Chapter 7:
(...) I Found My Love And Let It Kill Me
The Girl From The Grocery Store Across The Street Is (NOT!) A Robot, She's Just Incredibly, Incredibly, Incredibly WEIRD!
“So you scam all your customers equally?” I asked while glancing at the street. The rain was getting worse. Living across the street was an advantage on days like this.
“So?”
“So what?”
“The soda.”
“Do you think he notices the difference? Or that there’s any difference between one brand and another?”
“Of course there is.”
“Just because a label says it has more mango doesn’t mean it’s real.”
“That wasn’t my point. My point is you’re ripping him off with the price.”
“That wasn’t your point.”
“It is now.”
“Are you trying to make a comparison between the price of a soda and the price of your cigarettes?”
“No, not at all…”
“Did you think I was setting arbitrary prices just to mess with you?” she asked, still scrolling on her phone.
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“Reformulating: Did you think you were special?”
“I never said that.” Though I thought it.
“Don’t answer a question with another question.”
“Fine. No. Question answered. Your turn: Am I?”
“I have the right to remain silent. Anything I say can and will be used against me, and considering the kind of person you are, you’ll probably use it against me.”
“Thanks. I didn’t know I was the jester.”
“The cat wants a cheezeburger.” She tried to cover her mouth so her laugh wouldn’t come out so loud while showing me a meme on her phone.
“That’s so 2010…”
“Doesn’t make it less funny.” She went back to scrolling.
“Whatever… I, uhm… I’m heading home.” If a conversation hits a dead end, trying to drag it out is idiotic.
“25.99” she said as the register drawer opened with that classic ding.
“Hey, the soda was 16.50.”
“Cigarettes were 9.49.”
“I told you I don’t have money.”
“Right, as usual…” She closed the register and turned her attention back to her phone. “So you have a debt of 16.50. Then, you gonna leave without paying?”
“I’ll pay you tomorrow.” I think you should discount the soda, not the cigarettes but I'm far from trying to understand how that brain works.
“Are we speaking literally or philosophically about the concept of ‘tomorrow’?”
The automatic door kept opening and closing—annoying advantage of automatic doors. Every time I said something and stepped closer, it opened. She answered, I stepped back, it closed.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re stretching this conversation?”
“Okay, leave.” She pointed at the door.
“With pleasure…” I said, faking one of those theatrical bows before exiting.
I crossed the street and, as I said, the advantages of living right across include not just convenience for quick buys but also that getting a little wet isn’t alarming.
It’s not the same as getting soaked in 20 steps versus an hour waiting for a bus—though that’s unnecessary and irrelevant. I just felt the need to say it.
I didn’t have much to do. Or rather, nothing. Since losing my job, my days consisted of two or three naps until nightfall, receiving the neighbor’s evening bento, eating, and sleeping.
I suppose I should add 'look for a job, you damn idiot' to the routine.
By the way, as I said: when a conversation reaches a dead end, trying to continue it is idiotic.In other words, very me. So after drying off, I picked up my phone.
Of course I was going to message her, but when I opened the app, she already had three messages waiting.That’s the pro-con of having a phone without service that relies on Wi-Fi.
I feel like I've said this too many times, but I still don't understand how she works—mind you, I'm talking about this on a cognitive level, not a professional one. I had to make up my mind about the former; the latter already had a 'how the hell am I broke and you're not?' stamp on it..
She’d sent three photos: different mango sodas, half-finished, side by side.
Different brands.
Different labels.
Same color.
[They taste identical…]
[You… tried them just now?]
[… … … yes.]
[You’re an idiot…]
[My stomach hurts (つ╥﹏╥)つ]
I didn’t know what to reply to something like that, so I just sent her that Renaissance painting meme of the sick woman lying in bed.
I admit that—even though talking to her made me feel good (both kinds of talking, in-person and chat)—Feeling good from talking didn’t fix my life.
And focusing on her didn’t either, no matter how much… you know… I’m not saying it this soon.
[So… Kiri?]
[Yes. Tanaka?]
[Yeah, so you heard that too…]
[I hear everything (≖_≖ )]
[Uh… look, I think I won’t be able to come for a couple of days…]
[… … …]
[It doesn’t mean I won’t pay you, hey… it’s just that I have things to… you know, sort out.]
[Your unemployment leading to extreme poverty bordering on homelessness?]
“So?”
“So what?”
