I shove through the crowd and almost throw myself at Misaki when I see her. She gasps, scared to death. Then she relaxes. “Ah, Shibelle-sensei! Bikkuri!”

“Misaki-sensei, tasukarimashita!” I’m saved.

“Heeeey!” a Japanese salaryman with his arm around another man steps in front of me. “Can you speak Japanese?! Nihongo shaberu no?!”

“Uh, not really, no. Sumimasen —” I try to walk around him. Misaki is already distracted by the group of guys that have ensnared Yoshino.

“Sugoi! You speak very good Japanese!”

“Thank you,” I put on my serious teacher voice. “Could you take a step back, please?”

“Oh, sorry!” They jostle around a little but we are still stuck together. My glass still can’t reach my lips. “How long you stay in Japan?”

“Wait, do you mean how long have I stayed in Japan, or how long will I stay in Japan?”

“Eh, difficult. English, difficult! One more, one more time!”

Fuck, I really don’t want to do this.

“Oh, wow!” The other guy shouts, even though I haven’t done anything special. “Ah, English teacher?”

“Yeah, I work for an eikaiwa. But it’s kids only!” Who knows, maybe Lieko’s cockblocking techniques will work on these two long enough for me to drink.

“Eikaiwa? Sugoi! Sore ja, please! Teach us English!”

“Ugh.” I give up. “Misaki, how’s it going?” I edge my way past the two drunks to return my attention to her. She jumps again, but her presence seems to repel the eager salarymen away to a more comfortable distance. However, they don’t go away.

“Hey!” one of the salarymen asks me. “Together … teachers?”

“Yeah. This is Misaki. Misaki, this is … uh …”

They don’t need me. They introduce themselves to one another in Japanese and even exchange cards. In fact, they start a whole conversation about what companies they work for and how their card designs are so similar. That would be nice; to have the same small, perfect laminated Zozo business cards with my name and the stick-figure children holding hands on the front and the date and time of their trial lesson printed in tiny, neat kanji on the back. I wonder how Misaki got hers so fast. Oh, well. I can wallow in self-pity about it over this drink.

Cold liquid splashes over the rim of my glass and down my sleeve as someone pushes me from behind. Three other salarymen, a little shorter than me but way more intoxicated, shove each other and point at me, laughing. One raises his hands in apology once he notices me glaring at him. “Oh, so sorry,” he says in English, then punches his friends in the arms. “Nande ya nen! Gaijin abunai yo!”

“Ike! You go! Go — speak — English!”