Shingo Brown

20 June 20XX

Japanese Club

FOREVER

I could do this forever. I could stay here.

“I’ve seen you here before! How ya been?” Jim says, as if I don’t come every time.

“Don’t do this to me.”

“Why? It’s fun.”

In a fit of emotion, I say what’s been on my mind for so long. Yeah, I could stay here if not for this motherfucker: “Fuck you.”

“Why the hostility?” he asks. Look at you sitting next to her; look at how you talk to each other; look at all the time you spend. You disgust me. “I’m just some fucking guy.”

“Yamete!” Miranda—no—Chickarrin shouts.

“What?” Duane says.

“That’s ‘stop’ in Japanese… desu.” I get so lost in the two’s interaction that I completely forget about Jim. I completely—no, not completely—forget about Lisa, too. I can’t forget about Lisa.

I sat behind her for four years of Japanese. I watched the back of her blonde head, watched her small gestures, like when she pressed her fist against her cheek, or when she brushed her hair out of her face, or when she cracked her neck, when her face faced mine. Jim was right next to her.

Then, they only talked for pair work. A half-decent accent, understanding of grammar, vocabulary, it froze me. I was jealous for his popularity, and felt inferior for feeling jealous. That’s why it burns me to see this, in this one place.

What does this say?

“Forget it,” Jim says. And then things carry on without anyone noticing.

Lisa. Lisa. Lisa.