Red String of Fate

"Wait for me; I'll get your can opener," he called out, as she slid the package in with her foot.

"Okay, I'll wait."

"Thanks for the loan of your opener, Minami," he said, hurrying back as he paused again to admire her appearance.

She smiled genuinely and said, "You remembered my name, Ethan."

"One that lovely sounding is easy to remember," he answered with a smile. It helped that he Googled her Japanese given name last night and found it meant 'beautiful sea.' He smiled at that description — it fit her personality so well. Minami also had friendly undulating waves to match.

"Do you have a few minutes? I have some questions about the rules," Ethan asked. However, he wasn't interested in house rules, just stalling to listen to her melodious voice.

"End of the year finals to grade, I'm afraid," she smiled and shrugged.

Those words came out in a soft sigh as she hesitantly closed the door. To Ethan, it looked like she wanted to chat, but time was of the essence, she indicated. Still, it was nice to hear her voice and to hear someone was concerned more about others than the five-minute conversations he had at work today. His new boss didn't even return to check on him — though that wasn't necessary.

"Blue eyes," Minami breathed out the words behind the closed door as she exhaled, then smiled. A brief moment later, her mind flashed to the red string she had found. She figured it had to have been dropped by Ethan when he pulled his keys out of his pocket. Strange, she felt, his suit wouldn't have required red silk thread.

She set to work preparing dinner and then turned to grading and commenting on what she thought were generally terrible papers. "American kids lack such imagination," she announced to the empty apartment, "except for this one." Melody was the exception. Minami looked forward to reading her work, saving it for last to savor. Melody held promise as a budding writer.

That evening, Ethan studied the blank walls of his apartment, thinking of them as new canvases for displaying his photos and deciding where each would hang. Then, bemusedly, he wondered how much his lease would charge for patching each hole when he moved out — based upon the number he envisioned hanging. There was time left over between watching the Indianapolis news for thoughts of the energetic, cute teacher across the hallway living behind that bright-yellow door.

Ethan's first week of work was mundane. He could have worked from home, knowing his new work assignment could just as quickly be handled remotely. It would be easier if the firm had purchased the upgrade and certainly better for its clients, with all the added reporting features it included. By Thursday, he weighed thoughts of approaching his boss and concluded it might be best to suggest the upgrade package rather than remotely working from home, at least for now.

"Mr. Mitchell, when you have a few moments, I'd like to speak with you about the company's software," he said, as he passed by his office and saw him with his feet up on the desk and bouncing a tennis ball off the wall, to pass the time it seemed. It made him smile, thinking about the person in the next office who must be going nuts over that thumping sound.

"Sure, Nathan," he answered, "Right after I meet this afternoon. We'll get together."

"Ethan... Mr. Mitchell. My name is Ethan Reynolds."

"Right — I think the last guy in your spot was Nathan. Maybe we should get bigger name tags, right?" he chuckled, as he returned to his ball game.

'Mitchell, you're an asshole; his name was — Walter,' Ethan steamed as he returned to his workstation. It was the nameplate and the five-year service certificate he saw in the trash can as he cleaned the remnants from the desk for his items.

'I have to hire a headhunter,' Ethan concluded, as he left the building on Friday. James Mitchell never showed up to discuss the software after his afternoon 'meeting.'

"Potluck dinner, Ethan," Minami sang out as she saw Ethan approaching the apartment building. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, she added, "Casual day for office, no suit?"

"No suit — according to my new boss, in my new job, suits are not my new attire," Ethan answered, emphasizing the word 'new' with a pronounced jab. His playful tone and the wave of his hands as he dramatized his response brought a smile to Minami's charming face.

"Sounds like... an ass for a boss, yes?" she whispered conspiratorially, as he picked up a box off the hood of her car and carried it for her. Helping her lug in boxes of papers to grade seemed to be a new task in his afternoon routine. He didn't mind — it got him some chat time.

"You are one astute teacher, Ms. Minami Sasaki," he grinned, having learned a few things about her as they met, coming and going out to work nearly daily.

"And you, Mr. Ethan Reynolds... look... nice, dressed in a suit. But also nice without a suit," she added, quickly realizing the predicament her words had just put her in.

