akai 👁

SOFT lips that taste like honey. Skin smoother than the finest silk. The inner dip of her waist, the curve of her frame, her breath in my ear ... and her eyes, her beautiful eyes, filling my entire vision.

"Tell me you want me," Iris whispers, and I groan from sheer torture.

She glides lower and lower, hands touching my chest, then the navel of my stomach and still lower she goes, until finally, she dips her head and I arch –

My eyes slam open and I find myself staring at a white ceiling. Dazed. And breathing very hard.

"Oh. You're awake."

Iris is standing in front of the mirror, combing her hair. She's dressed in an oversized tee and a pair of shorts so short that all I can see are her bare legs. My loose pajama shorts grow uncomfortably tight. And when she starts tying her hair, they become tighter still.

I close my eyes desperately. Stop. There's no time for this. I need to assess the situation.

I'm in the bed of Iris Monet. I'm in my pajamas, even though I have no memory of putting them on. And the light scent of vanilla coasting off me tells me that I took a shower without my usual Lifebouy.

My eyes open with the solemnity of a man who's about to embark on a life-changing journey. "Last night, did we ..."

"You took a shower, changed into pajamas, and fell asleep on the bathroom mat." Iris speaks with the bluntness of a large hammer. "I had to haul your ass up onto the bed. And I slept in the chair."

"Oh." I'm still not looking at her. "I'm surprised you didn't try to pull anything."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not."

"You do a little." She clears her throat. "Anyway. You should get going before your family finds out you're not in your bed."

I don't reply for a second. "I can't."

"What are you talking about?"

Keeping my face neutral, I finally look away from the ceiling and at Iris. "I'm ... not appropriate."

"I don't – " Iris's eyes trail from my knuckle-white grip to the way I'm trying to wear the blanket like a turtleneck. "Oh. I see. I mean, I don't see. I mean I get it."

God, her legs could kill. "Can I trouble you to put on a long gown?"

"Yes. Of course. Right." Iris grabs at the gown so hard that the hanger comes off the rod with it. And I'm pretty sure she just tied a dead knot with that belt. "Done."

The awkwardness in this room is a lot more tangible than any feeling has the right to be. Even the bird on that sapling outside seems to be singing directly at me, to the tune of you done fucked up. And now I'm thinking of the word fuck. Along with its linguistic definition and various possible visual expressions.

"Last night," she begins.

"Iris," I say at the same time.

We both stop.

"Oh, you go first." It surprises me to see how unsure she looks. I would have thought this territory to be her forte.

"No please, ladies first," I say politely.

There's a pained expression on Iris's face. "Look, Akai, we ... something happened last night."

"A remarkably mild way of putting it, but factually correct, yes."

Her pained expression intensifies. "It would help if you could ease up on the sarcasm a bit."

She sits on the bed, and the air between us electrifies. I can't remember when Iris Monet started affecting me, but I know I can no longer deny it.

"I don't know what it means to you." She swallows. "I mean, you were drunk. Maybe it was just a mistake."

She looks at me, and in that one expression I can see all her turmoil – and something else. Something she's hidden from me.

"Is it?" Iris asks. "A mistake?"

Last night's memories flash in my head, hot and hazy. Drinking. Watching her drink. Watching her flirt. Feeling that ugly feeling rise, sharp and heavy in my chest. Seeing her in the mirror.

Kissing her as if last night was our last night in the world.

"Last night," I start slowly, "I made a mistake."

The silence in the room is loud.

Iris turns her head away. Her knuckles are white as she digs her fingernails into her palms. "I see."

Somehow, I have a feeling I could have worded that better. "Iris, I – "

The door opens without warning and the two of us jump apart.

"It's not what it looks like!" Iris blurts out.

Anita's eyes flick sharply between us. The housekeeper's lips are pressed into a thin line, and I can tell by the white tip of her nose that she's feeling morally scandalized.

"It had better not be, Miss Monet," Anita says stiffly, "because your husband is here to see you."

