Chapter Nine: Thanksgiving - Part Two
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Fetching my checklist, I said, "Turkey," following with a nod at the leather brown-hued hunk of bird meat at the center of the dining table. "Check. Mashed potatoes." I positioned a bowl to the right of the turkey. "Check. Corn."
Another bowl, full of golden kernels, dropped beside the potatoes. "Yep," Saitama said. "What's the cream stuff?"
"Mushroom soup," I said, retrieving the filled pot with my purple-hued magic and levitating it to his eye level. "Don't forget the meatballs and bowtie noodles!" I dropped the other stuff onto the table before dragging the soup away from Saitama and placing it with them. Besides what I brought here, cut cabbage leaves were adorning the lowermost edges of the turkey, boiled broccoli stems filling a bowl to its brim, an apple pie added after I remembered it from spending the holiday at a distant relative's house once, and banana slices on a cutting board.
Saitama insisted on adding the bananas and gave other suggestions such as udon, which got me rolling my eyes. Initial instincts urged me to engage him in a petty fight. Since when would you find udon at a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner? Knowing I'm a white chick berating an Asian guy for his food choices on a day where food matters, I reeled those impulses in like a fishing line and let him have anything he wanted short of French fries. This added his requested udon, some hotpot, and an assortment of loose fruits and veggies to our dinner.
"You did good," my fellow cook said.
I jabbed him in the gut with an elbow. "We did good. You provided ideas, I pointed at stuff. Best of all, there was no need for the stove. Means less cleaning for us when we're done."
Being who he was, he barely reacted to the jabbing besides light surprise.
"Now why do I get the feeling it shouldn't be Thanksgiving?" I said. "Like, we should be in the middle of 2022 instead of the tail-end of 2023?"
My roommate frowned. This blathering did not amuse him. Typical. "Just you," he said, reaching his chair and considering a plate brimming with foodstuffs.
I joined him at the table. "Right about now, we'd go around the table to say thanks for whatever the hell we want. Mind you, I'm not religious. I'd believe in the Greek gods before I would Christ—"
Saitama swiped the red strainer which held the bowtie noodles to scrape a portion onto his plate. "Thanks for the food, Sam."
Wow, geez. All I did was a little magic. Between the two of us, he was the more food-savvy. Combining our aptitudes would lead to more interesting meals down the road.
"You're welcome?" I said. "Thanks yet again for saving me the other day. A-also…" Face warming, I almost dropped the thought with a curse. Nothing like deploying an f-bomb when your fellow diners least expect it, am I right?
My stuttery sentence got his attention. "What's up?"
'I'll need to buy dish soap tomorrow.'
'Mr. Thorne's gonna fail me!'
'I can't believe we almost forgot about the dog last night…'
She plugged her ears.
The voices would not stop.
'Oh, tomorrow's Black Friday! I don't want to be swept into buying more than I have to.'
'Where did my textbook go?!'
'She got so scared… I should give her an extra dog biscuit.'
She whimpered. Please, stop…
'I should write a list before I leave.'
'Maybe I could ask sis if she knows—'
"Shut up!" she yelled at her family.
She earned befuddled stares for her trouble.
Goody. Of all the people from One-Punch Man, I got a crush on Saitama. I came as far as having him reside here, happening to lose my voice when all I wanted to say was: "Thank you for making my life kinda better, Tama. Before the werewolf attack, leaving my family behind was the most exciting thing that ever happened to me. Having quiet is great until you find how boring it gets without a little chaos. Like, the good kinda chaos, if you know what I mean."
Did I say I lost my voice? Should I be glad I was not in charge of writing this drivel? My blatant self-insert and Saitama would have argued a million times over by now. Any characters I wrote always seemed driven to kill each other.
"'Kinda better'?" Saitama said, hitting me with a questioning stare.
"Ye-yes?" I said, quick to regret the answer. Was my life not "kinda better" before we met? I got lucky. Grandpa must have figured I would make the best inheritor for his money considering his daughter, my mom, kinda… They had a good relationship. Mom… She…
"How could you do this to my apple tree?!" his grandfather screamed. "You defiled her by building an ugly treehouse!" He patted the tree's bulging bark with a sad look in his eyes. "You've given her a tumor!"
"Yeesh, gramps," his grandson grumbled from inside his new hideout. "It's just a tree."
"'Just a tree'?!" Grandpa roared. "I grew up with this beauty! My father planted her seed! How could you have done this, boy? You could have used your newfound magic powers to help her! Can't you imagine all the delicious apple pies Mom could bake with your help?"
Why had I allowed my thoughts to drift at a time like this? Least I could say for this dumb detour my mind took is how Mon was not the most competent person I had known. Not exactly baggage I would want to open at this time.
Saitama was the cherry on top of a half-eaten sundae I left in the freezer long enough to forget it existed. By all miracles, the sundae stayed fresh until I found it again. It left a better taste in my mouth than the day I first bought it.
"I shouldn't say you've made life "kinda better," I said, making my merciful return to the present.