Ethan had forgotten the standing potluck dinner in the community center. It seemed it was a must-attend event for Minami. "I'm sorry. I was so caught up in getting settled this week that I completely forgot about the potluck. And I've eaten the stew," he chuckled, "but I have cheese and crackers."

"Come anyway," she answered enthusiastically, "They will like you."

"And how do you know that?"

"The retired ladies like... handsome faces that look like Clark Kent," she laughed, as they reached her door. He set the box down as she searched for her keys.

"Thanks," she smiled, unlocking the door.

"You're welcome. So, twenty minutes?" he asked.

Minami turned, somewhat surprised. She had expected to get a rejection like last Friday.

"Yes, twenty minutes. I could use your extra hand, Mr. Alien, to take things down. No suit," she grinned, as she slid the box inside.

Turning to his door, he found a note taped to it saying, "Your packages are in the office. Pick up before five." Ethan frowned. It was nearly six o'clock. "Damn, missed the delivery guy," he spoke aloud, amidst the empty hallway and let himself in.

Twenty minutes later, he knocked on the canary-yellow door, and when it opened, he came face to face with a different-looking woman. One whose done-up hair was now down and cascading over her shoulders like silk to the small of her back. The demure teacher's dress-code attire had vanished; she wore jeans and a tee shirt. She looked like... well, not like a... teacher.

Minami realized his shock and smiled, "What? Never seen a girl in jeans?"

Ethan chuckled, "You look good in a dress and nice in jeans, too." He realized he had been staring too long as she opened her door.

Rolling the cart laden with dishes down the hallway, Ethan shouldn't have been surprised when he rounded the corner and found two dozen senior citizens in the community center, but he was. He missed Minami's clue about the retired ladies.

Quickly, he found himself immersed in assisting the twenty-six-year-old teacher, helping several elderly members with their meals and drinks.

As they met back at the cart for resupplies, he whispered, "I think I'm in over my head."

"Not to worry, you're doing fine; just stay an arm's length away from the lady in pink. She's apt to pinch your adorable butt," Minami whispered back, as she picked up some pie and returned to work.

Ethan served drinks and spoke with several ladies, giving them details about himself and learning a little about them. In the lulls, he watched the interactions of Minami and the ladies and gentlemen she served. Kindness radiated from every pore. It seemed as if she looked after them and chatted with them about their day--the kind of actions a caring person would display.

Eventually, things settled, and Minami motioned for him to join her at a small table near the center for dinner.

"I think you set me up, teacher," Ethan smirked.

"Well, you said you had an extra hand," she grinned.

"They seem to be staring," he said in a stage whisper, as they ate.

"Of course. They are in their rooms all week and really look forward to Fridays. And now they see a handsome man eating out of my hand, and so they stare — that will be enough gossip for several weeks. Probably, we have children already in their minds."

Ethan swallowed at the implication — she was beautiful enough, but he hadn't any visions of children yet.

Minami watched his eyes, recognized the squirming signs of a confirmed bachelor caught without a way out, and chuckled.

"Don't worry, Ethan. Teachers can't have children unless ..." She smiled and took in the last bite of her dessert. Her sentence went unfinished as she stood up and announced, "Karaoke!"

For nearly an hour, the group joined Minami in a familiar routine of songs together. Her voice was strong and vibrant, as she led them through several, and at the end, she sang a solo and danced to the music in slow motion. Her voice filled with emotion; it differed from her speaking voice. Ethan was entranced, mesmerized, though he didn't understand a single word — whatever it was about, she poured her soul into it as the Japanese vocals sang out. In the end, everyone applauded enthusiastically. Ethan, too. Somehow, the words didn't matter that no one understood them. As she sang, her movements and facial expressions moved the elderly crowd and one confirmed bachelor.

"Minami," Ethan asked, as they pushed the cart back to her apartment, "I got a note taped on my door that I have packages in the office to pick up before five. Is the office open on Saturday by chance?"

"Nope," she answered. Ethan noted her cute tendency to use student-like responses — and colloquialisms without elaboration, though not always accurately. He could tell her formal English was excellent, but catching the nuances of the American vocabulary was a work in progress.