¥

It's been nearly two hours since Iris left, and I've been sitting here plucking weeds for way too long.

In fact, I'm not even sure if these are weeds. With a guilty start, I realize I've absent-mindedly plucked out a fistful of Anita's prized calendulas. Shit.

A whistle, and Shou comes trotting over. "Here, quick," I mutter.

Shou is only too glad to comply. The yellow flowers disappear between his teeth in lofty chomps.

Putting down my shears, I let out a sigh. Maybe I should stay off pruning awhile. Maybe I should take a day off. Maybe I should go punch Jared in the face.

"Don't you look even more depressed today," Tomiichi says cheerfully as he steps around me into the morning sun. "Why – did Gacho finally break up with you? I told you not to have an affair with a married female."

"Don't be ridiculous." I tug at a blade of grass. "Gacho would never break up with me."

Tomiichi sits down beside me. "Alright. What's up, sourpuss? I can tell something's ticked you off."

"It's nothing," I say shortly.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire. There's definitely a woman involved, because that is an expression of jealousy if I've ever seen one – only, I can't tell whether or not she's human."

"I'm not jealous," I say defensively.

"You're scowling so hard you've got mountain ridges etched in your face," Tomiichi points out.

I don't reply, choosing instead to focus my attention on a greenish-yellow seedling that might or might not be weed.

"Akai."

My cousin's voice is so quiet, and serious, that it compels me to look up at him. The gravity of his expression makes me tense. Taking a deep breath, he says,

"If this is about the fact that Maiko got pregnant due to another male – "

"Human!" I cut in loudly.

Tomiichi is rubbing his hands together with too much excitement. "Finally! Someone has thawed your cold, cold heart. So, who's this incredible woman? Please don't tell me it's the fishmonger's niece because that girl has the oral hygiene of an onion."

"How do you even – " I stop. "Never mind. I've decided I don't want to know."

"Go on then, who's she?"

Tomiichi is looking at me with the kind of eagerness he usually reserves for really good cake. If he knew about me and Iris, would he still be just as excited? The image of him flirting with her in the bar last night flashes before my eyes and suddenly I'm filled with the desire to punch both Jared and my cousin.

"Shit!" Tomiichi exclaims suddenly, jumping up.

Dashing toward Shou, he crouches down behind the horse's chestnut bulk. This pleases Shou immensely, who, thinking it's a game, starts prancing around with relish.

I watch Tomiichi's futile attempts to hide in puzzlement. "What are you do – ah."

Imelda is crossing the grass twenty feet away from us. By the way she moves, I can tell she's looking for someone. Someone who happens to now be trying to match up the outline of his legs against Shou's. A difficult task, considering a human has two and a horse has four.

Tomiichi shudders. "That woman is terrifying. Look at her! Head swiveling around like ... like some sort of a demon owl. Did you know she came into the bar last night when you were at the toilet? She pretty much forced her daughter to sit down beside me and socialize. I feel bad for the poor girl."

Imelda peers our way and Tomiichi ducks so fast you would have thought a bullet was whizzing past his head.

"I'm off," he declares. "Once she gets her eyes on me, she's a homing missile. Chase her somewhere else for me, will you? Tell her I'm in – in Malaysia or something. Or get Shou to bite her head off."

"She's not that appetizing," I say drily, but by the time I finish my sentence my cousin is already sprinting a mile in the opposite direction.

Not even half a minute later comes the sound of purposeful footfalls. I keep my head bent down and focused on plucking weeds. The best defense to Imelda's constant pestering, I've discovered, is the refusal to acknowledge her existence. Either that or the low-intelligence expression of someone with an inadequate grasp of English.

"You there. Have you seen a woman named Iris?"

Baritone. Male.

Slowly, I stand up.

Jared Darling is 6 feet tall with a domed forehead so shiny it puts mirrors to shame. He's everything you expect a rich investor to be – classy suit, polished shoes, blond-ish hair, ostentatious Rolex watch. There's something about his bearing that reminds me of corporate lawyers, and I dislike him instantly.

