Three Scenarios in Which Hana Sasaki Grows a Tail Read Online Free PDF

He didn’t tell Mom—he never did. That was the last time we played Coffin.
    There are six stairs leading down to Felix’s door. When I get to the bottom, I’m always aware of how much of me is below ground. It’s like a very wide grave, this apartment. Recently I’ve had to fight the urge to turn around and go back up.
    Felix is cooking with his back to the door and doesn’t hear me come in. He’s got his khakis on from work and no shirt. He has what he calls a “techie tan,” which means he is white like recycled paper. He works at an Internet dating company, fixing the employees’ computers. He finds it exciting. He finds almost anything exciting. It’s probably why I like him.
    I watch his papery back at the stove and think, he is biodegradable. Then I think that his body mirrors the apartment, the bottom buried and the top exposed to light.
    He turns and sees me and sings, “Ma-a-a-axine! You don’t have to put on the red light!” He takes my face in his hands and kisses me loudly.
    We have pesto for dinner, and he talks about how he managed to solve three people’s problems without even showing up at their cubicles.
    “If people would just troubleshoot , it would save so much time. A simple logical process, that’s all it takes!”
    Since Rooey died, Felix has become even more enthusiastic, maybe to make up for my silences.
    I tell him about the cover story. He wants to celebrateso we get in bed and drink a bottle of champagne under the covers.
    “I’m feeling better.”
    “Yeah?”
    “About Rooey.”
    “Good!”
    “I think I’m getting over it. I think I’m done crying.”
    “Wow! Well. You know. Take your time. There’s no time limit.” He looks at me solemnly and I notice his pores. When did they get so big? On his nightstand, turned upside down, is a book: When a Loved One Grieves.
    “Have you thought any more about trying therapy?” he asks.
    “Mm. Not my thing.”
    “I know you believe that, but how can you know if you don’t try?”
    “I’d rather not talk about this stuff right now.” I slip my hand in his boxers. I could care less about sex with Felix lately and now is no different, but at least it will shut him up.
    I wonder how he’ll react if I tell him to fuck me, so I whisper it—“I want you to fuck me”—and he blushes; we’ve never used this word before, and I realize he doesn’t necessarily know how it differs from what we usually do, what he always refers to as “making love.” But he gives it a shot. He gets on top of me, sticks it in, and buries his face in my neck, biting me, I think, though I can’t be sure.
    “Harder,” I tell him, squirming a bit, and he tries to pin my arms over my head while holding himself up with one hand, but he loses balance and folds down on top of me.
    His face finds my armpit for a second and his nose wrinkles up.
    I sniff under my arm. “Whew. Kind of manly, I know.”
    “No big deal.”
    “I’ve been using Rooey’s deodorant.”
    “Oh.” He pauses, traces my belly button with his middle finger. “Why?”
    “Works better. And it doesn’t smell like flowers.”
    “What’s wrong with flowers?”
    I shrug. “They’re so girly.”
    We fall asleep. I dream I’m alone, bobbing in a black sea. I don’t know which way to swim, and the bottom’s miles below. A fin appears in the distance. I swim away from it, but it catches up, and as it gets closer I see it’s Rooey, and I see in his eyes that he hates me. I watch helplessly as he speeds closer, teeth and gums bared, and when he finally reaches me, there’s a flare of heat in my neck, and afterward a sensation like dissolving. Only when I give in, do I wake up. That giving in is a release so powerful I find myself sitting up in bed, heaving. That giving in is the saddest feeling in the world.
    IT’S BEEN THREE MONTHS AND THREE DAYS. Mom hasn’t touched up her strawberry blonde dye job since the attack, and the dark roots are like a measuring stick: her grief