Lunch

By late morning, chaos indeed reared its head. 

It started with laundry. 

Akio had retreated to the living room with his laptop, attempting to catch up on work emails (and to mentally brace for Monday’s 8 a.m. meeting). 

From his spot on the couch, he could see Amaya tumbling around the apartment with a basket of laundry, her wet hair piled messily atop her head in a towel turban. She had commandeered the washing machine in a burst of productivity after her shower, declaring she was finally going to wash “the heaps of sparkly spandex" she's been avoiding.

Akio had simply arched an eyebrow.

She dug around in the basket, pulling out what looked like a pair of neon pink leggings coated in glitter and… were those bells on the hem? Akio opened his mouth, then closed it, deciding it was safer not to ask.

Now she was darting back and forth hanging clothes to dry on a rack by the window. Each trip from the laundry closet to the drying rack took her past Akio’s field of vision. Trip being the operative word, on her third pass, Amaya’s foot caught on that infernal bag again, nearly sending her (and an armful of half-damp costumes) tumbling.

“Woah—!” she yelped, windmilling her arms for balance. A spray of errant water droplets flung from the clothes in her arms onto the floor. Miraculously, she righted herself before disaster struck, shooting a victorious grin toward Akio as if to say nailed it!

He merely pinched the bridge of his nose. “That bag,” he muttered, “is going to be the death of us both.”

Amaya had the decency to look mildly sheepish. “I’ll move it, I’ll move it,” she promised, dumping the clothes on the drying rack. True to her word, she did grab the bag and drag it fully into her room this time, out of the hallway.

Unfortunately, in doing so, it snagged on the door frame and tipped sideways, spilling half its content onto the floor: a trail of colourful scarves, a tangle of costume jewellery, and a rubber chicken that rolled out with a tragic squeak.

They both stared at the rubber chicken. It stared back. Silence.

Akio was the first to break, a laugh escaping his lips. “Should I even ask?”

Amaya placed her hands on her hips, attempting a tone of great seriousness. “Emergency prop. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeated, shaking his head. He watched as she scooped up the absurd assortment, shoving it all back into the hapless bag and propping it against the wall inside her room. Progress, at least the hallway was now clear of tripping hazards. Small victories.

With the suitcase finally out of sight, Akio figured the worst was over. He returned his attention to his laptop, scanning an email from Tanaka-san about next week’s client presentation. He had just managed to refocus on a spreadsheet when he heard a gasp from the laundry area.

“Uh… Akio?” Amaya’s voice sing-songed from the hall. “I think something’s wrong with the washing machine.”

A spike of dread shot through him. He got up and rounded the corner to find Amaya standing in a puddle of suds. Bubbles were foaming generously out of the washing machine’s detergent drawer and onto the floor around her bare feet.

Akio’s jaw dropped. “What did you do?!”

“I may have added a teensy bit too much soap,” she admitted, wincing. Suds continued to froth over, creeping across the tiles. A rogue bubble floated up and popped on Amaya’s nose.

“A teensy bit… how much is teensy?” Akio grabbed a stack of towels from a shelf, thrusting one at her. So much for his peaceful Saturday.

“I don’t know! The cap thingy was so small, I thought, ‘this can’t possibly be enough,’ so I added… a bit more.” She started mopping at the floor, which was doing very little as more suds spilled forth. “Maybe a lot more.”

Akio groaned. This was partially his fault; he should have anticipated that someone whose professional skills involved taming lions or juggling knives or whatever she does, might not be well-versed in the subtle art of Japanese washing machines.

“Okay, stop the machine,” he instructed, kneeling to pull open the washer door. Amaya hit the cancel button and the angry whirl of the overworked motor ceased. They were left with an eery silence, broken only by the crackle of soap bubbles and Amaya’s guilty little chuckle.

Together, they tackled the mess. Two roommates on their hands and knees, scooping up foam and drenched towels, slipping past each other in the cramped space. 