He prepared a full plate of mushroom soup in the time it took me to internally monologue. His attention snapped to me, and he made a questioning noise while trying a meatball.
Straightening my back, I said, "You're an a-an amazing guy. When I first found your series, I didn't "see" you. I was wowed by your strength, angered whenever you suffered bad luck, laughed at you panicking about mundane, everyday tasks in ways that would make me doing the same seem sane, and I've been disgusted by the fact you've chewed bubblegum.
"Over a year later, I've learned you're more than a funny guy with power you've worked hard for. You're compassionate and determined and an amazing fighter when you don't go straight for one-punching an opponent—"
"I get it," Saitama interrupted. "Are you gonna eat or what?"
I folded my arms. "Rude."
How typical of him all the same. What was not so typical was him reaching for a glass bottle next to the turkey, saying, "Glad I asked for wine. Might need it."
"Hey!" I shouted.
"Eat your food before it gets cold." His concentrated expression while pouring the wine became a playful smile once the bottle was put aside.
"You're not my dad," I said.
"Be a shame to waste it."
"Somebody hasn't heard of leftovers."
"It'd taste better fresh than thawed."
Four stalks of broccoli plummeted to my dinner plate. I snorted in indignation and set aside their container. "Yeah, yeah," I said. "No need to pester me. Guess this means you're going to steal my food if I don't eat."
"Maybe."
This conversation, for better or worse, brought to mind a certain short from the One-Punch anime. I processed the dumb tidbit of information, blinking maybe once or twice. Imaginary gears in charge of associating everything around me moaned and clanked into action. "Didn't you eat out and had a fry stolen from your plate once?"
A wide-eyed expression and a gentle clatter of a fork later, I was questioned, "What about it?"
"You reminded me," I said. "I know who stole the long fry. I don't think there's a chapter about it in the manga. Came from the anime—"
"Get to the point," Saitama suddenly snapped. "That bastard almost ruined my day."
I gulped. Shoot. How would he react when I told the truth? Inhaling, releasing the breath, and catching another, I went on speaking. "I-it wasn't the guy melting peoples' faces. It wa-was…"
Maybe I should have done more breathing.
Bright orange flames greeted him when he awoke from his nap. For a time, he could do nothing except watch the flames perform a furious dance and caress his dried skin. When he had enough, he dismissed the mental image.
The image did not leave. It stayed with him to swaddle his wrists in its fiery embrace.
He screamed. This was reality? He leaped to the floor to do as he was taught to as a child: stop, drop, and roll.
This rude awakening, drawing the ire of his parents, was how the boy learned of his power over fire.
To my surprise, the reveal went well. Keeping a long story short, telling Saitama that Genos was his fry thief made us hungrier. Who could resist a fry's crispy gold looks and potato-and-salt taste? Certainly not us. I tried to oust the French fries. I failed.
Potatoes were a common sight at my family's Thanksgiving dinner, coming in the form of baked pieces smothered in butter and drizzled in salt. I hoped the batch of fries I conjured from them would not appear too out of place amongst the other foods. I planned to share photos I took of everything from my Thanksgiving meal with Nicki before Saitama ever came into the equation.
Where was I? Ah, right. Genos. Saitama never made the fuss I feared upon learning his future student was stalking him in the days leading to their second face-to-face meeting. I was met with his curiosity from learning this new fact and the reinforced understanding of him being afraid of anything other than monsters. He pelted me with questions about the One-Punch webcomic, anime, and manga.
I could boil the entire discussion into a single question. How different were the three mediums? They were quite similar besides the manga's unnecessary expansions on certain characters, its mentally draining fight scenes, its bonus chapters, and certain anime shorts. The webcomic was further along with the story by being the original work…
"Wasn't it dark and stormy a moment ago?" his wife asked. "Or was I imagining things?"
He kept his eyes to the skies.
"Honey?" his wife said. "Did you hear me?"
Give me a cloud, he thought. Lo and behold, a white puffball materialized from thin air and shaped into the image in his mind. Two lumps and a sharpened end. A heart.
His wife gasped. She would have hit the floor if were it not for him grabbing her by the waist.
He smiled at her. "I have reason to believe I have power over the weather," he said.
Done with us mulling over nothing especially important, I reheated my food with the wave of a hand and ate. Finally, we would have our Thanksgiving. Or should I say part of it? I still wanted to see the parade.
Saitama hogged the fries. When the man said he liked the long, soft ones, he meant it.
Many of the smaller fries were pushed to the side. I gathered them into a napkin for myself.
We ate in silence. The first of our foods to go was the fries, of course. We could not resist those droopy golden sticks which oozed potatoes at the slightest squish.
During the quieter parts of our dinner, I wondered when was the last time I made the conscious decision to sit at a table with another person. My immediate family always did their own thing upon getting dinner. Before the modern smartphone, I would read books and ignore conversations. The topics discussed were always the same. How was everybody's day? Why was Nicki running late again? When would I stop ignoring everybody else?