He waves a hand when I don't answer. "Hello? Do you know English? You foreign laborers should learn some if you want to work here."

There're many things I'd like to reply to that, but most of them go against basic Japanese etiquette. In the end I merely say,

"I haven't seen Iris since this morning."

An annoyed tch! as Jared stands with hands on hips. "Where is that damn woman? If we don't leave for London now, we'll never make the Cappadocia flight!"

Picking up a rake, I start sweeping. "I wasn't aware she was taking a vacation. She hasn't put in a request for leave."

Jared glances at me condescendingly. "What? Oh yes – some nonsense about her working. Her father did mention that." A mocking laugh. "As if she can!"

"Iris happens to be one of the most hardworking employees I've ever had," I state. "A tad bit slow, perhaps, but utterly competent once given the chance."

Jared is staring at me oddly. "You're her employer?"

I nod.

"What's she doing for you?"

"She helps me."

"With gardening?"

I open my mouth. Then I close it. My rake sweeps a leaf or two near Jared's left shoe.

"Not really," I reply. "She assists me in ... other ways."

Suspicion blooms in the other man's voice immediately. "What other ways?"

"Mostly physical."

"What?"

"We've spent some nights together." Pausing from my chore, I fix Jared with a dead-on gaze. "In fact, since you're looking for her, I guess I should tell you that the last I saw of her was in the bedroom."

A vein pops crazily in Jared's temple. Things might have turned really ugly really quickly if his mobile had not gone off at that moment. There's a tense second as I stare at him, unflinching, until finally Jared breaks eye contact to pick up the incoming call.

"What?" he snaps. "The Dior Couture? Why the fuck do I care if I need to pay extra? No, I don't give a fuck how much more it costs; just do what you can to get it! I will not accept anything else if it's not Couture!"

A pause. "Her size? The fuck would I know? Get Anthony to ask that girl – what's her name? – Pearl or Petal or some shit. She should know; she was Iris's personal maid." The threat is plain in Jared's voice. "You either get that dress, or you get fucking fired."

Hanging up, he turns his attention back to me. With an angry finger pointed my way, he looks about as intimidating as a broken-legged ant.

"Now, you listen here," he begins, but I cut him off.

"32-24-34."

That takes the wind right out of his sails. "What?"

Shrugging mildly, I repeat the numbers. "Iris's measurements. For breast, waist, and hip. Just thought you should know."

Jared's face starts taking on the shade of an overly ripe aubergine. It isn't just jealousy, I realize. There's a sheen of possessiveness rippling under all that anger. Jared Darling was probably the type of child who destroyed his favorite toy just so no one else could get at it.

His mobile rings again. From where I'm standing, I can see the caller ID.

Iris Darling.

"You stay away from my wife," he hisses, and then he's picking up the call and walking away. I watch him go. Something foul rises hard and fast in chest, blocking my airpipes and clenching my fingers into fists.

It's a feeling I've been getting a lot these few days. A feeling that only seems to have intensified since last night.

For 27 years of my life, I've let most human emotions roll off my back like water off a duck's feathers. It's always been head above heart, and the knowledge that calm immovability was the best way to tackle any and all of life's problems.

So why is it now that I feel so compelled to rush forward, grab Jared by the collar and punch him into oblivion? Why does it seem immensely important that I demand Jared to be the one who stays away from my – my what, exactly?

Woman, a voice in my head answers.

Suddenly, the action of holding my ground and doing nothing feels like the hardest thing the world. Perhaps Jared and I aren't that different after all. But before I can process that thought fully, a familiar voice exclaims,

"Ah, Akai! Just the man I want to see!"

Imelda is standing there with her hands clasped, beaming. My irritation doubles.

"If you're looking for Tomiichi," I begin, "he's not here – "

"Oh, but I'm not looking for Tomiichi." Her smile grows wider. "I'm looking for you."