“Cybelle is Canadian,” Yoshino explains. “You getting another drink, Cybelle? Rum and Coke?”

“Sumimasen!” the guy yells at a bartender at the same time. “Two highballs!”

It’s fine. I manage to order a rum and Coke as Yoshino and several of this loser’s friends get drinks. “So, Yoshino-chan, what do you do again?” the guy asks.

“My friend and I are English teachers!” Yoshino gestures her cigarette at me.

“Oh, really? Hey, my buddies here are dying to get English lessons!” He yells out two names and scoops two sheepish-looking Japanese guys up with one arm. “This is …” Yoshino leans into the crook of his neck for a long time to relay our names. “Yoshino, and what? What?! Uh, o-kay, that over there is Civic.”

“Eh?! Civic?! Honda Civic?” they yell. “Nani o sore?!”

“No, it’s Cybelle,” I say. “CYBELLE.” They burst out laughing again and make shooing hand gestures to imply they don’t understand.

My stomach growls loud enough to be heard in this smoky sardine can, and I’m pretty sure my smile looks more and more like a grimace. If someone hadn’t hidden my lunch deep in the staff room cupboard, behind Lieko’s purse (where Yoshino eventually found it), I could have eaten it before coming here. Hell, I could have gone home, eaten my weight in food, or grabbed something from the Family Mart by Nishibe Station. Why didn’t they just let me eat?! On second thought, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe there’s a corner I can hide in and eat my lunch. It’ll be cold and stale, but —

“Hey!” one particularly large man grabs my upper arm. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

“Uh, I don’t think —”

“Yeah! I totally know you! You got some kinda weird name, I know it! Seatbelt! No wait — Cybelle, am I right? You don’t remember me, do you? What the fuck, come on, you remember me!”

I squint. I think he just spat in my face a little. “Ummmm … Josh?”

“YEAH! I told you you remember me! You’re not still working for that clown company, are you? Zozo?! Geez, you are, aren’t you? Fuck, aren’t you tired of that eikaiwa kids’ bullshit yet?!”

“Um,” I repeat. I guess I got it right. I don’t recognize him, but he must know me. No wait, I do know him. He’s heavier, and has lost a lot of hair, but he’s the same obnoxious asshole trainer I met when I first came to Japan. Terrific. Of all the people I could have run into from my past, it has to be a jerk. “What are you up to?”

“Translation, baby. Sweetest gig if your Japanese is good enough to get it. I barely gotta do shit where I work now.”

“That’s fantastic. Excuse me, I gotta —”

“Hey, what happened with you and that guy you hooked up with?”

“Uh, who?”