Eden

by Nathan Evans

  He choked out the last few gasps of air and still nothing had come. His head fell to the bed, matting against his cold, wet hair; the tips feeling like ghostly fingers on his neck. He clasped his eyelids shut as tightly as he could. The pain eased little.

  He lay there like that for some time, letting his heart grind down to its normal rhythm. Rather than ease the contents of his stomach, the retching had stirred them up. His hand clasped his belly as it churned and gurgled. He had the feeling that if he tried to throw up again this time, he’d produce. Feeling no rush to abuse his throat any further he settled and closed his eyes.

  When he finally opened them, only a fraction of his initial pain remained. It was at a level he could tolerate; the place where he knew that if he distracted himself he could pretend as if it wasn’t there at all; as if he were okay.

  His head was still fuzzy from the trauma he’d experienced at his cubicle earlier in the day, but the active, piercing throb had passed. Even still, the feeling was enough to prevent any proactive thought. He settled on allowing the pieces of relevant information to slowly assemble themselves. It wasn’t until they came together that he had the acuity of mind to check his alarm clock.

  He shifted back on his side, reaching across the hardwood for it. He had to squint to see the glowing red numbers on its face. It read: 8:18 p.m. The pit of his stomach dropped.

  He was late.

  …

  Akio willed the taxi to go faster, but said nothing. Instead, he straightened out his work tie and shirt, hoping against hope that he’d slathered on enough deodorant to mask the fact that he hadn’t had time to wash them.

  He started to stress and, as a result, sweat. There was already a thin, sticky layer of perspiration glommed to his skin. He’d only had a few moments and a washcloth in front of the bathroom sink. It hadn’t been enough to wash away the result of his nightmare.

  The closer the taxi’s dashboard clock neared 9 P.M., the more nervous he got. He couldn’t remember the last date he’d been on. Now that he thought about it, he supposed he never actually had been on one. He didn’t think the average person would count drug numbed encounters in dark basements as dates.

  A sense of shame, a feeling like a shadow draping itself over his insides, settled in. He thought of Yuki in that moment, of her sweet nature, and realized that he shouldn’t be in this taxi right now. He shouldn’t be hurtling towards her apartment, attempting to burden himself on her. It was a thought that failed to ease his nerves and manifested itself in an unconscious twitching in his right leg.

  It was a few minutes after 9 P.M. when the taxi finally pulled up in front of Yuki’s apartment. Through the waterfall cascading down his window he could see a figure standing alone, illuminated by the street lamps.

  In a harried rush, he slapped his hand against the scanner built into the taxi’s arm rest, ignoring the deduction of credits from the monitor that was no larger than a Judas hole set above. He popped the door and stepped onto the curb.

  Yuki stood beneath her umbrella; the building’s awning failing to stretch far enough to do any actual good. Her eyeglasses were gone, the smoky hue of mascara replacing them. She stared at Akio as he cleared the cab, and he stared back.

  He did the only thing he could think to do: wave half-heartedly as he continued to clutch the door of the taxi. Wounded, Yuki peeled a couple of fingers from the handle of her umbrella and waved back.

  He released his grip on the door and walked towards her. The monotonous thrum of the car’s engine revved to life the moment he let go. The taxi peeled away from the curb, the door swinging shut on its hinge. He and Yuki watched it go.

  “I—uh, guess I forgot to ask him to wait.”

  Yuki glared from the corner of her eye as he said it. She turned her attention from him completely once he’d finished.

  Akio didn’t know what to do. He wanted to grab her hand, beg for forgiveness. Instead he just stood there, hoping the right thing to say would come.

  When it didn’t, she spoke: “I thought something might have happened to you, Akio. I know where you’re coming from and I just…” she looked to him, throwing her hands up as if he’d pulled the next few words from her against her will, “I’m a worrier, okay?”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just this thing came up and…” He wanted to lie. It was instinctive. With the roots of selected truths, a weave of excuses and misunderstandings began to construct itself into a complicated web of bullshit. He looked her in the eye and it crumbled.