At one point, Amaya lost her footing on the slick tiles. Akio instinctively reached out, catching her by the waist before she could fall face-first into a mountain of bubbles. She ended up pressed against him.

Time hiccuped. They froze in that position: Amaya wide-eyed with Akio holding her upright, suds clinging to them in wet patches. A thick droplet of soap slid from a strand of her hair down the side of her neck. Akio’s gaze inadvertently followed its path, and he felt heat rise to his face. She was light in his grasp, warm and slightly damp from the cleaning chaos they’d wrought. The scent of her shampoo, something cotton candy sweet, mixed with the clean soap smell between them.

“You okay?” he managed, his voice a tad softer than usual. His hand lingered at her waist a second longer before he realized and quickly let go, clearing his throat as he stepped back.

Amaya’s cheeks were distinctly pink, whether from exertion or something else, he couldn’t be sure. She laughed, a touch breathless. “Yup. Just have the grace of a baby giraffe before noon, apparently.” She brushed a bubble off his shoulder gently, her fingers grazing the fabric of his shirt in a way that made his stomach do an odd little flip. “Thanks for the catch, partner.”

He tried to ignore the warmth where her fingers had been. “Don’t mention it,” he said, returning his focus to wringing out a towel over the sink. To his relief, Amaya resumed mopping with renewed vigor, keeping a tiny bit more distance between them as they finished cleaning up the mess.

When the last of the suds had been corralled and the floor was relatively less slippery, they surveyed their handiwork. The laundry nook was a bit damp, but no longer a winter wonderland of foam. Akio tossed the sopping towels into a bucket. Both of them were a mess, Akio’s sweatpants were soaked at the knees, and Amaya’s T-shirt and shorts had acquired random polka dots of suds.

“Well,” Akio sighed, pushing wet hair off his forehead, “that was…educational.”

Amaya burst out in giggles. “Hey, at least the floor is really clean now. Multi-tasking!” She wiped the back of her hand across her brow, leaving a soapy streak above her eyebrow. “Ugh, I feel sticky. Second shower of the day, maybe?”

“You and me both,” he admitted. There was a damp patch on his sleeve that was making his arm itch. Without thinking, he peeled off the shirt, intending to toss it into the laundry bin with the towels.

He realized his mistake immediately. As the shirt cleared his head, he caught Amaya’s eyes flick down to his bare torso for a split second. Her mouth formed a tiny “oh.” Akio froze like a deer in headlights, shirt still clenched in one hand. 

Sure, it wasn’t a big deal, guys walk around shirtless sometimes, nothing to write home about. But something about the way her gaze lingered, just for a heartbeat, made the air feel ten degrees hotter.

Amaya recovered first, a slow, impish smile spreading across her face. “Well, hello there, six-pack,” she teased, arching an eyebrow. “Didn’t know we were having fan service this morning.”

If his face wasn’t red before, it certainly was now. He hastily hugged the damp shirt to his chest as if that could magically reverse the situation. “I—I’m just—my shirt was wet!” he stammered, utterly mortified at his own lack of foresight.

She cackled, clearly enjoying his embarrassment. “Relax, Akio, it’s fine. I’ve seen shirtless men before.” Then, with a wicked grin: “Though none of them turned quite that shade of tomato.”

He groaned and fled the scene, mumbling something about changing clothes. As he retreated to his bedroom, her laughter followed, light and playful like jingling bells. He shut the door and exhaled, willing his face to cool down. Why am I reacting like a schoolboy? he chastised himself.

 It was just a brief moment of clumsiness and proximity, nothing to read into. And sure, she might have looked at him, and he might have noticed her looking, but that didn’t mean anything.

Akio raked a hand through his hair and caught sight of himself in the mirror: his hair sticking out in damp spikes, a stray soap bubble still clinging to his ear. He looked ridiculous. No wonder she was laughing. He removed the offending bubble and got dressed in a fresh T-shirt and jeans, trying to pretend his heart hadn’t skipped a beat out there.