The answers I would give would always be the same. 'Got bullied by the guys at school again,' or, 'I hate riding the bus.' Following this would be a reminder of how 'Nicki's got cheerleading practice.' I would always refuse to answer the last question. My anxiety would shoot through the roof if I were forced to talk about said anxiety and my… Everyone would listen, sure. They would disregard my statements when I left the table. What use would there be in being honest with people who proved to have short-term memories?
Saitama and I ate separate dinners until this afternoon. Maybe I could dine with him more often if I pushed for it? He would never cause as much drama at the table.
I would have company.
Having finished his fries, he spoke. "You're turning red. Are you feeling sick?" For a guy known to flaunt his love of boobs on his sweaters, he sure was oblivious to signals whether intentional or not. Or maybe he overlooked it in favor of personality?
Without a second thought, I pilfered the gravy boat from the dining table and poured the brown liquid through my mashed potatoes. Satisfied with a little drizzle of gravy over the top, I set the boat aside, got my fork, and putting no thought behind my next words, I blurted, "I'm not sick!"
He focused on his food rather than me. "I figured."
Great, he knew.
"My obviousness cancels out your obliviousness," I said. "Go figure. Wouldn't I make a shitty romance option in a dating sim? You'd get no emotional pay-off with me being upfront with my feelings."
Saitama considered me for a time before lifting his wine and sipping it.
The silence grew. Or it did until I groaned. "King would have been the better guy to ask. He'd probably say I'm not worth the effort 'cause I've got mental issues like anxiety disorders and aut—"
"Don't talk about yourself that way."
I finished adding corn to my plate when my roommate and I made eye contact. His expression was of curiosity.
I did not want to ask what caused the shift in mood. Something important slipped from my mouth before he interrupted me. Either he deduced my meaning or I would be forced to explain a part of myself he most likely would be unfamiliar with.
"What were you saying?" Saitama said.
Here went nothing. "I-I have…"
"Food!" they altogether screamed. "Feed us!"
Their mother hugged her bag of cat food. "Relax, won't you?" she said. "You'll eat in due time. I'm an old woman, for heaven's sake; I won't be making it to the kitchen right after I wake up."
"Feed us!" cried the horde. "We're starving!"
She bowed her head. Her lovelies were persistent as ever even with her newfound ability for them to understand one another. "I wish you all put this much energy into hunting those nasty, dirty rats infesting our home," she said. "I'd be a much happier and healthier old lady."
"What?" Saitama pressed as his brow furrowed. He could very well be on his way to solving the mystery without my help. "A-U-T? A-W-T?"
How could I have guessed? He caught my tidbit. I should have been more careful with my words. "A-U-T," I affirmed. "I-S-M. Spectrum disorder."
All there was left for him to do was put the words together. Which he did. "Autism Spectrum Disorder."
I was quiet.
He was quiet.
We were quiet.
His pupils grew with the truth laid bare before us. Locking focus on me, he reunited his wine glass with the table.
"My brain's wired different from yours," I said. "I find connections between things others wouldn't. I blurt whatever I think without consequence. I get obsessed with certain topics for long intervals, ultimately losing the motivation to do much other than to live life and keep obsessing. I've been here for months and haven't gotten to know many neighbors."
"Your life's more difficult than I thought." Leave it to him to simplify a speech. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I replayed our conversation in my head. All the while, my face warmed considerably. An all too familiar instinct, a persistent demon of mine since childhood, took hold. It urged the heat to swell beyond my cheeks.
We acknowledged the last piece of the puzzle which shaped me into who I was today. Making matters worse, I drove the conversation here to escape my stupid blushing. I did this to myself! What was there to do now other than flee or surrender to anxiety?
"Didn't matter," I said, withering into a ball in my seat. "I guess."
One chair scuffed the tiled floor. One body moved. Four chairs in total surrounded the table. The body shifted into the chair to their left and pulled their dish and utensils with them.
"You kidding?" Saitama said. "This changes things."
I might have mirrored his earlier furrowed brow. Or I tried to. I did not possess the same ability to express myself with an individual eyebrow.
This must have seemed strange from his point of view. I couldn't tell what his expression was. It was blurred by my watery eyes.
Change. Had our lives not changed enough? I knew myself to be quick to adapt to change when my initial shock was allowed to expire. That changed recently. Now, I was sick of change. Were the world to relax, I would be more willing to take change in stride.
Saitama hesitated, most likely having seen questions reflected through my watery gaze. I could tell he smiled an uncomfortable smile.
Good going, spat my psyche. He must be regretting moving in with you. You got him feeling trapped. What do you have to say for yourself?
I didn't have to. He spoke. He didn't speak. What helped him get the message across was the softening of his anxious smile.
Without warning, my eyes snapped closed. I sniffled. Knowing full well what would happen next, I buried my face in my folded arms. My nose leaked disgusting snot. Crap. I should have grabbed napkins before sitting at the table.