  “I was sleeping. It’s been a rough couple of days. I…” He paused, unsure if he should continue; unsure if he should open up so completely. He rubbed the back of his neck as he eased out the truth. “I’ve been having nightmares lately—bad ones. I know it’s no excuse, I just…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t know how. He merely stood before her; vulnerable.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Yuki’s hard stare softened. She muttered as if she were chastising herself for what she was about to do. Eyeing him with mock suspicion, she spoke: “Well… I guess that excuse is just lame enough to be true.” A sigh. “But you did keep me waiting, so I’m getting the most expensive thing on the menu.”

  Akio laughed. The laugh was genuine, lacking any sense of self-deprecation or nerves. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed in such a way. He must’ve looked odd doing it; Yuki cracked a smile of her own, seemingly perplexed by the intensity of his reaction.

  “That’s funny, huh?”

  “It kinda is.”

  “Well, we’ll see if you’re laughing when the check comes.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He stepped aside, waving his arm before the sidewalk. A gesture he imagined a gentlemen might affect. “Shall we?”

  Yuki beamed. “We shall.”

  …

  It wasn’t until they neared their table that Akio realized just how far out of his depth he was. He stumbled behind Yuki and the restaurant’s maître d’ (a young, impeccably dressed woman who’s features seemed relaxed at a scowl and who’s hair was pulled back in a severe bun) along a dim path between tables so small he wondered how anybody could reasonably be expected to eat at them. He accidentally nudged more than a couple of patrons as he followed, earning a nasty stare and a couple of curled lips.

  They reached their own table near the center of the room as the maître d’ laid out their leather backed menus. Akio attempted to finesse his way around the server to get behind Yuki’s empty seat. With the skill and nonchalance of a true professional, the young woman boxed him out, pulling the seat clear for Yuki and motioning for Akio to take the chair opposite.

  Akio glared as Yuki sat. Yuki shot him a glance and a wry smirk. He returned it, then pulled out his own chair.

  The maître d’ leaned over the table with a manufactured grin and a nod, “Your server will be with you in just a moment. If you would, study the wine menu so you’ll be ready to order when he comes.”

  Akio bared his teeth in faux joviality when he spoke: “Of course. Thank you.” Though polite, the words were full of subliminal malice.

  The woman picked up on it. Her smile curled sadistically, “Yes,” she said, “my mistake. I should know that I don’t have to remind patrons that dress as nicely as you of the procedure.”

  Akio’s face deadened, surpassing anger and shifting directly to embarrassment. His eyes focused on the table linen before stealing an awkward, self-conscious glimpse of Yuki; part of him hoping that maybe she hadn’t heard the exchange, the other knowing she had.

  Pity played across her face before she looked away.

  “Enjoy your dinner.” The woman walked away with a bounce to her step that wasn’t there before.

  Yuki took up her menu, her eyes focused solely on it and not Akio. “So,” she said, forcing the moment to pass, “what looks good?”

  Akio opened his own menu, hiding behind it, his eyes growing hot. “I don’t know.” He said, doing his damndest to disguise the cracks that threatened to s
nake into his speech.

  An uncomfortable silence settled in between them. Both of them avoiding the others gaze at all costs. To steady himself, Akio perused the wine list, not unaware of the irony. It wasn’t until he noticed the price tags of each bottle that he was able to put the previous distress behind him and replace it with a new one.

  The waiter arrived, two glasses of chilled water in his clutch. Akio set his menu aside as the waiter set them down. He adjusted himself in his seat, pushing his shoulders back. Amidst the silence he’d decided to push through; that he owed it to Yuki to make the rest of the evening work.

  It was apparent that he’d rallied. As she lowered her own menu before her, Yuki grinned; the type of appreciative gesture that was more befitting of a mother than a lover.

