner if I'm really hungover." She let out a hearty laugh, reminiscent of what you'd imagine a Dwarf sounds like at a feast with his Dwarven friends. But there were no dwarves. I briefly imagined Mella with a big beard, and chuckled quietly. She smiled brightly at me, likely thinking I was laughing at her remark.

"Okay, so I don't think there's anything to eat in here." I closed the cabinets, exhaling louder than I originally thought. I glanced over quickly, hoping she hadn't noticed. 

"So what's the plan?" She asked, nonchalantly. I looked at her blankly for a moment, and as if she conjured it by magic, Mella grabbed a sealed can of Strong Zero from what looked like the void.

"Isn't that not sold here?" I asked.

"I imported it!" She replied, surprised that I recognized the specific type of Japanese alcohol she was soon to be drinking in excess. Thinking on it, that is kind of obscure knowledge, isn't it?

"Uh-huh. Wouldn't that be expensive?"

"I know a guy!"

I wasn't going to even look into that rabbit hole. Given what little I've learned of my neighbor up till this point, it'd likely bring up more questions than answers. 

I was about to turn around and inspect more of her cabinets, my attention being grabbed almost immediately by a draft that blew in from behind me. I turned around, expecting to see the balcony doors open. I quickly remembered why that wasn't possible.

"Did you just feel a draft?"

"Oh. Yeah," Mella began, "The balcony window's broken." Laid horizontally on her couch, she pointed lazily at the rough location of the hole in the paneled balcony door's glass.

"?" I didn't really have a response, but the sound I let out seemed to get the point across.

"It was a pretty crazy party. Like uh… three weeks ago?" 

"Huh. I was home all week then, how'd you manage to keep that quiet?" I asked incredulously. I hoped I didn't come across like I was interrogating her. I glanced again at the film of dust atop the first row of CRT televisions, loose particles catching the sinking orange sunlight shining through partially uncovered windows.

"Then it was three weeks before that."

I didn't really say anything. Truth be told, I was unsure of how to respond.

"Anyway, if it gets too cold, you can just cuddle with me." Mella said bluntly. If she was trying to distract me, it worked. I'm certain I audibly perked up. For moments my brain ran wild with the prospect. The office lady had spilled some beer on her blouse and I could make out the outline of her bra from across the living room. Obviously, I felt bad for catching a glimpse, but I wasn't about to attach a cilice to my leg for the impure thought of cuddling. The idea of her modest chest beneath a tight dress shirt up against me. The light scent of a day's worth of sweat and whatever shampoo she had used that morning.

Now it was my turn to change the subject.

"How about gyoza?" I asked.

"Oh, shit! You know how to make gyoza?" She replied, her body moving up into a sitting position on the uncomfortable-looking futon.

"I do." I had been planning to treat myself to some gyoza on the weekend, as a reward for a job well done. I even had a bottle of soju chilling in the fridge to go along with it. A night of relaxation, maybe I'd catch up on some anime.

The gyoza was basically already shared property at this point. I hadn't even rolled the meat and vegetables into the dough yet, and I could tell I'd basically committed myself to this.

"Hell yeah, dude. You need any money for ingredients?"

Briefly, I thought about how I had been caught up in Mella's odd pace. I came outside to scold someone for setting off my smoke alarms, and now I was standing in the middle of her kitchen in my socks, surrounded by the aroma of fermenting booze cans and the surprisingly stock scent of recently redone cabinetry.

"I have the stuff in my fridge, actually." I spoke before I could bite my tongue. Idiot.

"Oh, I'll help you grab it, dude." Mella made an attempt to get off the couch with a bit of flair, but stumbled over the coffee table in front of her. She let out a squeak, then snapped straight up as if I hadn't just seen it. 

"Smooth." I remarked, heading for the door, wary of the uneven threshold between the kitchen and the rest of the house.

"I'll say. Cooking for some chick you just met?" Was her retort. I quickened my pace out the door, too flustered to talk back.

Outside, two feelings immediately hit. The first was the feeling of relief. Something about being in Mella’s apartment with her felt stifling. I chalked it up to the awkwardness of going visiting someone’s house for the first time. 

The second was how much colder it had gotten since I’d been inside. I suppose I should’ve been able to tell by the draft, but it’s really not the same. I fiddled with my keys as fast as I could, silent, pudgy alcoholic woman behind me. 

My apartment was kept relatively clean, most of the time. Unless I was stressing out over a deadline or had fallen asleep drunk, I made sure to leave everything in my abode as I had left it when I woke up that morning. 

