The sound of Masako’s pen hitting the paper is rough but even, in a rhythm that never quite fades into the background. Alex tries not to sigh, kicking at the leg of the coffee table again. She’s not going to be a brat about this; the marking period’s over and Masako’s got to enter all the grades before the deadline in three days. But it would be nice if there weren’t so many students, or if the deadline was pushed back until after her departure. Greedy, selfish, childish; she chides herself and flexes her toes, glaring at the chipped blue polish on her nails and catching herself before she kicks the table leg again.
Masako’s reading glasses slip down on her face again; she wrinkles her nose to keep them from falling any further. It’s cute the way her whole face gets into it, the twist of her lips and furrow of her brow, and Alex begrudges Masako’s work a little bit less for it. It’s not unfair, really; it just is; it’s not as if Masako could come visit Alex and Alex could drop everything in response. And even this, watching Masako and being near her, is way more than Alex could get from across the ocean.
“If I stop, it’ll only take longer,” Masako says.
She’s right, of course, but it doesn’t make it easier in the moment. Alex has never been a patient person, and it already feels like she’s lost so much time with Masako—so much time before they knew each other, so much time when they were being too careful to let their relationship slide out of ambiguity and into something real. It’s stupid of her to regret things she can’t change and that ended up well enough, and Masako’s the one who reminds her that had they met when they were younger they might not have worked out (but Alex is the one who says right back that they might have anyway).
Masako flips over the page, reaching out to pat Alex on the side of the head.
“Sorry,” says Alex.
Masako glances up over her glasses, at once an acceptance and a dissolution of the apology. Alex pulls the blanket around them up over her chest and changes the channel on the television. It’s still muted, but she’d rather watch a cheesy drama and make up a storyline based on the characters’ longing looks than watch a commercial cut back and forth from the overly-cheery salesman to a picture of the unappealing product. Masako scoots a bit closer, both hands back on the paper again.
The drama protagonist’s eyes widen; the camera zooms in on her impossibly smooth face. Alex looks back at Masako, the slightly rumpled collar of her shirt and the sharp angle of her elbow, her sleeves pushed halfway up her arms.
“What?” says Masako.
There’s no shame n looking at your girlfriend. Alex just smiles and leans in. Masako’s face flushes and she looks back out of the corner of her eye. Alex catches her gaze and smiles wiser, and Masako scribbles even faster on the page.
“You’re lucky I only have a few left.”
Alex plants a kiss on Masako’s cheek and ducks out of the way before Masako can poke her with the pen. She turns back to the TV, feigning innocence but genuinely trying to let Masako finish this. Another woman is onscreen, whispering something to a man with bleached hair. Bleach man frowns; Alex tries to read his lips. He might be asking if his companion is telling the truth, or maybe it’s something about hairstyles? The vowels all kind of look the same, especially from this far away.
The scratching of the pen ceases abruptly, and Alex looks back. Masako sets the sheaf of papers down on the floor, removes her glasses, and pushes the blanket off her lap.
“Beer?”
“Sure,” says Alex.
Masako’s straightening her shirt as she walks, bare feet moving soundlessly against the wood floor. She’s back in a moment, two cans of beer caught in one hand (her hand shouldn’t even be big enough for that but she pulls it off with ease, almost similar in its motion to the way she palms a basketball). She hands one off to Alex and pops the tab on the other before she sits back down. Alex pulls her in, stretching out one leg across her lap. Masako flinches when Alex’s ankle brushes her wrist; her other hand twitches and the beer hisses.
“Your foot’s cold.”
Masako sets her beer on the coffee table and picks up the edge of the blanket, tucking it around Alex’s foot like a cast. It’s not what Alex was expecting at all (well, she really wasn’t expecting any further reaction) but it does something to her insides, a quick twist to her intestines. Masako’s really smiling at her, not in exasperation and nothing she’s trying to hide, just a real curve on her lips and softness in her eyes.
“If you stay here long enough, you might start wearing socks,” Masako says.
Alex wants to ask if that’s so, but her tongue is drier than a cactus at noon and there’s no real way she can articulate the warmth that’s spreading through her, making her numb toes suddenly irrelevant. Alex sets her own beer down on the floor and tries to sit up—it’s hard when she’s leaning back against the couch and her leg is on Masako’s lap, and she doesn’t really manage, but she gets close enough to grab Masako’s hand and pull her halfway down to meet in the middle. It’s still awkward; they’re both half-twisted and Masako’s hair is falling into Alex’s face. Alex kisses her anyway, even if they only hold the position for a few seconds and a few strands of hair are trapped between their mouths.
“Buy me a pair?”
“Your birthday’s not til August,” says Masako.
She pulls her hair back and twists around so she’s properly facing Alex; this time she’s the one who leans over all the way and puts her mouth against Alex’s. This time it’s deeper, longer, more comfortable. Alex winds her fingers through Masako’s hair, resting her thumb against the back of Masako’s neck.
“I’ll think about it,” Masako whispers, and then presses her smile to Alex’s lips.