Saitama's new seat creaked along the floor. Seconds later, he patted my arm. "Here," he murmured, draping a pile of paper-thin napkins kept at the table over my elbow.
I snatched maybe half of them, sniffling. I pushed them between my arm and nostrils. "Thanks," I said, hearing my voice change from the pressure put on my nose. "I should've told you sooner."
"It's okay."
"Are you…?"
"Mad? Disappointed? Repulsed?"
Swallowing, I answered, "Ye-yeah?"
Rather… Gentle laughter followed? "C'mon, Sam. This came out left field, yeah. Autism doesn't get in the way of how I view you. All it changes is how I see our…"
"Dynamic?" I said, leaving the comfort of darkness to watch him struggle with the word for a moment.
"I'm glad you told me. Seriously."
"Serious as a punch?" God damn it. Word association. Again. Once again my brain refused to be "normal" for more than five minutes.
"Serious as a punch," he affirmed, locking a dead-on stare on me. "I'm taking you more seriously from now on, got it? You've got a serious problem? You tell me. I'll take you seriously."
"Se-seriously?"
"Seriously."
Must. Not. Make. A. Joke. Close that stupid gaping mouth, Sam! It's not worth it! You're no good at carrying jokes! "Stop it before I banish you to the Serious Room!"
Pure silence.
Crud.
I facepalmed. "Kill me now…"
"The Serious Room sounds like my kind of place."
Without me meaning to, my palm slipped.
"Getting my old apartment would be better," Saitama said, glancing into the living room. "How about you eat, then get to work? I've gotta use the bathroom." He rose from his chair holding his plate and strolled to the door frame separating the kitchen from the dining room. "Happy Thanksgiving, yeah?"
"Ha-happy Thanksgiving!"
When he peered my way, was I blushing or crying?
Saitama's barren face appeared to him in the bathroom mirror. With a clawed grip, he turned the left-hand knob by the sink faucet and shoved his hands into the bowl. He fixated on the water assaulting his palms. Warm, not hot. Gushing, not flowing. Noisy. Not noisy enough. All the while he listened to the rumbling of drums from the TV in the living room. The sound came from further away than usual, which must have meant Sam started remodeling. They hadn't stored their leftovers yet. The giant turkey crammed its scent into his nostrils and meaty taste all over his tongue. He had to have more when he was done here.
Today, his roommate cried at the dining table. He saw her cry on the page. He heard about her crying after their last monster encounter. Never had he seen her break right in front of him. Perhaps it wasn't enough for her to be in therapy and taking meds. What she needed more than anything was moral support. Somebody who wouldn't simply come around once or twice a week to check on her. Nicki fulfilled the role before she left for college. Without her, Sam withdrew more into herself.
Saitama dried his palms with a towel hanging from the shower door, he gave attention to the TV again. An announcer overrode the drums. What they said still eluded him thanks to the running water by his ears. He twisted the knob to silence the sink and pointed his ear at the rest of the noise.
"Arriving now is Pikachu from the Pokémon franchise! This cute little mouse is the series' mascot, who can be found in the latest games to have been released: Pokémon Scarlet and Violet…"
Saitama darted from the bathroom. Right away, he hesitated, as the hallway he found across from the tan rug his toes dug through was a near-perfect replica of the corridor that led to his living space. He peered to his right to find the genkan , where his hero boots and the shoes he got the other day were neatly lined beside old black sneakers. Straight ahead was… The kitchen? While it wasn't his tiny kitchen, Sam moved the entire thing to where it would be in his apartment. To its right was a shut door he recognized as belonging to his bathroom.
He peered left. An open door scraped a desk with a padded chair and a laptop with a large screen. Heart leaping, he went to the door and slipped through to find… His living space. Sam's TV had been placed at the top of a stand with various knick-knacks in the levels below, such as a box of tissues or random DVDs.
Sam didn't give him the balcony. She compensated with a wide window and a white bookshelf lined with her volumes of the One-Punch Man manga among other things. When he entered the room, his roommate was seated on a pillow at a low white table watching a giant balloon of a yellow mouse with long black-tipped ears fill the screen. Her back was against the closet in the lower right-hand corner.
"Whoa," he said, taking the cushion to her left. "You did it."
Sam stopped watching the parade to make eye contact. "I suppose I did," she said, revealing him a face redder than his costume's gloves. "Is this good enough for you?"
"You did amazing."
Saying he caught her off-guard would be an understatement. She grinned and pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose to hide her blushing. "Th-thank you!"
Sometimes what somebody needed wasn't therapy or medications, although those helped a ton. People required nurturing to get to a better place. He already changed her life. He couldn't deny her happiness.
"Mr. President, monsters are roaming our streets. There are those with powers who struggle to contain them. What are we to do about all of this?"
"There's but one thing we can do. Conference with the rest of the world, and follow his world's example of building an association to round up our "heroes" and combat these threats."
"Mr. President?"
"Yes?"
"Should we contact Mr. Saitama? He would be a great asset to the United States."