  The waiter, a bit more genial, his appearance a bit more harried than the maître d’, drew himself up as well, “Hello, how may I serve you this evening? Would the young miss care to go first?”

  “She would.” She looked to Akio, a playful smile on her face. “You ready to order?”

  He nodded, the stress lines on his palm beginning to itch as he thought of his dwindling bank account.

  “All right,” she said, turning to the waiter, “I’ll stick with water.” She peeked at Akio out of the corner of her eye, taking in the instant relief he was unable to hide. “Don’t go getting too excited. I’m not much of a drinker.” Like a headsman brandishing an axe, she wielded her menu, her eyes roving over the inside. “I’ll have the eight ounce Colt with dehydrated potatoes and the corn paste, please.” She smiled at Akio; the expression smug and exaggerated.

  He smiled back, barely suppressing laughter.

  “And for you, sir?”

  He never took his eyes off of Yuki. “I’ll have the same.”

  “Of course.” Their menus were cleared and their server walked towards the kitchen, disappearing somewhere in the dark.

  The levity of the moment went with him. Left to their own devices, they lapsed into silence.

  Akio, his eyes wandering, found he had to remind himself to keep from slouching; a task that seemed to prevent him from coming up with anything by way of conversation. Every so often, when he felt he could bear Yuki’s gaze, he’d look to her; gauging her mood; silently imploring her to help ease the moment.

  As if in answer to his request, she spoke: “Wow, it’s hot in here. You hot?”

  With his lips compressed in a tight seal, he nodded in agreement.

  Her hands moved to the lapels of her jacket, “I’m gonna just…” She started at the top and worked her way down, peeling away the fabric that had clung to her like a second skin. If he hadn’t been so taken aback by what was underneath it, he might have had his wits about him enough to be concerned that it had taken her this long to remove it.

  Draped upon Yuki’s porcelain skin was a sundress—light blue—floral print.

  Akio’s itchy palm closed, his fingernails simultaneously biting into his skin and the tablecloth. His other hand jittered below the table, abusing his kneecap. As subtly as was possible, he pressed his back as far into his chair as it would go; preparing for the world to shift.

  There was a tingle, a feeling like fingertips kneading the patch of skin at the base of his skull. It coupled with a sense of vertigo; a state he was beginning to think was his natural one. Then there was nothing.

  “Akio, are you okay?” Yuki was staring at him, the sleeve of her jacket still hooked on her wrist.

  It took a concerted effort to relax, his entire body still tensed like a coiled wire. With the sight of Yuki’s sleeve ready to be rolled back up at a moment’s notice, he managed it.

  “Yeah, uh, just a headache. Migraines, I’ve been getting them a lot lately.”

  Completing the motion, Yuki removed the rest of the jacket, “You’re a bundle of nerves aren’t you?

  “Not normally. Like I said, it’s just been a rough couple of days.”

  Yuki’s expression shifted. Akio recognized it as the look of a woman who was getting tired of dealing with excuses; a look he was familiar with.

  “I know I’ve been… off so far tonight. It’s just that, this is my first date and I’m…” The words had escaped his lips before his mind could stop them, “nervous.” He said.

  His world stopped; a survival mechanism developed to deal with moments of extreme embarrassment. His mind raced, searching desperately for something, anything he might have said in the past that was more mortifying than what he’d said just now. He didn't come back to the moment until he came up short.

  “This is your first date?” She was taken aback to the point of forgetting to spare his feelings. Her face was contorted in genuine surprise.

  “Well, uh, officially… yeah.”

  “How—how is that even possible? I mean do you, do you even like… ah…”

  This time Akio was incredulous. “What? No—I mean—yeah—of course. It’s just, in my experience, I’ve never really had to go on any actual dates to…” A needle pulled from a pinch of skin. A hand, slender and pockmarked caressed the spot. He didn’t finish the sentence.

  Yuki’s eyebrow was cocked to its peak. Her face a mixture of humor and a certain morbid curiosity. It was a moment before she recovered from the implication of the statement. “Well,” she said, “I hope you don’t expect anything like that to happen tonight.”

