“It should. That was your advice, lady.”

That does sound like something I would say, although I don’t remember saying it today. “So now you’re just going to repeat me to stay on my good side?”

“If I did, would you fall for it? Nah, I forgot; you’re smart, too.”

I try not to bite my hand off. Dude. He thinks you’re pretty and smart. And he hasn’t mentioned you being “kowai” once! Say something cool.

“I gotta pee.”

He shrugs. “Washrooms are one more floor up.”

The bathroom appears to be hooked up with the same speakers that make up the restaurant’s karaoke system. I wonder if Zaniel has slipped me something, because no way in hell would Sober Cybelle listen to anyone prattle on about how he can walk through dreams, no matter how hot he is. But to Drunk Cybelle, it all just sounds super trippy. I try to imagine it. It isn’t hard. This restaurant itself is a dream come true.

“Jibun Jishin,” I whisper out loud. “Hey, wait; I know this song!”

I quietly rap along as I wash my hands. Luckily no one else in here pays much attention to Samurai Champloo’s theme as it fills the ladies’ room with the strong scent of peach soap. Just as I dry my hands my phone vibrates in my pocket; as Mom scrolls by on the external display, I see how late it’s getting. It’s going to be one hell of an adventure getting to work tomorrow. Saturday. I have to call it a night. I hope Zaniel won’t care. This doesn’t feel like a real date. Not that I’d know.

Hi Cybelle sweetie, I read, how is Japan? How are ur students? Any new adventures lately? I’ve been talking to your sisters and I truly believe in my heart that you need to come home next year by April, etc., etc. “Oy.” I click my phone shut. Calling her will make this an adventurous weekend indeed.

There are more people wandering around the restaurant than before I went to the washroom. That looks like our table, over there. Everyone stumbles so much it’s like walking through a nightclub. I wonder if the owner ever worries that someone might get knocked into these bamboo railings and tumble right over. A lawsuit waiting to happen. That’s when I notice each floor is staggered; if you fell over, you’d land on the next floor below instead of plummeting seven stories down. Good to know. Someone could get themselves killed up here.

Someone squeezes my shoulder, hard. A deep voice breathes nicotine and sour beer into my ear. “Sumimasen —”

Without turning I tell him it’s not a problem. “Iie.” I shrug him off, just as hard. Then I pick up the pace and assertively worm my way back to my table. Drunk-ass weirdo.