"Wait until the United Nations meet and our country's Association goes public. I doubt he's going anywhere."
"Yes, Mr. President. I'll take my leave."
Another bowl, full of golden kernels, dropped beside the potatoes. "Yep," Saitama said. "What's the cream stuff?"
"Mushroom soup," I said, retrieving the filled pot with my purple-hued magic and levitating it to his eye level. "Don't forget the meatballs and bowtie noodles!" I dropped the other stuff onto the table before dragging the soup away from Saitama and placing it with them. Besides what I brought here, cut cabbage leaves were adorning the lowermost edges of the turkey, boiled broccoli stems filling a bowl to its brim, an apple pie added after I remembered it from spending the holiday at a distant relative's house once, and banana slices on a cutting board.
Saitama insisted on adding the bananas and gave other suggestions such as udon, which got me rolling my eyes. Initial instincts urged me to engage him in a petty fight. Since when would you find udon at a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner? Knowing I'm a white chick berating an Asian guy for his food choices on a day where food matters, I reeled those impulses in like a fishing line and let him have anything he wanted short of French fries. This added his requested udon, some hotpot, and an assortment of loose fruits and veggies to our dinner.
"You did good," my fellow cook said.
I jabbed him in the gut with an elbow. "We did good. You provided ideas, I pointed at stuff. Best of all, there was no need for the stove. Means less cleaning for us when we're done."
Being who he was, he barely reacted to the jabbing besides light surprise.
"Now why do I get the feeling it shouldn't be Thanksgiving?" I said. "Like, we should be in the middle of 2022 instead of the tail-end of 2023?"
My roommate frowned. This blathering did not amuse him. Typical. "Just you," he said, reaching his chair and considering a plate brimming with foodstuffs.
I joined him at the table. "Right about now, we'd go around the table to say thanks for whatever the hell we want. Mind you, I'm not religious. I'd believe in the Greek gods before I would Christ—"
Saitama swiped the red strainer which held the bowtie noodles to scrape a portion onto his plate. "Thanks for the food, Sam."
Wow, geez. All I did was a little magic. Between the two of us, he was the more food-savvy. Combining our aptitudes would lead to more interesting meals down the road.
"You're welcome?" I said. "Thanks yet again for saving me the other day. A-also…" Face warming, I almost dropped the thought with a curse. Nothing like deploying an f-bomb when your fellow diners least expect it, am I right?
My stuttery sentence got his attention. "What's up?"
'I'll need to buy dish soap tomorrow.'
'Mr. Thorne's gonna fail me!'
'I can't believe we almost forgot about the dog last night…'
She plugged her ears.
The voices would not stop.
'Oh, tomorrow's Black Friday! I don't want to be swept into buying more than I have to.'
'Where did my textbook go?!'
'She got so scared… I should give her an extra dog biscuit.'
She whimpered. Please, stop…
'I should write a list before I leave.'
'Maybe I could ask sis if she knows—'
"Shut up!" she yelled at her family.
She earned befuddled stares for her trouble.
Goody. Of all the people from One-Punch Man, I got a crush on Saitama. I came as far as having him reside here, happening to lose my voice when all I wanted to say was: "Thank you for making my life kinda better, Tama. Before the werewolf attack, leaving my family behind was the most exciting thing that ever happened to me. Having quiet is great until you find how boring it gets without a little chaos. Like, the good kinda chaos, if you know what I mean."
Did I say I lost my voice? Should I be glad I was not in charge of writing this drivel? My blatant self-insert and Saitama would have argued a million times over by now. Any characters I wrote always seemed driven to kill each other.
"'Kinda better'?" Saitama said, hitting me with a questioning stare.
"Ye-yes?" I said, quick to regret the answer. Was my life not "kinda better" before we met? I got lucky. Grandpa must have figured I would make the best inheritor for his money considering his daughter, my mom, kinda… They had a good relationship. Mom… She…
"How could you do this to my apple tree?!" his grandfather screamed. "You defiled her by building an ugly treehouse!" He patted the tree's bulging bark with a sad look in his eyes. "You've given her a tumor!"
"Yeesh, gramps," his grandson grumbled from inside his new hideout. "It's just a tree."
"'Just a tree'?!" Grandpa roared. "I grew up with this beauty! My father planted her seed! How could you have done this, boy? You could have used your newfound magic powers to help her! Can't you imagine all the delicious apple pies Mom could bake with your help?"
Why had I allowed my thoughts to drift at a time like this? Least I could say for this dumb detour my mind took is how Mon was not the most competent person I had known. Not exactly baggage I would want to open at this time.
Saitama was the cherry on top of a half-eaten sundae I left in the freezer long enough to forget it existed. By all miracles, the sundae stayed fresh until I found it again. It left a better taste in my mouth than the day I first bought it.
"I shouldn't say you've made life "kinda better," I said, making my merciful return to the present.
He prepared a full plate of mushroom soup in the time it took me to internally monologue. His attention snapped to me, and he made a questioning noise while trying a meatball.
