I’ve never been so happy to live within walking distance of Zozo. I’ve never been so happy to live in Nishibe. No painful, awkward commutes to Osaka for me. If I had to keep up this best friend charade for another hour I’d eat someone’s face. The girls are sweet for the most part. Not as conversational as some of our past teachers, but not as stuck-up as others. And there have been many others. The turnover rate is so high in this line of work. No wonder my old friends — the ones who all left for their home countries or Tokyo — called it the McDonald’s of Japan employment. I should be grateful for my co-workers, thanking my lucky stars we don’t have more Liekos. Geez, the way she takes over everything. My dress, my trial lessons, my re-contracting, my bread intake … it’s like she’s in training to take over as manager. Again, that can’t be right. I’d know if that’s what was happening. There would be signs — major signs. I’m worried about nothing.

My bike swerves several times; it’s harder to keep it balanced in this skirt. Guess I underestimated those three glasses of red juice. I wobble whenever onlookers step in my path, and one time I almost hit a dishevelled elderly woman who refuses to step out of the bike lane. I walk my bike the rest of the way home, hop in the shower, put on my PJs, and climb into my futon with a box of Oreos. I’m exhausted but still hungry. I’m also starting to regret not buying those graham crackers from 7-Eleven. I could have s’mores right now, roasting under my little kotatsu table. Cybelle, you idiot. I’ll have to make a Flying Pig order soon, especially if I want to get my hands on a pumpkin for my kinders.

Tucked deep into my squishy bed, I try to count sheep. I have to start over several times. I try other things: donuts, doors in my apartment, days until the next national holiday (seventeen … not soon enough).

Screw it. I turn on the TV and watch an hour of foxy boxing and a prank show where they suffocate sleeping TV personalities. I’m not sleepy. And I’m still hungry. That was the most awkward dinner. To be fair, it beats my welcome dinner. I turn off the TV and throw myself on my futon. Oh wait, I never had one.

I sigh. “Complete BS.”