𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 ペイント 𝚕𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚘 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

chapter four: he's here and I'm definitely not being weird!

     "Where are my... katanas?"

     The sudden question from the silent mutant caused you to drop your croissant. You sighed loudly in disappointment, gazing upon your fallen pastry with genuine pain in your eyes. You bent over and snatched it up, stuffing the barely nibbled piece of bread into your jeans pocket, saving it for the fat greedy pigeons that always perched on your fire escape with feigned hunger in their stupid eyes.

     "What the heck are katanas?" You questioned, a bit rude, sure, but he had startled you three times already this night, so it seemed warranted.

     Leo stopped chewing on a forkful of cooked vegetables, tilting his head slightly as he simply stared at you. You would have been fine with him gazing upon your acne ravaged face if it wasn't for his eye. That one, injured, psychedelic, purely aesthetic like colored blue eye that seemed to peel you apart like the layers of a fruit. You clenched your hands together, fighting the urge to give him yet another black eye just so you wouldn't have to deal with the sheer control his gaze held over you. alright you wanna be edge lord, calm down, he's just looking at you, your brain scolded you, as your hands unclenched and smoothed against the denim of your jeans.

      "They're, katanas." He spoke slowly, staring at you as if he were in disbelief that there was someone out there who did not know what katanas were.

      "Explain." You mused, hefting yourself onto the dinner table that was pushed up against a beige wall with a small framed picture of a young Murakami cooking over a small metal pot in his hometown of Japan. The wall was scuffed with dents, scratches on the paint, and flecks of weird gunk that, through combined hours of the three coworkers scrubbing, refused to come out. He sat on the burgundy plush seats, legs crossed over each other in a very uncomfortable position that even made your thighs hurt. He was sitting up straight, his shell squished against a pillow that Isidore had whipped out of his school backpack (no one had batted an eye at that), your pink sweater draped around his broad shoulders. The pink only seemed to bring out the brightness of his one open eye too. His face constantly twisted into one of confusion, as if his mind wasn't quite on the conversation they were having at the moment. As if he were trying to recall something.

     Leo dragged the back of his hand across his mouth with a small sigh. "Swords. They're... Japanese swords." He was cringing now, the pain evident in his eyes.

     "See! That wasn't too hard. I mean, how was I supposed to know that?" You crossed one leg dramatically over the other, slapping your hands against your thighs. "It's not like I majored in Japanese samurai training." You made a half shrug, a smile playing on your chapped lips.

      "Really?" He raised his brow, holding the bowl to his lips to quietly sip down the broth. "You seemed to wield that broom pretty professionally for a... garbage girl." He snorted into his soup, before putting the bowl back on the table, poking the vegetables about with a pair of chopsticks that Yaki had thrown at his head when he had loudly explained about how this was not an authentic Japanese experience.

      "Obviously, I learned how to from Star Wars." You began seriously, dragging one of your legs onto the table to place your socked foot onto it. Murakami would scold you if he somehow found out you put your dirty shoes onto his recently polished tables. "And hey," you pointed a manicured finger at Leo menacingly. "I'm the waitress and assistant cook, thank you very much. I'm garbage for the customers to abuse." Oh god, here had begun the self deprecating jokes. It's too early you idiot, too early! You have to ease new people into it, slowly!