I don’t like this place.
I know you must be wondering: “Why did you come here then? I bet no one forced you.”
I have two answers, one of which at least that’s as legit as your question.
My position as head of this company requires me to ‘bond with my employees in order to strengthen our relationships as part of the same firm and to create a friendly and relaxed environment’.
A pile of hogwash of course. These people don’t care about me just as much as I don’t care about them; in fact, I’m more than sure that a good half of them despises me. Capitalism is an ugly beast, I know, but as long as they need my money and I need their assistance, we will all just have to bite the bullet. Or, in this case, bite the pizza.
Basing yourself on this last statement, I know that if you were to make assumptions about the second reason why I’m here you’d probably come up empty. I’m not going to satisfy your curiosity just yet though.
As we enter, at once it becomes clear that this is far from being the quiet and reserved atmosphere of the restaurants I usually frequent: the scent of frying oil and of humanity hits my nose with the same strength of a dump truck. Indeed, there are enough people here that one could conduct a social experiment of some relevance: there are groups of friends, perhaps college students, raising their voices and their beers when the joke’s too droll; there are a few couples, here a man devours his dripping pizza while his partner crams lettuce leaves in her mouth. There are families and children either staring at a screen with sauce-stained mouths or kneeling on the chair, being told again and again tokeep it down, ‘cause people are eating.
Then there’s us of course: with eight men and seven women, ours is one of the largest groups. Our suits, and ties and leather shoes make for a grotesque contrast in such a casual atmosphere, but most of us don’t mind. We’ve been locked up in our offices for almost ten hours. No wonder smiles are starting to bloom and some already speak of their families at home, of the baseball game this Sunday.
The place is crowded, its red cushioned benches overflowing in their booths as the waiters walk fast on the depressing-looking tiles. They don’t get paid enough to work like this on a Friday night, I’m sure. One of them notices us. Her poor attempt at a welcoming smile makes my lips bend in pitying amusement.
As soon as she leads us to our table, I have at least the satisfaction to verify that whoever booked the night made sure we had some more space. We’re talking about a meter and a half from the other patrons, instead of only half, but better than nothing.
The menus are already waiting for us, standing between the simple white dishes, the forks and the knives with their ugly plastic handles.
“What will you order, Miss Momobami?” asks Kawazuki, at my right. His cheeks coloured with the heat of the restaurant.
“I don’t know yet,” I reply, indifferent.
Talk of business reports and discussions about toppings crowd the table.
I take a deep breath. At half-past nine I’ll receive an urgent call that will make me leave in a hurry. Routine.
Sorry-go-on-without-me. See-you-on-Monday.
***
It’s been a long day.
I was so deep in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice the sun was gone until I found myself here, in this unfamiliar part of downtown. I’m exhausted. My feet hurt from all that walking. I needed it though.
“I know that if I get back home now I won’t have the energy to make myself dinner. Oh, that position was the best I could dream for. I did my best for the interview, and yet—”
It’s Friday night. I shouldn’t feel so miserable. Pushing my glasses up my nose, I look at my flats, now dusty and abused by that aimless march.
I force myself to take action. I can’t end the night like this. Although I don’t feel like eating, I’m starting to be hungry. I want something fast and cheap. It’s getting late, plus, as I didn’t get the job, I’ll need to economize as much as possible now.
The thought disheartens me even more. Better not to think about it. Listlessy, I reach for the phone in my purse, searching for a diner or something similar. I don’t feel adventurous enough for mexican, nor do I tolerate most fast food enough to force me to eat it now. There’s a Pizza Hap right around the corner though.
As I walk, I observe the cars and the passer-bys, both headed either toward a calm, relaxing night after a full week of working or perhaps already anticipating the soirée in one club or another. Compared to them, I feel like a mess in the nice new tailleur that was supposed to be my shiny armor.
The restaurant is right where the map indicated it. The light spilling from the windows tinges the sidewalk with orange, spotted with the shadows of the people inside. The place is as full as an egg and I shouldn’t be surprised. Still, I can’t help glowering a bit when, upon entering, it takes a good ten minutes for the waiters to notice me.
One of them smiles approaching me, cordial as only a family restaurant worker could be. Her arms are so full of dishes I wonder at the pool noodles she has for arms under the sleeves of the standard t-shirt.
“Welcome! I’ll be right with you!” she tells me in passing.
More waiting, of course. I just want to eat my soggy slice of pizza and catch the subway, possibly without getting robbed or something worse.
By the time the waitress comes back my ears are ringing with the cacophony of noises around me and my nose is full of the more or less unpleasant smell of fatty food.
