They’d made lunchboxes for today the night before, bumping elbows in Masako’s tiny kitchen and ducking around each other again and again, Masako’s little exasperated sighs punctuating the air until Alex had caught her around the waist and pulled her back from the stove, but then the rice cooker had gone off and they were back to preparation. And after that Masako had banished her because dessert was going to be a surprise.
It’s very like Masako to come up with something like this, something that makes perfect sense for the occasion and pulling out another skill Alex hadn’t even realized she had in the first place (Masako’s never baked for Alex or given any inclination that she can or does, and this isn’t the kind of thing she’d try for Alex’s birthday without knowing how to do it already). Just what she’d baked is a mystery; there’s no chocolate in the cupboard or confectioner’s sugar for icing. Muffins? Cupcakes? Tarts? (Do they have any fruit?)
And the kitchen is sparkling clean, the sink empty and the dishrack clear; it smells vaguely like flour and Masako’s already got whatever it is in a bag inside the fridge, and Alex’s curiosity hasn’t won out yet (but she’s never had the patience for these things).
“You ready?” Masako says.
“When you are.”
“Give me a second,” says Masako, disappearing back into the bedroom. When she comes out she’s wearing a straw hat, pulled low over her forehead. The ribbon on the crown is the same dark brown as her eyes, like fresh iced coffee.
“What?” she says, and it’s then Alex realizes her eyes have been following Masako like she’s some middle-school kid who just passed by her crush in the school hallway.
“The hat looks good on you.”
“Thanks.”
She takes the compliment as it’s meant and smiles, briefly, and Alex can’t help but smile back.
The park is deserted today; they spread the blanket in the shade of a massive tree and stretch their legs; a distant figure walks at the other edge of the grass but it’s probably just a dog-walker, and whoever they are they’re gone the next Alex looks. The sounds of the city are muted by the trees; the sounds of their eating are almost intrusive against the occasional stirring of the leaves. Then a chorus of cicadas stirs up, somewhat subdued; this crop must be petering out early (or perhaps they’re just lethargic).
They finish the lunchboxes and sit for a while in the relative silence. A few birds call to one another; the cicadas stir a few more times. A car horn honks in the distance; the sharpness pierces the moment like a brand-new knife through a balloon.
“Cake?” says Masako.
She’s made a peach pound cake, still in the loaf pan and rising in a picturesque shape like something out of a housekeeping magazine. Masako cuts them slices and they dip the ends in cream; it’s way too rich but this is only once a year and totally worth it. The slices of peach in the cake are thin slivers, caramelized by the oven and staining the cake around them with sweetness.
To tell Masako it’s good wouldn’t really convey what she means, but she’s not going to make some grandiose gesture or overdo it, and she’s trying to strike a balance when Masako reaches for her face.
“There’s cream on your mouth.”
She wipes it off with her thumb, dragging it from one corner to the other, and then Alex darts her tongue out to lick it. The traces of cream aren’t very strong, but that’s not really what she cares about right now; it’s the feel of Masako’s fingerprint against her lower teeth, the tip of her tongue touching Masako’s nail bed, the way Masako’s staring straight into her eyes. Masako’s face isn’t that far away, and Alex would really like to kiss her right now, and she leans over—and Masako, trying to keep her balance with only one hand, falls down and smacks her elbow on Alex’s empty lunchbox, only Alex is leaning too far over to pull herself back up and she falls face-first into the blanket.
“Ow, fuck, that fucking—goddamn.”
Alex looks up (her glasses don’t seem to be broken, even if they are jammed against her nose). Masako sucks on her bottom lip and glares at her elbow, as if that will stop it from hurting. But Alex is already laughing; there’s something about seeing Masako lose her cool in a moment like that, when she has rice stuck to her elbow and her cheeks are flushing bright red in the shade and she’s still muttering words of revenge on the lunchbox. And there’s something about the way her glasses are still askew, about having just had a face full of grass stain and still being able to taste it, that makes it even funnier, and the minute Masako catches her eye neither of them is keeping a straight face.
Masako catches her breath first (or, more likely, she never loses it) but she waits for Alex, leaning back on her arms (after double-checking for stray lunchboxes) until Alex’s chest stops heaving and she can hold her head up and catch Masako’s eye without feeling the laughter bubble up inside of her like a slowly-opening, over-carbonated bottle of seltzer (and it wasn’t even that funny in the first place).
“Is there anything else you want to do today?”
She indicates toward the sun; it’s long since turned the corner, headed toward the Eastern horizon. Alex has always hated having her birthday this late in the summer when the days are starting to get noticeably shorter and the notion that the summer is about to peel away with the remains of her last sunburn looms like a skyscraper (and even being an adult in LA, when she’s not worried about school starting or the basketball season ending or the temperature plunging, it’s not something she looks forward to).
“Basketball,” Alex says finally.
Masako gives her a look; it’s exactly what she was expecting and exactly what she wants, too. Alex flops back on the blanket and reaches for Masako’s hand, stares up through the filter of pointed leaves to the blue and white of the sky, but it’s too bright to look for too long.
Masako’s always too quick; Alex always wonders if maybe she’s been holding back and gradually revealing more and more of her actual power, because every time Alex thinks she has her, thinks she’s anticipated and ready enough, she isn’t, and Masako is cutting past her to drive toward the hoop or slipping away to try and hit a jump shot before Alex’s feet are on the ground, and she has no time to rise up again and block it. Sometimes she gets there; sometimes just her raised arms are enough (and Masako mutters something about unfair genetics which is absolutely true, but Alex could say the same about her and she knows it).
They’re an even match, Masako’s speed for Alex’s size; they know each other not only well enough to have their counters ready but well enough to really admire when something executes flawlessly, Masako stealing the ball in the middle of Alex’s dribble and Alex letting Masako box her into the corner and lunge before making the sharp-angle shot, the ball clattering off the backboard and straight through the hoop.
It ends in a tie, when they’ve probably overdone it a bit and Masako’s pretending not to be as winded as she clearly is.
“Lean on me,” Alex says.
And Masako complies, tilting her body against Alex’s on the park bench and resting her head on Alex’s shoulder.
“Since it’s your birthday.”
The smile in her voice is almost palpable.