Chapter 4: Eightieth Game of Push and Pull

June 9th.

I’d been talking with Maru on the dating app for a few days. She was a couple years younger than me, she wasn’t especially talkative, but she had a dry, sarcastic humor that mirrored mine just enough to feel natural. A cynic recognizing another cynic in the void.

She’d been dropping hints that she didn’t want to drag the chat on forever without meeting, so we arranged a date.

Today, after work.

I wasn’t nervous. Hard to be, after eighty years of first dates, last dates, good ones, horrible ones, and everything in between. This wasn’t destiny, wasn’t “the one,” wasn’t anything except another branch of an endlessly branching tree that always ended on May 14th.

Still—having a couple beers with someone I knew nothing about wasn’t the worst way to pass time in an eternal purgatory.

I wore a simple dark-purple T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. I drove to the next city, where Maru lived, and waited at the small park we’d chosen as our meeting spot.

According to her photos she had long straight dark hair, pale skin and green eyes.

When I arrived, I saw a girl leaning against a building column nearby. I squinted—should’ve brought my glasses—and walked closer.

No way.

Up close, she looked vaguely like her pictures… except for the hair. Instead of long, straight hair, she had an explosion of tight curls, almost an afro.

I turned around to leave, assuming she wasn’t Maru.

“Naoki?” she called from behind me.

I froze.

Seriously?

“Huh? Yeah,” I said. “You’re… Maru?”

She gave me a small, strained half-smile. “Yes.”

It looked like smiling had cost her physical effort. She seemed stiff, nervous.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t recognize you with the hair. I don’t remember seeing any photos like that.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t have any. This is my natural hair. I’ve always straightened it. I’ve never liked it.” She twisted a curl around her finger, almost defensively.

I nodded. “Got it. Well… drink?”

We sat at the outdoor terrace of a nearby bar. I ordered a beer. She did too.

After a moment of silence, I went for the obvious question.

“So. The hair,” I said.

“What about it?” she asked.

“You said you don’t like your natural curls. So why come with them today?”

She blinked at me. “What do you mean ‘why’? Because I felt like it.”

She made a face—somewhere between irritation and a forced smile—and lifted her chin proudly. Maru was stiff as a plank. She was definitely nervous, but trying very hard not to look like she cared.

“You know,” I said, “I’d call you rude and unpleasant for that answer, but I can tell you were trying to be funny and cheerfull. It was terrible, by the way.”

“Excuse me?” she said, this time with a real grin pushing through faking being offended. “I was funny, and by the way, very cute.”

She took a huge gulp of her beer to hide her embarrassment.

I laughed. “Sure, sure.”

“So,” she said after a moment, tapping her glass. “You’re shorter in person.”

“And you’re curlier,” I replied making a face and sticking out my tongue.

She snorted. “Wow. Incredible observation. You should be a detective.”

“I would,” I said, “but solving crimes requires enthusiasm, and I ran out about, I don’t know, let’s say like “eighty years ago”. I air quoted exagerating and making fun of my own disgrace.

“Eighty?” she raised an eyebrow and then whistled. “That explains your fashion sense. Vintage depression era?”

“Hey,” I said, pretending to be offended. “My look is pretty is modern, simple, but modern.”

“Modern my ass.” she answered fast giving my a huge laugh with it.

"Oh, very elegant, miss," I said sarcastically. "What would your parents say if they heard you speak like that? Very good impression for a first date, indeed, ma'am. How vulgar."

“Not as vulgar as your outfit.”

We clinked glasses in mutual sarcasm.

Another beer.

“So what do you do for fun?” she asked.

“Fun?” I repeated. “I don’t think I know that word.”

She tilted her head. “Really? You look like someone who has fun making people uncomfortable.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Wow. Are you… flirting with me or insulting me?”

She took a thoughtful sip. “Why not both?”

I laughed. “Fair enough.”

“And you?” I asked. “What do you do for fun?”

“I judge people silently,” she said. “Also not silently.”

“Shocking,” I said.

Another beer.

The jokes got harsher.

The smiles got less forced.

Her posture loosened.

She gestured more when she spoke, curls bouncing everywhere, occasionally flopping into her eyes.

Each time, she’d push them away with an annoyed huff, which honestly made her even more unintentionally cute.

“So why did you swipe right on me?” she asked suddenly.

“Oh,” I said. “I was drunk and desperate.”

She stared at me.

I stared back.

Then she burst out laughing—loud, ungraceful, genuine.

“I can’t believe you said that!”

“You told me to be honest.”

“I meant fake honest,” she said, hitting my arm lightly.

Another beer.

At one point, she leaned forward and said, “You know, I wasn’t sure if you’d be a serial killer.”

“Oh yeah? What convinced you otherwise?”