When he finally emerged, the washing machine debacle had resolved. Amaya had restarted the load with far less detergent (under Akio’s hawk-like supervision this time) and the clothes were properly washing. The noon sun was high now, flooding the apartment with a golden glow.

Amaya stood by the open window, enjoying the breeze as she checked the first batch of laundry on the rack. She’d changed into dry clothes: ripped jeans and a tank top sporting an illustration of a grinning clown face.

As he approached, Akio noticed, she’d set up something new: a metal hoop hanging where her silks used to.

He frowned at it. “What is that doing here?”

Amaya followed his gaze. “Oh! Juliya let me borrow a lyra.” She beamed. “Figured I should practice some routines today.”

Akio’s eyes widened. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to do dangerous stunts in our living room again.” His imagination conjured an image of Amaya launching from the hoop into the TV, the inevitable crash, a trip to the emergency room. His stomach felt queasy.

She laughed, patting the pole. “Relax, Mr. Worst Case Scenario. I’ll mostly be doing strength and balance drills. No flying or death-defying leaps, promise.” Then she jutted her lower lip in a pleading pout. “Unless you want to spot me for a backflip dismount?”

He blanched. “Hard pass.”

Amaya giggled. “Kidding.” She gave the hoop a testing little spin. The casual display of her athleticism, muscles of her arms engaging as she lifted herself off the ground, was not lost on him. Akio cleared his throat and looked away, which was becoming a theme today.

“How about lunch?” he said abruptly, deciding food was a safe topic, and more importantly, a safe thing to look at in the kitchen. He busied himself opening the fridge. They had ingredients for a simple meal: rice, some leftover miso soup, and the vegetables he’d prepped the day before.

“Ooh, yes. I’m starving,” Amaya chimed, abandoning her practice immediately at the mention of food. She bounded into the kitchen behind him. “What are we having? Need any help?”

Akio cast a skeptical glance over his shoulder. The last time she’d offered to help with a meal, she ended up nearly torching the omelette (apparently, she thought turning the flame up to dragon-breath levels would cook it faster, it did, in the sense that it became charcoal faster). She noticed his hesitation and puffed her cheeks in indignation.

“Hey, I can handle basic tasks,” she insisted. “Chopping, stirring, professional taste-testing…” That last one she said with a toothy grin.

He sighed reluctantly. “Fine. You can wash the rice. Think you can manage that without any explosions?”

Amaya gave a mock salute. “Rice washing. I’ve got this.” She took the bowl from him and began rinsing the grains at the sink. Akio watched carefully out of the corner of his eye as he heated the soup on the stove. To his mild surprise, she was doing it properly, swirling the water with her hand, draining, repeating without flinging rice all over the counters. Perhaps the morning’s mishaps had inspired a touch of caution.

Akio diced scallions and cracked a couple of eggs into a pan for frying; Amaya set the rice cooker and then insisted on whisking the eggs (with only a minor incident of nearly whisking them out of the bowl when she got too enthusiastic). When the rice cooker button clicked and the soup began to simmer, a comforting aroma filled the air.

It occurred to Akio that he hadn’t actually cooked a meal with someone in… well, maybe ever. He usually cooked alone in a near-silent kitchen. Now the kitchen was full of chatter, Amaya recounting a disastrous attempt at making funnel cake in a circus trailer (“We ended up with something that looked like a slime monster, but we ate it anyway.”) and Akio countering with the tale of his first time cooking for himself in university (“I nearly poisoned myself with undercooked chicken. Lived on convenience store onigiri for a week after that.”). They laughed easily, stirring up memories along with the food.

Lunch was ready soon: simple bowls of hot rice topped with soft-cooked egg and scallions (oyakodon style), with miso soup on the side. Akio carried the bowls to the small dining table while Amaya grabbed chopsticks and spoons, including the pink bear-themed children’s chopsticks he’d bought her after watching her fumble with normal ones all week.

