They went on like that, back and forth. Lydia ordered more drinks. When I asked if she didn’t have a date to get back to, she smiled and told me she’d just have to reschedule it. This, she said, was special. She’d never meet her baby brother’s boyfriend for the first time again.
Lydia was Mike’s age. A few years older than me. She wrote copy for the Buffalo Soldier Museum downtown, and if you told her you didn’t know Houston had one of those, she’d say that’s because it’s for niggas.
But that evening, she played it cool. Laughed at our jokes. Paid for more beer.
Just before last call, Lydia gave Mike her number.
Wow, said Mike. This is a first.
Life is long, said Lydia.
Cheers, said Mike.
* * *
Later that night, Lydia texted me.
He’s funny, she said.
Too funny for you, she added.
* * *
• • •
Between the four of us, my father and Lydia are the darkest. Whenever we ate out as kids, she and I always sat on the same end of the table. If we didn’t, we ran the risk of waiters splitting the check, the sort of thing our father bitched about for months. We never ate at those restaurants again.
* * *
• • •
It’s late when Mike touches me, and I’m not thinking about it until we’ve started—then we’re mashing our chests together, jumbling legs and elbows.
His tongue touches mine. My nose strafes his belly button. There’s a point when you’re with someone, and it’s all just reaction. You’ve done everything there is to do.
But once in a blue moon, they’ll feel like a stranger, like this visitor in your hands.
So it’s the first time we’ve kissed in weeks, and then I’m sucking Mike off when he lifts up his knees.
I point toward the living room.
Grow up, says Mike.
And before he says anything else, I’ve got one finger in there, and then four. Like I’m kneading dough. He laughs. He stops when I’m inside him.
He’s tight, but I fit.
I wish it takes me longer.
Afterward, Mike waddles toward the toilet, and I’m staring at his packed duffel. When I wake up, he’s back in bed, asleep, arms wrapped around his shoulders.
Now would be the time to wake him up and ask him to stay, but I don’t do that.
I watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall.
* * *
• • •
A few dates in, Mike told me a joke. I’d just let him fuck me at his place. We hadn’t made it past the sofa. And it was fine, mostly, except for a few things, like his putting his thumb in my mouth, and me spitting that out, and my grinding too fast, and his saying slow down, and my laughing, and his coming immediately, and my taking forever to come.
But eventually it all happened.
Afterward, I rubbed a palm on his thighs. He held my head in his lap.
So, said Mike, a Jap and a nigger walk into a bar.
Hey, I said.
That’s it, said Mike. That’s the joke.
2.
Slamming cabinets wake me up. I reach for my pills. Then I reach for Mike, and he’s not there.
His duffel’s gone, too. He left the bathroom light on. It would’ve been too much to ask for a note, but of course I look for one anyway.
There’s a text though: MITSUKO HARA
And then: MAKE SURE SHE TAKES HER MEDICINE BC SHE FORGETS
And then: IT’S MY FATHER, BEN. IT’S REALLY NOT YOU
* * *
• • •
Mitsuko’s in the kitchen, opening things and looking into them and closing them back up again. Water’s boiling on the stove. There’s a mug on the counter. She’s cooked rice, sliced a cucumber, and poached an egg when I step on the tile, and she doesn’t look up, doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m around.
Then she nods my way.
Do you work, she asks.
What, I say.
You don’t work, says Mitsuko, shaking her head.
I do, I say. Mostly in the afternoon.
And what does that look like?
I’m at a daycare.
So you’re a teacher, says Mitsuko.
More like a babysitter, I say.
And Mitsuko doesn’t say anything to that. And I don’t prompt her.
Mike’s mother is compact, like him, but nimble. Sturdy. She finishes her bowl and turns to wash the dishes. I tell her she doesn’t have to worry about that, and she doesn’t even turn around.
When she’s finished with everything, she wipes down the sink, setting everything back in their cabinets. I couldn’t tell you where she found the rag. But as she reaches for her jacket, lifting her shoes at the door, I ask if she’s taken her pills, and Mitsuko finally looks at me.
You’re joking, she says.
Mike just mentioned them, I say.
Incredible, she says. That’s what he tells you.
I’m sorry, I say.
And now you’re apologizing, says Mitsuko.
Well, she says, you’re too late.
And loud, she says.
Both of you, says Mitsuko before she shuts the door. The whole night. Like dogs.
* * *
• • •
My mother’s new husband is Nigerian. He’s a pastor. They’ve got this Pomeranian and two boys. She lives in a neighborhood with a gate, hosting potlucks and block parties, but the first time I showed Lydia their Christmas photo, the one they sent my father in the mail, she shrieked.
The dog, she said.
It’s fucking hideous, she said.
• • •
I usually bike to work. Mike owns the car. It’s in his name, but he’s gone now, so I drive it just to see what that’s like. His steering wheel’s worn and warm on my fingers, and the fabric’s torn against my thumb, and the seat’s indented underneath me, probably from Mike’s ass. I try to settle into it, but something still feels off. After fucking around with the rearview mirror, I give up, drive the whole way blind.
Most days, it’s the same eight kids at the aftercare center. There’s Hannah, with the straightened hair. Thomas with the twists. Xu and Ethan are twin brothers, and Marcos has a sister named Silvia. Then there’s Margaret, who’s a year or so older than the rest of them, and Ahmad, the lone Black kid, who’s something like two years younger.