She pointed at Roku’s photo on my profile.

“No serial killer has a dog that cute.”

I nodded solemnly. “That’s exactly what a serial killer with a cute dog would want you to think.”

Her eyes widened.

Then she whispered, dead serious, “Do you kill people?”

I stared at her. “Who knows?” I said exagerating a gesture with my shoulders.

“Okay, cool.”

“Were you actually worried?” I laughed.

She shrugged. “You have the vibe.”

“The fuck? What vibe?!”

“You look like… if you snapped, you’d do it in a very organized way.”

“…Thanks?”

“Not a compliment,” she added quickly.

Another beer.

By the time the sun dipped behind the buildings, we had settled into a chaotic rhythm—two sarcastic idiots trading jabs with increasing boldness.

At one point she said, “You’re surprisingly easy to talk to.”

And I replied, “You’re surprisingly difficult. I respect the consistency.”

She threw a napkin at me.

It missed.

We both stared at it on the ground.

“That was pathetic,” I said.

“I’m leaving,” she declared dramatically.

She did not leave.

It wasn’t romantic.

Wasn’t magical.

Wasn’t life-changing.

It was messy, stupid, slightly confrontational, and strangely comfortable.

At a certain point, we weren’t even speaking coherently anymore.

We were just two drunks in a bar pretending to be adults.

“It’s getting late,” I said, finishing what must have been my sixth—or tenth—beer. “Do you want to head out, or grab one last drink?”

“We should have the second-to-last, right?” she said, smiling.

Sexy.

The terrace had a chill-out lounge area off to the side—soft lighting, low music, comfortable sofas—so we moved there. We sat close. Very close. Our legs brushed as if by accident, though neither of us bothered pretending it was an accident.

We kept up our idiot conversation—laughing, trading stories, taking every possible opportunity to mock each other sarcastically.

Somewhere along the way, the sarcasm softened into playful affection.

Touches lasted longer.

Leaning became natural.

Her knee pressed against mine and didn’t move.

Her hand grazed my arm in a way that felt intentional.

Eventually we ordered something that wasn’t beer, clinked glasses, and then just… looked at each other.

She was inches away.

I could feel her breath on my neck.

Warm. Slow. Pulling me in.

We leaned closer.

And closer.

Our lips were about to meet—

But instead, Maru lowered her head and rested it against my chest.

I didn’t mind.

In fact, I liked it.

We stayed like that for a few quiet seconds. Then she slowly leaned back, her eyes meeting mine with a teasing, wicked little smile.

“Don’t think I’m going to be that easy on the first date,” she said, winking.

I didn’t answer.

I just smiled and took a sip of my drink, keeping my eyes on her.

“Excuse me, customers?”

A waitress had approached us, blushing furiously at whatever scene we’d been making.

“We’re closing. If you don’t mind, here’s your bill.”

It was late. Past 2 a.m.

We both apologized in a hurry, paid, and left the bar.

The moment we stepped outside, we looked at each other… and burst into stupid, drunken giggles.

“Want me to walk you home?” I asked. “I’ve got my car.”

“How about…” she said, slipping her arm through mine, “I walk you to your place?”

She tugged me gently, already steering me in the direction of the parking lot.

The drive back to my place was mostly quiet, but not in an awkward way.

More like… charged.

Her hand brushed my thigh once, then again. At a red light she let her fingers linger there, tracing lazy circles that made it very hard to keep my eyes on the road.

When we arrived, Roku greeted us like he’d just won the lottery.

Maru had told me she loved dogs, and it showed—she dropped to her knees immediately, burying her hands in Roku’s fur, laughing softly as he tried to climb into her arms.

While she showered him with affection, I poured us another round of drinks. I handed her the glass where she stood by the entrance, still petting Roku. She took it with a grin.

We clinked our glasses in a sloppy, drunken toast and drank.

The moment her lips left the rim, she stepped toward me.

Close.

Very close.

She grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me into her.

Our mouths crashed together in a hungry kiss, the kind that leaves no room for hesitation. My hands found her waist; hers slid behind my neck, fingers curling into my hair.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Could’ve been seconds. Could’ve been hours.

When we finally separated, panting, our faces only inches apart, we smiled like idiots.

“I thought you weren’t going to be easy on the first date,” I teased.

“And I’m not,” Maru said.

“What do you mean?” I pushed, still teasing her.

“This.”

Suddenly something sharp pressed against my throat.

Maru’s arm—the one wrapped around my neck—shifted. And in her hand, almost out of nowhere, was a large, gleaming knife. She held it tight against my skin, the cold metal biting into my flesh.

I felt it pierce—just barely—enough for a warm line of blood to trickle down my neck.

I didn’t make a sound.

I didn’t even flinch.

I just kept smiling at her, staring into her eyes, completely still.