Straightening my back, I said, "You're an a-an amazing guy. When I first found your series, I didn't "see" you. I was wowed by your strength, angered whenever you suffered bad luck, laughed at you panicking about mundane, everyday tasks in ways that would make me doing the same seem sane, and I've been disgusted by the fact you've chewed bubblegum.
"Over a year later, I've learned you're more than a funny guy with power you've worked hard for. You're compassionate and determined and an amazing fighter when you don't go straight for one-punching an opponent—"
"I get it," Saitama interrupted. "Are you gonna eat or what?"
I folded my arms. "Rude."
How typical of him all the same. What was not so typical was him reaching for a glass bottle next to the turkey, saying, "Glad I asked for wine. Might need it."
"Hey!" I shouted.
"Eat your food before it gets cold." His concentrated expression while pouring the wine became a playful smile once the bottle was put aside.
"You're not my dad," I said.
"Be a shame to waste it."
"Somebody hasn't heard of leftovers."
"It'd taste better fresh than thawed."
Four stalks of broccoli plummeted to my dinner plate. I snorted in indignation and set aside their container. "Yeah, yeah," I said. "No need to pester me. Guess this means you're going to steal my food if I don't eat."
"Maybe."
This conversation, for better or worse, brought to mind a certain short from the One-Punch anime. I processed the dumb tidbit of information, blinking maybe once or twice. Imaginary gears in charge of associating everything around me moaned and clanked into action. "Didn't you eat out and had a fry stolen from your plate once?"
A wide-eyed expression and a gentle clatter of a fork later, I was questioned, "What about it?"
"You reminded me," I said. "I know who stole the long fry. I don't think there's a chapter about it in the manga. Came from the anime—"
"Get to the point," Saitama suddenly snapped. "That bastard almost ruined my day."
I gulped. Shoot. How would he react when I told the truth? Inhaling, releasing the breath, and catching another, I went on speaking. "I-it wasn't the guy melting peoples' faces. It wa-was…"
Maybe I should have done more breathing.
Bright orange flames greeted him when he awoke from his nap. For a time, he could do nothing except watch the flames perform a furious dance and caress his dried skin. When he had enough, he dismissed the mental image.
The image did not leave. It stayed with him to swaddle his wrists in its fiery embrace.
He screamed. This was reality? He leaped to the floor to do as he was taught to as a child: stop, drop, and roll.
This rude awakening, drawing the ire of his parents, was how the boy learned of his power over fire.
To my surprise, the reveal went well. Keeping a long story short, telling Saitama that Genos was his fry thief made us hungrier. Who could resist a fry's crispy gold looks and potato-and-salt taste? Certainly not us. I tried to oust the French fries. I failed.
Potatoes were a common sight at my family's Thanksgiving dinner, coming in the form of baked pieces smothered in butter and drizzled in salt. I hoped the batch of fries I conjured from them would not appear too out of place amongst the other foods. I planned to share photos I took of everything from my Thanksgiving meal with Nicki before Saitama ever came into the equation.
Where was I? Ah, right. Genos. Saitama never made the fuss I feared upon learning his future student was stalking him in the days leading to their second face-to-face meeting. I was met with his curiosity from learning this new fact and the reinforced understanding of him being afraid of anything other than monsters. He pelted me with questions about the One-Punch webcomic, anime, and manga.
I could boil the entire discussion into a single question. How different were the three mediums? They were quite similar besides the manga's unnecessary expansions on certain characters, its mentally draining fight scenes, its bonus chapters, and certain anime shorts. The webcomic was further along with the story by being the original work…
"Wasn't it dark and stormy a moment ago?" his wife asked. "Or was I imagining things?"
He kept his eyes to the skies.
"Honey?" his wife said. "Did you hear me?"
Give me a cloud, he thought. Lo and behold, a white puffball materialized from thin air and shaped into the image in his mind. Two lumps and a sharpened end. A heart.
His wife gasped. She would have hit the floor if were it not for him grabbing her by the waist.
He smiled at her. "I have reason to believe I have power over the weather," he said.
Done with us mulling over nothing especially important, I reheated my food with the wave of a hand and ate. Finally, we would have our Thanksgiving. Or should I say part of it? I still wanted to see the parade.
Saitama hogged the fries. When the man said he liked the long, soft ones, he meant it.
Many of the smaller fries were pushed to the side. I gathered them into a napkin for myself.
We ate in silence. The first of our foods to go was the fries, of course. We could not resist those droopy golden sticks which oozed potatoes at the slightest squish.
During the quieter parts of our dinner, I wondered when was the last time I made the conscious decision to sit at a table with another person. My immediate family always did their own thing upon getting dinner. Before the modern smartphone, I would read books and ignore conversations. The topics discussed were always the same. How was everybody's day? Why was Nicki running late again? When would I stop ignoring everybody else?