“Nice digs, neighbor!” Mella piped up immediately, brushing past me in the doorway of my own apartment and into my living room before I could even flick on the lights. I sighed and moved straight to my kitchen. Mella seemed to make a beeline to my drafting desk, the can of Strong Zero still in hand. I thought she had sat that down when she walked outside. 

“Uh, feel free to look around, if you like,” I said in futility. She was already poking and prodding the pile of papers on my desk. 

“What’s this?” She asked, sounding as curious as a child in a brand-new relative’s house. She was holding up a manuscript a few centimeters thick. It was just barely see-through when the last vestiges of sunlight shone from my balcony window through the back of it.

“It’s just a thing I’ve been working on.” I tried to sound nonchalant as I moved to the fridge and started taking stock of my ingredients.

“You a writer?”

“Something like that.”

“I had an ex who was a writer, aw man.” Mella responded, her own anecdote seeming to bring her some measure of nostalgia. 

“And how long ago was that?” I put a few Tupperware containers full of chopped and minced vegetables on my countertop before kneeling back down to reach the rest of the fridge.

“Uh… I dunno, like six years ago?” I could practically hear her cartoonishly putting her finger to her chin in thought. The smell of seasoned ground pork wafted out of the cheap dollar store container as I lifted it up and practically made me start to drool.

“Isn’t that a weird question to ask someone you just met?”

“Didn’t you bring up your ex to start with?”

“I mean… Yeah?” 

I silently returned to my search. I had a bottle of soy sauce in here somewhere. I remember hearing that you aren’t supposed to refrigerate it, but my mother always did, so I sorta just picked up the habit. The moon was starting to rise above the trees beyond my shitty wooden balcony railing. Had I really been moving so slowly?

Before long, I had retrieved all the ingredients and put them into one of those reusable shopping bags. I exhaled loudly, clapping my hands together. 

“Alright, let’s go!” I said in my best faux-cheery voice.

But there was no response. 

I peered through the bar counter-thing in my kitchen to see Mella, hunched over my drafting desk, bottomless save for her tights and underwear. She took a sip from the can in her hand and continued to read intently. In a sudden fit of - call it shame - I certainly wasn’t angry with her, I grabbed the manuscript from her hand with a bit more force than I expected to. Even she was a bit shocked.

“Please uh… Later, okay?” I said, trying to calm down.

“Dude. This is finished, isn’t it?” She said, without even looking at me. 

“Yeah.” I put it back down on the desk and started towards the door.

“Have you submitted it?” Her tone was rather intense. It was as if she were asking a question she knew the answer to already.

“Look, we can talk about it later. Now hurry up, before I change my mind about this gyoza.” I tried to sound cold. My fucking voice cracked. I don’t think your voice is supposed to crack in your late-twenties.

“hai-hai!” Mella’s tone grew a bit cheerier, as if I hadn't just snatched something out of her hand like a child.

Mella’s kitchen was surprisingly clean, though I think I said that already. I had brought over my special pans and cutlery for preparation. My freshly sharpened paring knife caught a bit of the moonlight shining in through my neighbor’s apartment window and glinted for a moment. Beautiful. Deadly, too.

For small vegetables. I fired up the gas stove, half-expecting an explosion from negligence. It looked like she had never used the thing, so I took the liberty of wiping it down, as well as the rest of her counters. Mella was in the living room, using the old, yellowing computer on the desk next to her bedroom door. At least, I assumed it was her bedroom door. I wasn’t sure how uniformly the apartments had been constructed. I heard the crunchy MIDI sound of a shooter from the 90s followed by even crunchier sounds coming from a pair of those old PC speakers with their own power supply. The office lady polished off her can, chucked it behind her, and kept playing.

I sauteed the cabbage on the stove, listening to the occasional grumble from Mella over a “HUMILIATION” or “HOOOLY SHIT” from the speakers. At some point, unbeknownst to me, she had lit up a cigarette and the smells combined reminded me of an old net cafe run by an old Chinese couple I had visited when I was in college. I tried not to think about it while I mixed the onions, garlic, and ginger to the mixing bowl with the cabbage, an overpoweringly savory aroma rising once I started kneading the seasoned pork in with the rest of the mixture. I’d never been more thankful to not have a smoke detector. 

Why had I stopped going to that net cafe? The owners seemed to like me. I certainly liked the vibe. Every visit had gone smoothly. I even met a cute redhead who played games with me every few visits. So why had I stopped going? I absentmindedly scooped my creation into the center of one of the wrappers I had laid out on a bakery tray. Store bought ones, this time. I didn’t have time to prepare them myself. Mella took a long drag from her cigarette, and the draft from her broken window that seemed to occasionally blow through carried the heady smell of menthols right up to my nostrils. I exhaled forcefully, like a dragon blowing smoke, and kept up my work.