A couple has just left. Their leftovers on the table that I’m supposed to occupy remind me once again both of my loneliness and of my gloom. As the employer cleans up, my eyes move on my surroundings without much interest. There’s a group of customers that attracts my attention though. Or rather, the woman seated at the head of the table: her silver, looping tresses and sharp features are misplaced in a family restaurant. She’d look much better on the first page of a fashion magazine, and her tailleur, two or three times fancier than mine, strengthens my idea.
With her chin in her hand, she doesn’t look annoyed as much as… bored.
“Working must have tired her out. Lucky her,” I think to myself.
The waitress is done. I stop her before she can leave again.
“I’ll have plain water and a slice of margherita please. And don’t bother yourself bringing the bread, thank you.”
***
As I’ve already stated that I don’t like this place, I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that I don’t like their menu either. There’s pizza and far too many types of crusts for me to care, along with other food that is fried and fatty, if not both as in most cases. The ‘healthy options’ are healthier if you don’t eat them, not to ignore the pasta, which looks as appetizing as getting spat in the mouth.
There are two reasons why I keep coming here every second Friday of the month, and the food isn’t among them. This time I picked one of the most abhorrent options, just to see the reactions of my colleagues when it’ll arrive: chicken breast, bacon, BBQ sauce and God only what other threat to my coronary arteries.
It’s fine. I know I won’t finish it anyways. And as far as I know, the legend I keep in mind every time I come here doesn’t require anything specific. Just a pizza and a lover.
I’d never reveal my thoughts to the ladies and gentlemen sitting at my table tonight. Considering the way some of them fall quiet when my order arrives though, I’d be quite amused to see how they feel knowing that one of the most powerful women of Japan indulges in such childish nonsense while they talk about incorrect files and little Yuri’s fourth birthday. In the end, they’re all as boring as they look anyways.
The pizza’s here, and at first it looks burned, but it’s just the BBQ sauce. My nose scrunches up at the smell. Someone, a bit farther away from my seat, has already tackled his food.
“Fluffy—Nice chew,” he says, mouth full and oily lips, prompting me to look away not to ruin my already precarious appetite.
I know that this is no fillet, but I still prefer to eat with fork and knife. I don’t want to ruin my lipstick in front of these people, although I’m sure the child slobbering all over himself in the high chair at my far left wouldn’t mind my lack of consideration.
I start cutting the pizza, working only on the inside as I won’t bother with the crust. I bring the first morsel to my lips, careful not to drop any of its greasy topping over my skirt.
There’s a lot of dough. I don’t know if I agree with the gentleman’s previous statement, but I do know that all that dough isn’t enough to cover the different tastes of the meats and the tangier aroma of the sauce, nor the melting mozzarella they threw on top of everything, just to add that few hundred calories that were missing.
“Nothing new,” I tell myself chewing. I’ll force myself to eat two or three more morsels, but I’ll be gone before the beer will get to the others’ heads. I’ll bring the rest of the pizza away with me. My sister Ririka will appreciate it more than me with all probabilities.
I clean my mouth with a sip of water, wipe my lips as best as I can. I feel them greasy, but I know it’s just an impression.
I cut another piece. Most of my tablemates are used to my habits, but there’s still someone that keeps eyeing up my silverware and the two little squares in the middle of my pizza.
Ignoring them, I fill my mouth once again. At once I grimace, and the sudden change in my demeanour doesn’t go unnoticed. Kawazuki, who has slowly but surely turned a red as bright as that of the tomato sauce on his pizza, barely gives himself the time to swallow before inquiring: “Miss Momobami? Is anything the matter?”
I swear I try to swallow. But also… what in Heaven’s name is this taste? At first I thought it was an ingredient I didn’t notice in the description of the pizza, but no, that can’t be the case. It’s too sweet, too warm. It’s making me queasy, it’s so strong and unexpected I feel myself pale.
Too well mannered to do much else, I reach for my napkin and spit the chewed dough. Someone fills my glass as I try not to gag, someone else tries to jest in an attempt to lighten the sudden tension, but only a few smile at the joke.
As I drink again, trying to cleanse my mouth, I hear someone coughing much and loudly behind me. Too concentrated on the awkward remarks of my colleagues, I didn’t hear it at first, but even the waiters are starting to worry.
That weird, offensive aroma is still crushing my taste buds as I turn.
***
“What the—?!”
I’m almost throwing up, and no wonder: the scent of marinara sauce and mozzarella didn’t prepare neither me nor my stomach for whatever it is that ended up in my mouth with the first bite.
My slice is still on its plate as I press a napkin to my mouth, coughing. The thought of being sick in the middle of a family restaurant makes my heart race. A waiter comes to my aid with a jug of water.
“Is everything all right, ma’am?” he asks me, his usual cordiality cracking a bit, but I don’t blame him.
With teary eyes, I force myself to nod. I drink the glass he filled for me, before saying: “There’s something wrong with my food, I’m sorry. It’s just… the taste”—I clear my throat —”It’s much different that usual.”
