Ah, the screeching chime of the alarm clock. I finish brushing my teeth before I poke my head out the bathroom door to look around my living room. It doesn’t take long to locate the small mint-green robot ramming itself into the wall.

“Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo …”

“Sorry, little friend.” I pick it up, pressing the snooze button. “There’s no escape for either of us.”

“Ohayou gozaimasu! Kyou, ganbatte —”

I toss it into my open closet. The tiny plomp of the robot landing on my folded futon tells me it survived the trip. I get dressed, then head to the kitchen to get my lunch and stuff it in my giant purse. Not a lot of room among the giant scissors, glue, markers, and construction paper, but I manage. I give myself one last glance-over in the reflection of the glass in my genkan door. The same “polite, professional, playful” businesswoman I always see stares back at me: white short-sleeved polo shirt, black dress pants, black work jacket, stone face. I force her to smile. Forget it. The “playful” part will come when it needs to.

I sigh again. Back to work today. Time to enjoy English.

I brace myself for smiling down the four flights of stairs to my building’s front door, where three musical notes chime as the bolts slide out of place with Star Trek–like clicks. Outside, the giant constructivist painting that is my neighbourhood is ready for Halloween. The grey and white cuboid and cylinder apartments, once studded with greens and pinks on their balcony gardens, now have tiny orange pumpkins. The canopies of electric cables over the streets have a couple of plastic ghosts dangling from them. And, of course, there’s me: the resident monster, emerging from her lair to frighten the passersby.

“Mite, mite. Meccha gaijin ya na … Kowaaaai …” a schoolgirl whispers to her friend as they walk past me. I unlock my bike and pretend not to notice I’m being described as scary. It’s harder to ignore the guy sneaking a picture on his phone. I look up at the wrong moment. He runs away, shouting, “Kowai, nigero!” to someone down the street. Good to see the jerk train is right on time, like all trains in this country. Another shouter walks past my apartment with his entourage, which consists of five dudes dressed like they’re going to the baseball stadium up the street. Surprisingly, there’s one tall African American in their company. I can tell he’s American by his accent.

“Hey! A SISTER!” he points at me. “How you doing?”