They sat down to eat, and for a moment Akio half-expected some calamity, perhaps the table to collapse or a sudden fire alarm (with her around, anything felt possible). But nothing happened.

“Mm, you actually made the eggs perfect this time,” Amaya said around a mouthful of rice. “Soft and a little sweet. Colour me impressed, Chef Akio.”

He felt an absurd swell of pride at her approval. “I told you to stop calling me by my first name. Call me Hosonuma-san.” he grumbled, though the corners of his mouth lifted. “And it’s just a basic recipe.”

“Basic doesn’t mean bad,” she chimed. She took a sip of soup and let out a pleased sigh. “Ahh, hits the spot. Honestly, I could get used to this.”

“This…?” he prompted, raising an eyebrow.

She gestured between them with her chopsticks. “You know. This. Home-cooked meals. Eating with someone. It’s…nice.” Her voice softened on the last word, as if she hadn’t quite realized it until saying it out loud.

Akio’s chest did a weird tightening thing. He busied himself with his bowl to avoid meeting her eyes. “Yeah, well,” he said, trying for nonchalant, “don’t think this is an everyday occurrence. I don’t usually have time for lunch at home.”

“I know, I know. Corporate robot schedule,” she teased lightly. Then she added, almost to herself, “Still. It’s a good change of pace.”

They ate in silence for a bit after that, but it wasn’t awkward. It was companionable, like neither felt the need to fill every second with noise. Akio found himself enjoying the quiet company. The sun-drenched room with Amaya humming appreciatively as she devoured his cooking. If someone had shown him this scene a month ago, he’d have laughed in their face, yet, here they were.

Halfway through the meal, Amaya suddenly perked up. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She put down her chopsticks and dashed to her room, leaving Akio mid-bite and perplexed. She returned with something hidden behind her back, a secretive smile on her face.

He eyed her warily. “Should I be concerned?”

“Not at all,” she chirped, before proudly revealing what she’d retrieved: a small potted plant, a little ivy with trailing leaves, burrowed in a bright yellow ceramic pot. She plunked it down in the center of the table. “Ta-da! I got us a friend.”

Akio blinked. “A…plant?”

“A roommate, to be precise,” Amaya clarified, as if that made it any less odd. “I picked it up yesterday at a market stall. The lady said it's ivy, easy to care for. I thought our place could use a little green.” She gently poked one of the ivy’s tendrils, arranging it so it draped nicely. “And since someone nearly had a heart attack when I mentioned getting a goldfish—” she shot him an accusatory look, “—this seemed like a safer choice.”

He recalled that conversation. She had indeed floated the idea of a pet, and he had shut it down harshly with a lecture about responsibility and the absolute no of adding more unpredictability to his life. A plant, though... a plant seemed harmless enough.

“It’s… nice,” Akio offered, and meant it. The cheerful pot and lively green did brighten up the table. It was oddly thoughtful of her. “Just try not to kill it.”

Amaya held up her hands. “No fire tricks around the ivy, promise. Maybe it’ll even survive the year with us.” She winked. “If so, we’ll know we did something right.”

The year. Again, that reminder that her stay had an expiration date. Akio felt a tiny tug in his chest. Instead of acknowledging it, he reached out and pinched one of the ivy leaves lightly between his fingers. “I suppose I should water it, since you’ll forget.”

“Hey! I’m not that bad,” she protested, then amended, “Okay, I might forget sometimes. We can tag-team it. Operation: Keep Ivy Alive.” She offered a hand as if to seal a pact.

He snorted but shook her hand anyway. “Deal.”

Her palm was warm and a bit calloused from aerial work, he guessed. They lingered a second longer in the handshake than necessary, both realizing it at the same time. Blushing, Amaya withdrew her hand, and Akio coughed awkwardly.