“Different?” he asks, blinking, “What’s wrong?”
“Ah, well, y-you see—” I’m not so sure of what happened to be honest. It was all so odd. I don’t want to embarass myself any further.
Quite a few people have noticed my mortifying mishap and ignoring my nausea, I’m blushing like crazy. The tremble in my hands hasn’t left me yet. Looks like it won’t leave any sooner: among my unwanted audience, the business woman I noticed earlier is also looking in my direction, a pensive look clouding eyes that, now I see, are of an extraordinary pale blue.
“Ma’am?” The waiter almost waves his hand before my eyes in a desperate attempt to get my attention. “What’s wrong with your pizza?”
“A-Ah, sorry!” I bow my head, more as if hiding myself than as if asking for forgiveness. “I-It’s not the first time I come here, and usually I adore your food but—!”
Okay, that was a bastard lie. I feel more heat running in my cheeks as my eyes flicker from the startled eyes of the waiter to the figure getting up behind him.
“You were saying, the taste was off?”
“...I know you might think I’m crazy.” I sure feel like it, considering how the day has gone. “But it tasted like… milk?”
“Ma’am.”
No wonder he looks taken aback. I bow my head again, muttering my apologies for the third time and babbling about paying both this slice and the next one. Perhaps I’m hallucinating. I guess exhaustion can cause that, yet… the taste of warm milk is too peculiar to be mistaken. To taste it while chewing a pizza of all things then—failing that interview must have made me delusional.
As he takes my dish away and also apologies—making me feel even worse—I notice how the business woman did in fact get up. I meet her gaze without wanting to. At once I turn away, my left hand coming to cover my face with the excuse of a nonexistent loose lock of hair while the other reaches for the water jug again.
“She’s coming this way—no… Yes!”
Water drips down the side of my glass. My hand isn’t doing a very good job at being steady, and I know I’m no better at pretending not to see that mysterious figure. I’m cursing to myself in languages I didn’t even know I could speak as she rests her hand on the seatback of the empty chair before me.
Choking on my water, I gawk at her bright blue lipstick and eyes as sharp and cold as a syberian winter.
She observes me for a moment. Her silence doesn’t seem to be intimidating on purpose. That’s all that my panicked mind suggests: she just really has nothing to say, apparently.
The stranger is staring me down, yet all I can do is gulp my water and freeze in my seat.
“Wait. Isn’t that Igarashi?”
Someone else broke the silence between us. We both turn toward the source of that statement. The woman that spoke has been giving me her back throughout the night. Now that I can see her better though, I recognize her as one of the recruiters that supervised my interview earlier.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding—”
“Someone you know?” asks the stranger. Her voice is of a pleasant softness in such a chaotic atmosphere.
I nod, unable to do much else.
“Mrs. Amari is one of our top recruiters. Mine might be a baseless assumption, but am I to understand that—”
I nod again before letting her finish, so nervous my glasses slide down my nose. I have no idea of what’s going on, nor do I feel able to stop it.
She hums to herself.
“How did it go then?”
“I’m sorry…?”
“I assume you had a meeting with my recruiter, yes? What was the result? Were you chosen for the job?”
“Did you really have to bring that up?”
I feel my throat tightening, yet I force myself to say: “No, ma’am. I was deemed unfit.”
Another hum, not of pity, nor of disappointment. What does this woman want from me? She isn’t hiding any of her curiosity, but she hasn’t even introduced herself yet.
“What made you wish to join us then?”
I’m not so sure I should answer. I’m not sure it matters anymore at this point either, but I can’t lie, not when I gave the exact same answer to Mrs. Amari earlier.I force myself to keep my voice steady as I speak.
“The company’s history was the main reason why I chose to apply for a job, yet I-I can’t deny that I was also intrigued by the figure of the CEO and by her accomplishments. I was hoping that... working under her wing I could grow, both personally and professionally speaking.”
Perhaps I spoke too much. Something changed in the other’s features, the lightest ripple in an otherwise tranquil pond. I wonder if her eyes will ever leave mine.
“What was wrong with your food, if I may?” she asks, polite.
Once again, I consider lying, but how can I hope to get away with it when eyes as deep as those are nailing me on my seat?
“There was something wrong with… with the taste, ma’am. It seemed as if I was drinking a glass of milk, rather than eating pizza.”
A quirk in the blue lips, another small ripple, gone as fast as it appeared.
“Igarashi, right?”
Startling me, she’s leaning forward now, too close for my comfort. I don’t know what will come out of all of this yet. I do know nothing could have prepared me for it.
“We will both need our time to get to know each other better, of course. For the time being, however… what would you say about becoming my secretary?”
***
Just a pizza and a lover.