His shoulders slumped at the answer. "Monday, then," he sighed, thinking of staring at barren walls for another weekend.

"Important stuff?" she inquired, seeing his look.

"My photography. I'm an amateur, but wanted to get something on the walls before I go white-paint blind."

Her eyebrows raised as she repeated his expression, "White-paint blind?"

Ethan smiled and elaborated, "It means I'm tired of staring at walls without anything on them — no art — no life — just white paint — like going snow-blind."

"I have to add that one to my vocabulary list," she said, opening her door. "Ethan, I have an office key. We solve your blindness after dishes. You can wash dishes fast with three arms, right?" she chuckled.

Pushing the cart into Minami's apartment was akin to being magically transported across the ocean to Nippon. Ethan's eyes popped, and he couldn't help but admire the artistry of her space. As he stepped inside, he lightly touched one of the wooden Japanese lamps, tracing his fingers over its smooth surface. Mrs. Washington might have sighed in delight, exclaiming, "I love it! It's so — Japanese lifestyle."

Nothing in the compact apartment spoke of his concept of a Bohemian lifestyle. In contrast, the Zen design embraced the Japandi color palette, with layers of neutral grays, black accents, and natural greenery. A wooden lattice with white cloth panels concealed the metal patio opening. Minami called it a tobusuma: a fully wooden sliding shoji door or screen. Modern cylindrical wooden Japanese lamps mimicked the traditional square style, with several anchoring the ends of the seating arrangements. Ethan immediately felt the apartment's calming, serene atmosphere and couldn't help but offer a genuine smile of appreciation. Minami observed his eyes roving around the room in wonder.

"Not to your liking, Ethan?"

"On the contrary, I've never seen anything like it, not even in San Francisco," he replied, captivated by the minimalist beauty of her thoughtfully balanced blend of wood and fabric. As he spoke, his gaze settled on the sliding shoji door, and he lightly ran his fingers over the smooth, wooden surface, feeling the delicate texture beneath his touch.

"Certainly not something from an American shopping catalog. But that low table and seating would take some getting used to," Ethan added with admiration for the craftmanship.

"It's my home, a long way from my actual home, but it keeps me centered," Minami explained. "America seems so chaotic and not very grounded in customs and manners. Sorry, did that come out wrong?"

"No, everything you say in that melodic voice comes out just right," Ethan smiled, his eyes meeting hers, and for a moment, they shared a silent understanding. "I'd be willing to swap my apartment for yours in a heartbeat."

Minami was pleased by his praise and the twinkle in his eyes. She had worked diligently to transform her oasis into a semblance of her native home. "Good. Then dishes first, new neighbor, and we can retrieve your packages afterward."

"You must be on good terms with the management to have an office key," Ethan remarked, as Minami punched a series of numbers into the keycode alarm system and then unlocked the door.

She smiled, one that seemed to hold back a secret as she responded, "The manager knows which tenants butter his bread best."

Ethan chuckled, wondering if, as cute and as seemingly pleasant as she appeared, she knew the secondary sexual meaning of that remark. Or was it just a reference to her deeds for older people, like the Friday get-togethers she sponsored? He parked that idea as she smiled innocently and pushed the door open.

It took several trips to move Ethan's packages to the second floor. As Minami entered his apartment on the first trip, it was her turn to take in his Bohemian vibe-arranged apartment.

"Not to your liking, Minami?" he asked, knowing it was not, given her exquisite tastes.

"So, ... manly Bohemian," she answered, managing to find a combination of words that balanced some definite thoughts on his taste. It wasn't arranged with a consideration for kanso, similar in concept to Chinese feng shui. Just a couch focused on a flat-screen television.

'Probably a football fanatic,' she thought, 'glued to a screen every weekend."

It wouldn't take long for that perspective to change, as she watched Ethan unwrap a large package and lean it against a spot on the longest wall. It was a framed photograph of a young, forlorn woman leaning against a rusted railing, staring out over a partially fog-shrouded bay at the iconic San Francisco bridge.

"Girlfriend?" she asked, admiring the photo's composition.

"Perhaps someone's girlfriend," he answered, "I happened upon the scene out taking some scenery shots. She seemed adrift in her thoughts, so I didn't interrupt her."