Without getting up, and somehow, in one of the only cleared areas of her living room floor, Mella had managed to acquire another can of booze. 

“Think fast!” She threw it over to me and I just barely caught it, the shock making me drop a spoonful of the gyoza filling onto the sticky linoleum floor.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“You ought to be thankful! You know how expensive it was for me to import these cases?” She kicked a loose can and it went careening into what was most likely another pile of cans.

“I’ll buy the next one.” I said without thinking.

“The next one? You think there’ll be a next one?”

“You’re the one having a guy over to cook for you while you play Quake 3!” I said. A weak, belated comeback, but it was all I could think up over the half an hour after she silenced me last.

I cracked open the can. Classic lemon flavor. The static display on the wall of CRTs danced around, the patterns forming odd shapes through the rising heat-haze of the skillet as I placed a few of the wrapped and sealed gyoza onto it, taking a small sip between each. The fragrance of well-seasoned dumpling filling overtook every other smell in the small, but comfortable apartment.

Comfortable? Yeah, I guess it was. It’s the same size as mine, after all.

Mella unbuttoned a few buttons from her blouse.

“Isn’t it getting hot in here, dude?” She asked, fanning herself.

“You ever work in a kitchen?” I replied.

“...You’re kidding, right?”

Yeah. This was the serial cereal-eater, after all.

I returned my attention to the dumplings, carefully managing the coloration on the flat portion as they let out a low, satisfying sizzle against the cast-iron. I grabbed the lid and prepared to pour a little more water in. 

“So you know how I told you my boyfriend was a writer, right?” The olive-skinned layabout pushed back on her expensive-looking office desk chair and turned her neck til she was staring directly at me, green eyes obscured by the steam rising.

“Yeah?” I replied, trying not to look at her. 

“Well, he’d always tell me about what he was going to publish. Whenever we’d meet up for a date, he’d have loads to tell me.”

“Are you expecting me to tell you about my manuscript?” 

“Nah, I just thought it was an interesting anecdote.” She took a drag from her cigarette, probably her second or third, and then another sip from a can.

“How many of those have you put down?” I was genuinely curious.

“About… 6? They don’t really hit unti- hic- until literally now, I guess!” She let out a rather cute chuckle. It didn’t sound like the one from earlier. She shook her head wildly, as if trying to get the intoxication to let go of its grip, and brushed her red hair back into place with her hand. I polished off my first can, and sat it on an empty space on the counter, lifting the top from the skillet and preparing to start moving them back onto the tray.

“You have any plates?” 

“No.”

“Whatever. Clear some space off of that coffee table.” Without a moment’s hesitation, the tipsy office lady stumbled over to the table, placed her arm against the surface, and swept it across in one clumsy motion. The clanging of cans and colliding of one or two objects that were probably important resounded through the apartment.

“Mission complete, boss!” She giggled drunkenly, shooting me a sloppy thumbs-up. How could a thumbs-up be sloppy?

“Do you… need help cleaning this place up, maybe?” I posed. She seemed to take it well.

“I-it’s clean where it matters!”

“I won’t cook for you anymore unless this place is clean.”

Mella let out a resigned sigh.. Without saying a word, I got the idea that she wasn’t entirely opposed to it.

I grabbed the second oven mitt I had brought with me out of the shopping bag and shifted the skillet by the handle to a dormant burner, grabbing the tray of gyoza in the same swift movement. I placed the tray down on the table with grace that’d make a dim sum waiter green with envy, careful not to trip over any of the various detritus littering my path. 

“Oh, fuck yeah!” She exclaimed in between hiccups. I carelessly chucked my oven mitt through the bar opening-thing and flopped down onto the couch. Mella took a seat next to me. It had occurred to me that I hadn’t checked my phone at all the entire evening, and I took the time to do so. 

9:37. Kind of a late dinner, no? And not a single message.

“Here!” She handed me another can of alcohol. I took stock of the cold can before cracking it open and hearing a satisfying sound.

Wait, why is this cold?

Mella plucked an entire gyoza off the tray and took a bite. I don’t know what I expected, but her panting and trying not to spit it out because of how hot it was wasn’t it. Up until that point, she had seemed so invulnerable, so it was kind of a relief. I laughed out loud.