“The soda.”
“Do you think he notices the difference? Or that there’s any difference between one brand and another?”
“Of course there is.”
“Just because a label says it has more mango doesn’t mean it’s real.”
“That wasn’t my point. My point is you’re ripping him off with the price.”
“That wasn’t your point.”
“It is now.”
“Are you trying to make a comparison between the price of a soda and the price of your cigarettes?”
“No, not at all…”
“Did you think I was setting arbitrary prices just to mess with you?” she asked, still scrolling on her phone.
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“Reformulating: Did you think you were special?”
“I never said that.” Though I thought it.
“Don’t answer a question with another question.”
“Fine. No. Question answered. Your turn: Am I?”
“I have the right to remain silent. Anything I say can and will be used against me, and considering the kind of person you are, you’ll probably use it against me.”
“Thanks. I didn’t know I was the jester.”
“The cat wants a cheezeburger.” She tried to cover her mouth so her laugh wouldn’t come out so loud while showing me a meme on her phone.
“That’s so 2010…”
“Doesn’t make it less funny.” She went back to scrolling.
“Whatever… I, uhm… I’m heading home.” If a conversation hits a dead end, trying to drag it out is idiotic.
“25.99” she said as the register drawer opened with that classic ding.
“Hey, the soda was 16.50.”
“Cigarettes were 9.49.”
“I told you I don’t have money.”
“Right, as usual…” She closed the register and turned her attention back to her phone. “So you have a debt of 16.50. Then, you gonna leave without paying?”
“I’ll pay you tomorrow.” I think you should discount the soda, not the cigarettes but I'm far from trying to understand how that brain works.
“Are we speaking literally or philosophically about the concept of ‘tomorrow’?”
The automatic door kept opening and closing—annoying advantage of automatic doors. Every time I said something and stepped closer, it opened. She answered, I stepped back, it closed.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re stretching this conversation?”
“Okay, leave.” She pointed at the door.
“With pleasure…” I said, faking one of those theatrical bows before exiting.
I crossed the street and, as I said, the advantages of living right across include not just convenience for quick buys but also that getting a little wet isn’t alarming.
It’s not the same as getting soaked in 20 steps versus an hour waiting for a bus—though that’s unnecessary and irrelevant. I just felt the need to say it.
I didn’t have much to do. Or rather, nothing. Since losing my job, my days consisted of two or three naps until nightfall, receiving the neighbor’s evening bento, eating, and sleeping.
I suppose I should add 'look for a job, you damn idiot' to the routine.
By the way, as I said: when a conversation reaches a dead end, trying to continue it is idiotic.In other words, very me. So after drying off, I picked up my phone.
Of course I was going to message her, but when I opened the app, she already had three messages waiting.That’s the pro-con of having a phone without service that relies on Wi-Fi.
I feel like I've said this too many times, but I still don't understand how she works—mind you, I'm talking about this on a cognitive level, not a professional one. I had to make up my mind about the former; the latter already had a 'how the hell am I broke and you're not?' stamp on it..
She’d sent three photos: different mango sodas, half-finished, side by side.
Different brands.
Different labels.
Same color.
[They taste identical…]
[You… tried them just now?]
[… … … yes.]
[You’re an idiot…]
[My stomach hurts (つ╥﹏╥)つ]
I didn’t know what to reply to something like that, so I just sent her that Renaissance painting meme of the sick woman lying in bed.
I admit that—even though talking to her made me feel good (both kinds of talking, in-person and chat)—Feeling good from talking didn’t fix my life.
And focusing on her didn’t either, no matter how much… you know… I’m not saying it this soon.
[So… Kiri?]
[Yes. Tanaka?]
[Yeah, so you heard that too…]
[I hear everything (≖_≖ )]
[Uh… look, I think I won’t be able to come for a couple of days…]
[… … …]
[It doesn’t mean I won’t pay you, hey… it’s just that I have things to… you know, sort out.]
[Your unemployment leading to extreme poverty bordering on homelessness?]
[That’s a horrible way to put it… but yes]
[I won’t see you tomorrow?]
[I just said…]
[The store closes at 20:30]
[Kiri…]
[(ㆆ_ㆆ)]
[What?]
[… Nothing…]
[No, now explain it.]
[Are you going to spend the whole day job hunting? Places have hours. What are you going to do after?]
[You’re bombarding me with questions.]