I assure you, I was as surprised as Sayaka to find out the legend was true. If someone had asked me about all this three months ago, I would have probably laughed in their but… it all came out to be much more than a silly superstition.
Thankfully, for being someone who carries on their shoulders a good three-quarters of one of the biggest international companies in the country, I do deserve to keep one last sparkle of childish wonder. And indeed, it is quite childish to associate the remotest possibility of the existence of soulmates with an urban legend.
Mind you though: I didn’t believe in love three months ago. I didn’t believe that the taste of milk could ever fill my mouth at some point, revealing the existence of my soulmate—or soulmates— upon biting into a pizza at the same time as them.
Still, the thought amused me and that was also one of the reasons why, every second Friday of the month, I subjected myself to the unnecessary torture of those work dinners. Ririka used to be very fond of this silly legend when we were children. Growing up her preferences moved to burgers and I don’t think she believes in these stories anymore, but I do think this part of her might have rubbed off on me.
To be honest, I’m glad it did. Sayaka is the very contrary of me, to the point that at times we step on each other’s feet more than we should. She’s too rational to believe in such tales, and indeed when I first told her about the ‘Milky Way Lovers’ she looked at me as if I was raving.
It was fun to see how, after these months in my office, the last time we spoke about it her reaction was much different—and, if I may say so, much more delightful. We repeated the same experiment, with different kinds of pizza from different restaurants, yet they always gave the same result: if we chew at the same time, the revolting taste of milk makes our stomachs turn. Otherwise, the pizza is just a pizza, and we are just a boss and her secretary sitting in front of each other with greasy hands and rolled up sleeves.
I’m not sure these attempts are that influential to her feelings though. I don’t think she was lying when she said she looked up to me. The way she acts, ever so ready to please me and to forgive me and my flaws, when I can’t help but show them, gives me a lot to think about.
I wonder if her adoration is true, if that’s what it really means to have a soulmate. She’s starting to believe it now, in her own way. I’m the one that’s starting to doubt it.
It doesn't matter though, not now. I have my own ways to find out.
***
“What… is this…?”
“Something I built. I don’t have much time for my hobbies anymore, but architecture has been among them ever since my high school days. Being back at Hyakkou really brings back memories, doesn’t it?”
“I agree. Too bad we never got to meet back then. I don’t recall this tower though…”
“I’m not surprised. It was never used, unfortunately.”
“How come?”
“It wasn’t built just for anyone, you know? It was waiting for the right person. And so was I.”
Miss Momobami’s eyes and hair are a breathtaking sight under the moon tonight. I don’t know how many lilies surround us, but I do know that we look just perfect among them. The building towering behind her with its dozens of empty doors fascinates me, imposing, yet exquisite, like everything else Miss Momobami does.
“Would you like to give it a try?” she asks me under the stars. “You might find out more than you wish for.”
I don’t know her that well. We pass together so much time, and yet, there’s always a new corner in her being, always a niche left unexplored. After almost three years as her secretary, I still don’t know how much I can trust her. But her eyes in the moonlight speak a language I want to know. Her hands, so pale and dainty, seem made just for me to behold them.
If I close my eyes I can still taste the milk as I let myself be led up the winding staircase.
***
“Do you ever think about it, Kirari?”
“About what?” I say.
The sunset tinged our skin with honey and I was never one to like clichées. Things have been much different since Sayaka came around though.
Sitting on the balcony of my home, home that is also hers now, although she’s still too bashful to say the same, my arms have found their place around her.
“We met”, says Sayaka, ”On an anonymous Friday night, in one of the most depressing moments—and restaurants—of my life. The taste of milk…”
“Ugh…”
“I’ll bring it to my grave, yeah.”
My disgust makes her chuckle. After all these years neither of us can stand either pizza nor milk anymore, at least when we eat together. We found a good compromise in tea and ice cream at 3am though.
She shifts, her face coming to rest against my chest. I feel myself smiling without being able to help it. She might not feel like this is her home but her scent and the way it makes me feel always prove her wrong, always. I can’t tell something’s on her mind though.
I give her time. She’s always been one to think too much.
“Do you ever regret it?”
I move my eyes away from the stars appearing up above, the same stars that were there to see us fall and get up on the safety mat that one night. The same that led her to me on yet another night.
I’m looking at her eyes, and I see much more than all that now.
“I could never.”
She’s smiling, and I know I should ask the same question. We’re so different, yet in the end we share the same fears, yearn for the same desires.
I don’t let myself doubt her anymore. It doesn’t matter how many times we fall. The way she’s smiling against my chest, the way her eyes light up looking at me… that’s just fine. That’s just how it’s supposed to be.
As I press my lips to her forehead, pulling her closer, I know it with intense certainty: she’s my soulmate.
The sky birthed us only to have her find me.