"You have good composition skills, Ethan."

"An amateur's lucky shot."

"You shouldn't be so modest. The rest of these show the same attention to detail."

Minami studied the others as he unwrapped them. They held her interest, so she tarried for a bit. She quickly found landscape photography and animals in the wild drew Ethan to photography. His composition skills were quite good, despite his claim to amateur status.

"I studied photography at Tokyo Zokei University for a while, then switched fields. Parental push to have a fallback job if journalism photography flopped. So, here I am — in America — teaching."

"I'm sorry that didn't work out for you."

"Oh, it did. Just parental push won out," she replied, holding up and studying a large photo of Cannary Row in Monterey.

"Where ..."

"That's taken in Monterey on Cannery Row."

"Oh, like Steinbeck's 'Cannery Row' book, 1945. Too bad it is so controversial now. I tried to get it approved for my classes, but got rejected; can't talk about prostitutes like that's a good thing, you know? I liked how it started, 'Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.'"

Ethan was surprised at her depth of knowledge, mesmerized by her lilting voice, especially that image of her given name's translation as 'beautiful sea' — undulating and curvy waves that matched her physique snuggled into those jeans and form-fitting tee top.

Their conversation evolved into after-dinner coffee as Minami foraged for a hammer and nails from the office and hurried back to help mount the photos.

"We're not going to get in trouble over this, are we?" Ethan asked mischievously, poised to drive the first nail.

"It's not the quiet-time hour yet; after eight, no hammers," she smiled. "You didn't read the rules?"

"Ethan shrugged, "I should have; not reading rules is what got me looking for this job in Indianapolis."

Amidst sips of dark-roast coffee, hammering nails, and hanging frames for thirty minutes, Ethan gave Minami the short version of his long fight for intellectual property rights and the fact that he was a software developer. He didn't go into details about the loss of seven-digit money figures or the notoriety in the press — he kept that part out.

And just as notably, he kept quiet about the placement of those frames as Minami took the lead and arranged placements. Ethan was more pleased by her arrangements than what had wandered through his mind last night. She masterfully placed them in a composition beginning with frames of water scenes flowing into pictures of animals at the water's edge and concluding with an uncannily set of people facing the direction of all that came before them. It felt like a gently undulating sea — just like the composer.

Standing side-by-side, they gazed at the white-painted blind wall transformed into an artistic masterpiece. The sight brought a smile to Ethan's face, mentally transporting him 2,300 miles away to the San Francisco Bay area. Minami observed his expression, noticing that it was the first genuine smile she had seen from him. She realized that kind of smile was rare; he usually wore a fake smile to shield himself from the public. She understood that he had been through some tough times at his previous job and had learned to put up a shield to protect himself from further harm.

"Eight o'clock, Ethan," she announced, "no more hammering."

"Quiet time, right, but it's still early. Time for another cup of coffee, Minami? I've enjoyed tonight."

"Not early, Ethan. Eight here on Friday night is ten o'clock on Saturday morning in Japan. I have to 'report' to my family, or they send a jet and rescue team," she grinned, looking more like that might have been worth tarrying over. Still, she gathered up the hammer and nails and left canary-yellow door. But not before glancing back with a demure smile.

'Ethan,' Minami had smiled as she closed and locked her door, 'You make my heart sing. I wonder if you are real — not an alien with an extra arm like you said two weeks ago.'

Her head pressed against the back of the door, pondering her next move; she knew it was a call home. As she had told Ethan, but she wasn't anxious to do so. Inhaling and letting out a deep breath, her voice command targeted her iPhone, "Hey Siri,-ka ni denwa shite."

Siri responded, "Calling home, Shoto, Tokyo." An image of Shoto's tree-lined and quiet part of the larger Shibuya district popped into her mind. It was home in an upscale residential area, residences for many notables.

Meanwhile, Ethan sat admiring her arrangements of his photos — satisfied with the arrangement — and thought more about how nice she looked in a tight-fitting tee top and stone-washed jeans frayed at the knees--a style still all the rage with teens and, apparently, twenty-six-year-old women. As Ethan rinsed her cup, he reflected upon her words and smiled at her comment that failing to check in with her parents might have them sending a jet to rescue her.