I snap my phone closed to get my food and thank the smiling employee. Talk about weird. I’d assume it was a wrong number if these messages didn’t sound so passive-aggressive. Who at Zozo could have texted me? Not Manager, there would be a dozen “maybes” thrown in. No way in heck Yoshino would text me like this. Lieko, maybe? She doesn’t have my number, let alone the authority to text me this kind of crap. It must have been Manager, telling me what to do like it’s still my first day on the job. I’ll err on the side of caution, wear a stupid skirt, and try to manage the kids as best as I can in seiza. If I want to recontract, I must continue to play my role as a cog in our efficient corporate machine. Until then, I’m taking this giant bag of fries and nuggets to watch some good old Japanese DVDs. Rinkan and Spirited Away, here I come.

As if the decorations all over Zozo and the neighbourhood weren’t enough, my local convenience store has also primped for Halloween. I park my bike in front of my building and walk back to 7-Eleven to get more food. I’m that hungry. The shelves are covered in black cats, orange pumpkins, purple witches, and white ghosts. I chat with the manager while he heats up my chicken soboro and chestnut rice in the microwave. He shows me the new desserts they got. I’m tempted to get the expensive graham crackers (since when do Japanese convenience stores sell those?) but then I see two Halloween Winnie-the-Pooh mugs with cups of pudding inside. The manager asks me if I’m excited for Halloween and whether I’m going to dress up. Last year’s costume, like always, which I call “Tinker Hell.” I throw in one nana-chiki for the road and pay up.

People stare at me as they pass the 7-Eleven, where I devour my fried chicken in under a minute. “Gaijin, mite, kowai …” some of them say. Whatever. I have too much on my mind. Soon it’ll be Christmas, and a few months after that I’ll be starting a brand-new year with brand-new faces if I don’t screw up the courage to haul ass out of Zozo. But … to do what? Go back home? Prepare for my sister’s wedding? Brace myself for the backlash that will come with it all? Or do I sign up for another year of being treated like I just stepped off a plane after a few episodes of Sailor Moon with three phrases on my tongue? Do I continue going to work like the star of an expat promotional video series in which every episode is my first day?

My stomach growls.

“All right, all right,” I say without thinking. “Let’s get some of this food into you.”