My cellphone buzzes in my purse as I lock my apartment door behind me. I’m soaked and I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. My clothes and hair reek of alcohol and second-hand smoke, reminding me of why I stopped going to bars and clubs ages ago. I read my newest message:

Just remembered you’re not home now. I got your msg about you going out tonight. Good for u! The other day I was starting to think there was no one for you over there, but it’s ok, miracles happen! I’ll keep my fingers crossed you finally meet someone! Hurry up and come home, and bring back a husband, k? I want grandkids lol

Love you sweetie!

Mom

I sniffle. My eyes still itch. I’ll do my best, Mom. I have to admit, though, it’s a little hard to land a husband when I can’t find someone who will talk to me once or twice before deciding I’m the most kowai creature he’s ever laid eyes on.

Six and a half years. Six and a half years without business cards. Six and a half years without a welcome dinner. Six and a half years of “look, it’s a scary foreigner.” And, if I had actually hooked up with Josh’s imaginary friend, it’d be six-and-a-half years since that happened, too. But I’m not supposed to complain. After all, this is my job. I’m a Native English Teacher. My duties: To be the bigger person. To ignore the fact that I shed forty-five hours’ worth of blood, sweat, and tears in a house of lies. To smile throughout everything that this eat-or-be-eaten world throws at me. To show everyone, young and old alike, that I’m not some she-beast who blends into the darkness at night to steal your purse. To demonstrate that English is not the scariest language in the world, and it’s impossible to contract some kind of skin-darkening disease by talking to me or giving me high-fives, and that I am not — repeat, am not — a horrible bloodthirsty creature from beyond the realm of human understanding.

But oh, Cybelle, you’re so understanding …

The burning sensation in my eyes is too much. Tears begin to trickle down my face. Then they gush. My throat closes up so fast I topple over. Lying slumped in my dark living room — Zozo’s dark living room — I bawl my eyes out.

Back in Osaka, I wanted to go home. Here I am — and I still want to go home.

And once I’m there, I’ll still want to go home.

Idiot.

“I hate you.” The words drag themselves across the carpeted floor. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” I can feel them slither up the paper-thin walls, writhe all over my ceiling. I let the words echo throughout the building and reverberate through my cold, shaking bones.