The answers I would give would always be the same. 'Got bullied by the guys at school again,' or, 'I hate riding the bus.' Following this would be a reminder of how 'Nicki's got cheerleading practice.' I would always refuse to answer the last question. My anxiety would shoot through the roof if I were forced to talk about said anxiety and my… Everyone would listen, sure. They would disregard my statements when I left the table. What use would there be in being honest with people who proved to have short-term memories?
Saitama and I ate separate dinners until this afternoon. Maybe I could dine with him more often if I pushed for it? He would never cause as much drama at the table.
I would have company.
Having finished his fries, he spoke. "You're turning red. Are you feeling sick?" For a guy known to flaunt his love of boobs on his sweaters, he sure was oblivious to signals whether intentional or not. Or maybe he overlooked it in favor of personality?
Without a second thought, I pilfered the gravy boat from the dining table and poured the brown liquid through my mashed potatoes. Satisfied with a little drizzle of gravy over the top, I set the boat aside, got my fork, and putting no thought behind my next words, I blurted, "I'm not sick!"
He focused on his food rather than me. "I figured."
Great, he knew.
"My obviousness cancels out your obliviousness," I said. "Go figure. Wouldn't I make a shitty romance option in a dating sim? You'd get no emotional pay-off with me being upfront with my feelings."
Saitama considered me for a time before lifting his wine and sipping it.
The silence grew. Or it did until I groaned. "King would have been the better guy to ask. He'd probably say I'm not worth the effort 'cause I've got mental issues like anxiety disorders and aut—"
"Don't talk about yourself that way."
I finished adding corn to my plate when my roommate and I made eye contact. His expression was of curiosity.
I did not want to ask what caused the shift in mood. Something important slipped from my mouth before he interrupted me. Either he deduced my meaning or I would be forced to explain a part of myself he most likely would be unfamiliar with.
"What were you saying?" Saitama said.
Here went nothing. "I-I have…"
"Food!" they altogether screamed. "Feed us!"
Their mother hugged her bag of cat food. "Relax, won't you?" she said. "You'll eat in due time. I'm an old woman, for heaven's sake; I won't be making it to the kitchen right after I wake up."
"Feed us!" cried the horde. "We're starving!"
She bowed her head. Her lovelies were persistent as ever even with her newfound ability for them to understand one another. "I wish you all put this much energy into hunting those nasty, dirty rats infesting our home," she said. "I'd be a much happier and healthier old lady."
"What?" Saitama pressed as his brow furrowed. He could very well be on his way to solving the mystery without my help. "A-U-T? A-W-T?"
How could I have guessed? He caught my tidbit. I should have been more careful with my words. "A-U-T," I affirmed. "I-S-M. Spectrum disorder."
All there was left for him to do was put the words together. Which he did. "Autism Spectrum Disorder."
I was quiet.
He was quiet.
We were quiet.
His pupils grew with the truth laid bare before us. Locking focus on me, he reunited his wine glass with the table.
"My brain's wired different from yours," I said. "I find connections between things others wouldn't. I blurt whatever I think without consequence. I get obsessed with certain topics for long intervals, ultimately losing the motivation to do much other than to live life and keep obsessing. I've been here for months and haven't gotten to know many neighbors."
"Your life's more difficult than I thought." Leave it to him to simplify a speech. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I replayed our conversation in my head. All the while, my face warmed considerably. An all too familiar instinct, a persistent demon of mine since childhood, took hold. It urged the heat to swell beyond my cheeks.
We acknowledged the last piece of the puzzle which shaped me into who I was today. Making matters worse, I drove the conversation here to escape my stupid blushing. I did this to myself! What was there to do now other than flee or surrender to anxiety?
"Didn't matter," I said, withering into a ball in my seat. "I guess."
One chair scuffed the tiled floor. One body moved. Four chairs in total surrounded the table. The body shifted into the chair to their left and pulled their dish and utensils with them.
"You kidding?" Saitama said. "This changes things."
I might have mirrored his earlier furrowed brow. Or I tried to. I did not possess the same ability to express myself with an individual eyebrow.
This must have seemed strange from his point of view. I couldn't tell what his expression was. It was blurred by my watery eyes.
Change. Had our lives not changed enough? I knew myself to be quick to adapt to change when my initial shock was allowed to expire. That changed recently. Now, I was sick of change. Were the world to relax, I would be more willing to take change in stride.
Saitama hesitated, most likely having seen questions reflected through my watery gaze. I could tell he smiled an uncomfortable smile.
Good going, spat my psyche. He must be regretting moving in with you. You got him feeling trapped. What do you have to say for yourself?
I didn't have to. He spoke. He didn't speak. What helped him get the message across was the softening of his anxious smile.
Without warning, my eyes snapped closed. I sniffled. Knowing full well what would happen next, I buried my face in my folded arms. My nose leaked disgusting snot. Crap. I should have grabbed napkins before sitting at the table.
Saitama's new seat creaked along the floor. Seconds later, he patted my arm. "Here," he murmured, draping a pile of paper-thin napkins kept at the table over my elbow.