“Hey, you…” She had tried to reach for another one and kind of fell over on the couch, extremely close to my face. I could smell the booze and seasoned pork filling on her breath. I could make out the mole under her left eye. The way she exhaled from her nose instead of laughing as she was regaining her composure. I felt my own cheeks grow hot as I realized she was staying where she was, our faces a few inches apart. A few beads of sweat dripped between her cleavage, and she held onto that dumpling she had picked up off the tray as if her life depended on it, but her hand didn’t move, nor did the rest of her.

“Y…you should shop the story around.” She said, slurring her words a tiny bit.

“What?” I replied, taken aback, and trying to distract myself with the delicious taste of my own cooking.

“Yeah. Don’t be like my ex, dude. I doubt he… I doubt he’s even tried now!” She seemed serious, as much as she could be, at least.

Of course, the thought had crossed my mind, even more now that I was buzzed. The thought always occurred when I drank. 

“I’m scared, Mella.”

Why had I said that? The fairly weak barrier which held back the thought of me getting particularly personal with this woman had sprung a leak. Several leaks, most likely. Like a sieve. Was it the alcohol? Maybe it was her disarming presence. The way she kind of bobbed to-and-fro ever so gently, as if caught by the occasional breeze. Mella flashed me a devilish grin, as if this were the opening she were waiting for. She kissed me on the cheek. Unsure of how to react, I sort of just sat there. 

And kept speaking.

“I’m really scared. I spend day-in and day-out producing stuff that isn’t mine for people. Why am I so afraid of my own stuff?” I stammered out, damn near chugging the remainder of the can in my hand.

“It’s funny, you know?” Mella responded. I held back from lowering my eyebrows in annoyance at her.

“What’s funny?”

“I always got that feeling from my ex, too.”

Mella pressed her lips against mine gently. Several years of touch-starved-ness out the window in a flash. I pressed back, and we pulled apart.

My world was spinning. Though, half of that was likely because I was a lightweight. Mella’s green eyes seemed to stare through me. My gaze was practically locked in on hers, as if the ginger bob cut that framed her face was like a cage, preventing me from looking anywhere outside of its limits. I got a whiff of the cigarette smell that clung to her clothes on a likely daily basis, heady and somewhat familiar. The soft glow from the cherry of the smoldering coffin nail between her index and middle finger was just barely visible in my periphery.

“I took the -hic- next step in my life, just like you said you would. How are you still stuck?”

“What?”

“You said… You’d publish your book if I got a nice job! Well, look at me!” Mella sloppily moved her hands down the outline of her body, presumably to show off her business attire. Being that half of it was removed, I don’t think it had the desired effect, but I got the gist of it.

She must have confused me for her ex. That had to be it.

“I’m not your boyfriend, Mella. I’m single as hell.” I tried to plead my case. I pulled a can of beer from the abyss and took several large swallows, loudly gulping.

“I mean, we never formally broke up, did we?”

“Didn’t we?” I decided to play along out of curiosity. I took a sip.

“You just kind of stopped showing up one day.”

Have you ever wondered what causes someone to pass out? What causes a person to hear a sentence and practically go blank? Take a nap for a few hours? 

I still don’t really know, but I do know that at that moment, I definitely did. I’m sure the booze made me a little sleepier, but it was Mella’s words that really stole my consciousness. I’m pretty sure the static on the CRTs were all the same right before it all went black. Wonder what that meant.

In what felt like the blink of an eye, I found myself laying on Mella’s uncomfortable futon. The sun was rising, and the faint smell of breeze-chilled uneaten gyoza wafted into my nose. I groggily sat up, and stared around the room. My arm was sore from sleeping on it wrong, and I could hear shuffling from the other room.

Same messy, can-infested living room. The wall of twenty-year-old televisions displayed nothing different from yesterday. Perhaps another layer of dust.

Mella stepped out of her bedroom, looking pristine, as if last night’s runny makeup and binge drinking had never happened. For all I know, she was simply adept at containing her hangovers. I know I wasn’t. My head kind of swam, and my hand was shaky as I tried to grab one of the dumplings off the tray.

“Oh, hey, dude. You must really be a lightweight, eh?” Her messy red hair was neatly styled, curtain bangs completely equal on both sides. They might not have been, but I really wasn’t in any kind of state to be judging that. “You look like shit.”

In truth, I really hadn’t been that drunk.

“Ah, yeah.” I responded, barely a spark of life within me.

“Don’t forget what you said yesterday.” She said, her smile growing stern.

“What did I say?”

“That you’d help me clean up my living room.”

I had said that. I’d also said I’d cook for her again, I think.

“Yeah, I did. The place smells. It kinda reminds me of…”

“A net cafe?” Mella finished my sentence.

Maybe I'll call up that publisher today.