[Hello, Pearl Harbor >⩊<]
[That joke was… awful…]
[They use it on social media.]
No, no one use it on social media, just to clarify.
[Anyway, I can come… I don’t know… Saturdays?]
[Ok.]
Second dead end, and probably—no, definitely—she wasn’t thrilled with my answer.
Neither was I with my decision, but also not with throwing my life in the trash more than I already was.
I set my phone on the futon, paced around the apartment a few times, looked out the window facing the other street—basically killed time until the neighbor knocked, left the bento box, and left before I opened the door.
I didn’t like living like this.
Of course these are situations and as such they come and go, but when you’re inside one, you can’t help thinking 'this is all there is to my life.'
I really wasn’t happy with that.
My phone vibrated while I was eating dinner.
[Tanaka…]
[Yeah?]
[… … … Did I… say something… that bothered you?]
[You say a lot of things that bother me. Every day, under almost any circumstance without even a hint of remorse or anything.]
[… … …]
[But I’m not lying. I really want to try fixing my life.]
[I crossed out your soda debt…]
[It’s not just that, Kiri…]
[I can open you a tab for your cigarettes.]
[I think I should quit smoking, actually.]
She was typing again, stopping, typing, stopping. Sent a couple of messages but deleted them before I could read.
[… I understand…] A longer pause in her typing loop. [… I sell nicotine patches…]
[Kiri, it’s not about that, seriously, come on…]
No, even I didn’t believe it. Replying made me want to punch myself in the face. I mean, three years… three years of minimal interaction, or rather the 'normal' amount when making a purchase… reaching the point where I talked to her all the time, and now—when I was supposed to be at least a little happy—I was hammering nails into the window just because my personal life was a disaster.
[… I’ll give them to you free…]
[Why are you insisting so much?]
[… … … … Because I don’t know how to do it in person.]
[I... I think maybe you should get some rest.]
[… … … What if—] She typed and deleted a half-sent message. Started again. [Why don’t—] Typed and deleted again. Long silence, just 'typing…' on screen. [Work here.]
[I won’t see you tomorrow?]
[I just said…]
[The store closes at 20:30]
[Kiri…]
[(ㆆ_ㆆ)]
[What?]
[… Nothing…]
[No, now explain it.]
[Are you going to spend the whole day job hunting? Places have hours. What are you going to do after?]
[You’re bombarding me with questions.]
[Hello, Pearl Harbor >⩊<]
[That joke was… awful…]
[They use it on social media.]
No, no one use it on social media, just to clarify.
[Anyway, I can come… I don’t know… Saturdays?]
[Ok.]
Second dead end, and probably—no, definitely—she wasn’t thrilled with my answer.
Neither was I with my decision, but also not with throwing my life in the trash more than I already was.
I set my phone on the futon, paced around the apartment a few times, looked out the window facing the other street—basically killed time until the neighbor knocked, left the bento box, and left before I opened the door.
I didn’t like living like this.
Of course these are situations and as such they come and go, but when you’re inside one, you can’t help thinking 'this is all there is to my life.'
I really wasn’t happy with that.
My phone vibrated while I was eating dinner.
[Tanaka…]
[Yeah?]
[… … … Did I… say something… that bothered you?]
[You say a lot of things that bother me. Every day, under almost any circumstance without even a hint of remorse or anything.]
[… … …]
[But I’m not lying. I really want to try fixing my life.]
[I crossed out your soda debt…]
[It’s not just that, Kiri…]
[I can open you a tab for your cigarettes.]
[I think I should quit smoking, actually.]
She was typing again, stopping, typing, stopping. Sent a couple of messages but deleted them before I could read.
[… I understand…] A longer pause in her typing loop. [… I sell nicotine patches…]
[Kiri, it’s not about that, seriously, come on…]
No, even I didn’t believe it. Replying made me want to punch myself in the face. I mean, three years… three years of minimal interaction, or rather the 'normal' amount when making a purchase… reaching the point where I talked to her all the time, and now—when I was supposed to be at least a little happy—I was hammering nails into the window just because my personal life was a disaster.
[… I’ll give them to you free…]
[Why are you insisting so much?]
[… … … … Because I don’t know how to do it in person.]
[I... I think maybe you should get some rest.]
[… … … What if—] She typed and deleted a half-sent message. Started again. [Why don’t—] Typed and deleted again. Long silence, just 'typing…' on screen. [Work here.]
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