Shingo Brown

25 November 20XX

Japanese Club

IS THAT A SIN

“A politician and a famous person celebrate this day! Ha!” Jim roars.

“Yep, that’s right. Sou desu yo! Mina-san, omedetou gozaimasu!” Duane gives a thunderous applause.

“That’s right Rokku-san! Nee, nee!” Chickarrin hollers in her Japanese-English creole. Everyone’s having a great time, and I don’t think anything happened.

Like usual, the fun was made, not found. We responded to a gesture, or motion, expression, something probably small and meaningless, which led to this moment. You don’t even know it’s happening until you’re in it.

I look out the window and see it’s snowing. A wall of white, a thundering, perplexing beating, it looks so beautiful from inside here. I hate being in it, though.

But that doesn’t matter, because I’m not. I’m here right now, surrounded by four people, sharing time and space. We exchange expressions, and in practice, we become a single, careless thing, not bothered by petty stuff like snow falling. I can let go of my control—live a little—but I still have it, it’s still mine.

Wow. Look at that face. Look into those dark eyes, so dark they’re like holes, like pits in the earth, carved out with a shovel. There’s something about the streaks at their edges, like red lightning in an egg-white sky. The marks of sleeplessness, intoxication, sickness, I can’t shake that part. It’s like looking at a stray dog.

I held her in my arms the other night. She was half-naked, her hair was slimy, she felt like a dead fish and for the first time I noticed…

But she cracks a smile. I looked at her long enough—and forgot what was happening around—and she noticed. I have pale relief. Alright, Lisa S, fucking alright. I’ll forget about the scene in the bathroom, I’ll forget about how your room smells, I’ll forget the shit all over your basement floor. I’ll take you home with me after this.

“Hey, look, Shingo-san’s starin’ at his girl!” Rock snaps me out of the illusion. And I figure he could snap both of our necks while he’s at it: mine and Lisa’s, I mean.

“Rokku-san, yamete!” Chickarrin protests. She begins grabbing and hitting him on the chest. He doesn’t mind.

Jim puts his hands behind his head and just laughs. But I don’t bother to pay him any mind. It doesn’t matter.

Lisa’s wearing her school uniform like usual. Her hair’s done up, she has the windbreaker, the black skirt, and thigh-highs on. Chickarrin’s wearing just about the same thing, but her socks are baggier, and she has a lot more keychains. She’s wearing a shit-ton of spray-tan and she just dyed her hair again, too.

Jim’s got his work clothes on, like usual, and Duane just opted for a jacket and cargo pants again. Me, I’m just wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, like always.

Like always, I notice, we’re dressed exactly the same. There’s only ever small changes in wardrobe. It’s always the same: perfect, seamless, predictable, pleasant, novel, whatever. We’re stuck right where we are.

Someone brings up this one specific scene and, then we try to avoid the “H Word” and then, we put on a bootleg miniseries from the ‘90s nobody’s heard of, and we laugh at the shitty dub.

We trade manga; we eat snacks; we talk about the new series being adapted; we play obscure games on an old TV, and we just laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh.

The classroom extends and twists to fit the occasion. The room is alive, and we never have to change. It doesn’t end.