  “No, of course not. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Yuki laughed, “I know. It’s fine. And don’t be nervous. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

  They shared a glance, and with it, Akio’s nerves eased. In an instant his faux pas and the encounter with the maître d’ were forgotten.

  “So,” she said, “you’re kind of a mysterious guy, aren’t you, Akio Yowamushi?”

  “Mysterious? No one’s ever called me that before.” He turned to self-deprecation, his stock and trade. “Boring maybe. Odd—I get that one a lot.”

  Yuki leaned back in her chair, as if she were sizing him up. “Yeah, I can see that one.” She said; her humor obvious and good. “But no, I think mysterious fits better. It seems like there’s always something going on in there.”

  She eased her elbow on the table, leaning in, “You know, I deal with a lot of different kinds of people at work and it’s just… most of them, you can see everything they’re about right on their faces. Like there’s nothing else there.” Her gaze became distant, wistful. “You—you’re different.”

  There had been moments in his life when Akio would have given anything for this kind of attention from a woman. Now that he was actually receiving it, he didn’t know how to handle it. He reached for his sweating glass of water and attempted a sip, succeeding in doing nothing more than wetting his lips. “How, how do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.” She said. “Why don’t you tell me? I barely know anything about you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well,” she said, “where are you from?”

  “Well—here—like everyone else.”

  “I mean, I know that, but it’s a big city. Have you always lived…?” She bit her lip, boarding up a flood of words she didn’t want to flow, searching for something else. “You know, where you live?”

  “You mean in ‘The Wastes’?”

  “I—I didn’t mean to offend you. I just—”

  “No, no it’s fine. Believe me, I know about its rep. I live it.” He chuckled; a sort of morbid acceptance. He folded his hands under the table and found his lap. “But no, I’m not from there. That’s just kind of where I ended up.”

  “‘Ended up?’ You say that like you had no control.”

  Akio’s boot pressed up against the table and it began to vibrate; the same nervous tick from the taxi making itself known. He hoped Yuki didn’t notice. The same way he hoped to find a way to steer the conversation away from this. When no way became apparent, he continued; the vain hope that the waiter might show up and interrupt him lodged firmly in t
he back of his mind: “I guess—in a way—I really didn’t.”

  “How do you mean? Doesn’t everybody have a choice?”

  Akio smirked; the expression betraying a hint of bitterness at the remark. “No, yeah, you’re right.” He perked up. “What about you? Where are you from?”

  “Nuh, uh, you’re not getting out of this one, Aki. You first.”

  He slumped; no longer stressing about his appearance. He thought about walking away, sparing Yuki the details of before. Then he looked at her; the first real woman that had ever shown an interest in him.

  She wanted to know.

  He wanted her.

  “I was born at the edge of the city.” He said, looking her in the eye. “Past ‘The Wastes’.”

  What little color there was in Yuki’s face drained away, becoming grave. “You’ve seen 'The Edge'?” Her mouth was agape.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice lacking any trace of humor. His eyes watched his palm as it rubbed a hole in the table linen. “It’s not what you think. The stories, they’re exaggerated. It isn’t as bad as everyone says.”

  A sliver of himself still concerned with keeping the date on track forced a smile. He met her gaze. “The people there, they make do like everyone else. There’s just, uh… a little less.”

  “Akio, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s fine, really.”

  Yuki’s lip quivered, failing to conceal the burning curiosity that shown plainly on her face. “I… uh…” Her jaw tensed and then she spoke, her voice a near whisper: “What’s it like?” She said. “What’s left past here?”

  He swallowed hard, his lips pursing as memories long repressed returned to the forefront. “Nothing,” he said, “there’s nothing. Just ruins. Buildings and streets that look like they used to belong here, but uh… but don’t anymore.”

  “How did, uh, how did you…?”

  “Make it into the city?”