I snatched maybe half of them, sniffling. I pushed them between my arm and nostrils. "Thanks," I said, hearing my voice change from the pressure put on my nose. "I should've told you sooner."
"It's okay."
"Are you…?"
"Mad? Disappointed? Repulsed?"
Swallowing, I answered, "Ye-yeah?"
Rather… Gentle laughter followed? "C'mon, Sam. This came out left field, yeah. Autism doesn't get in the way of how I view you. All it changes is how I see our…"
"Dynamic?" I said, leaving the comfort of darkness to watch him struggle with the word for a moment.
"I'm glad you told me. Seriously."
"Serious as a punch?" God damn it. Word association. Again. Once again my brain refused to be "normal" for more than five minutes.
"Serious as a punch," he affirmed, locking a dead-on stare on me. "I'm taking you more seriously from now on, got it? You've got a serious problem? You tell me. I'll take you seriously."
"Se-seriously?"
"Seriously."
Must. Not. Make. A. Joke. Close that stupid gaping mouth, Sam! It's not worth it! You're no good at carrying jokes! "Stop it before I banish you to the Serious Room!"
Pure silence.
Crud.
I facepalmed. "Kill me now…"
"The Serious Room sounds like my kind of place."
Without me meaning to, my palm slipped.
"Getting my old apartment would be better," Saitama said, glancing into the living room. "How about you eat, then get to work? I've gotta use the bathroom." He rose from his chair holding his plate and strolled to the door frame separating the kitchen from the dining room. "Happy Thanksgiving, yeah?"
"Ha-happy Thanksgiving!"
When he peered my way, was I blushing or crying?
Saitama's barren face appeared to him in the bathroom mirror. With a clawed grip, he turned the left-hand knob by the sink faucet and shoved his hands into the bowl. He fixated on the water assaulting his palms. Warm, not hot. Gushing, not flowing. Noisy. Not noisy enough. All the while he listened to the rumbling of drums from the TV in the living room. The sound came from further away than usual, which must have meant Sam started remodeling. They hadn't stored their leftovers yet. The giant turkey crammed its scent into his nostrils and meaty taste all over his tongue. He had to have more when he was done here.
Today, his roommate cried at the dining table. He saw her cry on the page. He heard about her crying after their last monster encounter. Never had he seen her break right in front of him. Perhaps it wasn't enough for her to be in therapy and taking meds. What she needed more than anything was moral support. Somebody who wouldn't simply come around once or twice a week to check on her. Nicki fulfilled the role before she left for college. Without her, Sam withdrew more into herself.
Saitama dried his palms with a towel hanging from the shower door, he gave attention to the TV again. An announcer overrode the drums. What they said still eluded him thanks to the running water by his ears. He twisted the knob to silence the sink and pointed his ear at the rest of the noise.
"Arriving now is Pikachu from the Pokémon franchise! This cute little mouse is the series' mascot, who can be found in the latest games to have been released: Pokémon Scarlet and Violet…"
Saitama darted from the bathroom. Right away, he hesitated, as the hallway he found across from the tan rug his toes dug through was a near-perfect replica of the corridor that led to his living space. He peered to his right to find the genkan , where his hero boots and the shoes he got the other day were neatly lined beside old black sneakers. Straight ahead was… The kitchen? While it wasn't his tiny kitchen, Sam moved the entire thing to where it would be in his apartment. To its right was a shut door he recognized as belonging to his bathroom.
He peered left. An open door scraped a desk with a padded chair and a laptop with a large screen. Heart leaping, he went to the door and slipped through to find… His living space. Sam's TV had been placed at the top of a stand with various knick-knacks in the levels below, such as a box of tissues or random DVDs.
Sam didn't give him the balcony. She compensated with a wide window and a white bookshelf lined with her volumes of the One-Punch Man manga among other things. When he entered the room, his roommate was seated on a pillow at a low white table watching a giant balloon of a yellow mouse with long black-tipped ears fill the screen. Her back was against the closet in the lower right-hand corner.
"Whoa," he said, taking the cushion to her left. "You did it."
Sam stopped watching the parade to make eye contact. "I suppose I did," she said, revealing him a face redder than his costume's gloves. "Is this good enough for you?"
"You did amazing."
Saying he caught her off-guard would be an understatement. She grinned and pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose to hide her blushing. "Th-thank you!"
Sometimes what somebody needed wasn't therapy or medications, although those helped a ton. People required nurturing to get to a better place. He already changed her life. He couldn't deny her happiness.
"Mr. President, monsters are roaming our streets. There are those with powers who struggle to contain them. What are we to do about all of this?"
"There's but one thing we can do. Conference with the rest of the world, and follow his world's example of building an association to round up our "heroes" and combat these threats."
"Mr. President?"
"Yes?"
"Should we contact Mr. Saitama? He would be a great asset to the United States."
"Wait until the United Nations meet and our country's Association goes public. I doubt he's going anywhere."
"Yes, Mr. President. I'll take my leave."