Yes, there’s unquestionably a feeling of pleasure — delight, even, or joy — that comes with seeing Sano again. My memories of our time together in Japan have such a freshness about them, not to mention my feelings for him then, that how I feel now hardly seems relevant. This strikes me as a trifle unfair, but hasn’t the whole thing been?
Vampire ex or no vampire ex, my life goes on, and that means I need clean clothing for work I really do have to attend, and that means laundry must be done. The experience is undeniably different than usual with Sano hanging around making conversation, though. As if a long-lost friend has returned? Something more than a friend? Or something completely separate from that — a predator, a demanding stranger whose goals must perhaps make him an enemy, no matter how happy I am at his presence?
“Damn lotta laundry you got here all at once,” he’s commenting as I rotate the second load into my undersized dryer in preparation for filling my tiny washer with the third.
I don’t bother pointing out just how small the loads have to be thanks to the aforementioned diminutive nature of my laundry room, which is really more of a closet off my kitchen; I merely reply, in a tone of somewhat sarcastic accusation, “I usually only have one or two loads, but last week something had me too agitated to get a lot of my chores done.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
“Do you always approach me like that? So I’m miserable and confused for a week?”
The query restores the hard expression to his face, probably because it reminds him of just how many times he has approached me, whether like that or in some other manner, and his voice as he answers holds that cold unhappiness I’m getting used to. “I keep hoping you’ll remember me on your own.”
So my assumptions along those lines were correct. Finished starting the washer, I turn my attention to folding and hanging the still-warm contents of the basket I recently set atop the dryer. “You never were very good at pattern recognition.” My nonchalance is a deliberate contrast to his darkness and heaviness.
It seems to work, too, for he chuckles, only a little morose. “And I’ve seen a lot of patterns; you’d think I’d be better at it by now.” He’s leaning against the kitchen cabinets just outside the laundry room doorway, and at this he unfolds the arms he had crossed and places his hands on the countertop instead. “But, no… it hasn’t always been like that… You haven’t always been in a good position for me to give you a week.”
Every time I glance over at him, I find his gaze locked on me; I don’t think he ever looks away. Now when I meet his eyes briefly in asking, “What do you mean?” I find him staring as intently as ever.
“When you’re doing well… when you’re well-off… when you’re safe…” He shrugs. “Getting a week to try to figure shit out is a luxury. Sometimes when I find you, it turns out you’re in such a bad position I don’t even know if you have a week. I have to jump in right away and give you your memories back — or just tell you about everything, like in Brazil, before I learned how to do that. You may think it’s pretty bad this way, but it’s worse with no warning at all.”
I hang shirts in silence for a moment, then nod. I can’t quite bring myself to point out that not restoring my memories of a previous life, refraining from demanding I choose between hurting someone I once loved and becoming a monster, simply not approaching me at all might be even less unkind than either of those two options. It’s already obvious how impossible he would find letting me go, and I still haven’t confirmed how I feel about his return to my life, so bringing up the inappropriateness of his actions would only wound him. And even if he’s wounding me, I’m not inclined to reciprocate.
“I like to see you in a life like this.” There’s a forced sense of greater lightness to his tone as he says this, and I feel like we’re skirting he-wants-my-answer territory again. “I mean, you’re always in danger, but at least in a life like this it’s official. And obviously you make enough money to be comfortable… You can afford your gross-looking mac and cheese, and a washer and dryer in your apartment, and all that…”
Again I nod without a word, without bringing up the fact that my life has been decent and relatively uncomplicated… up until now.
In a way this exchange, in which everything each of us says or could say has the potential to hurt the other, is a mirror of many we had in Japan, where everything each of us said had a tendency to aggravate the other. Of course back then there was a specific subconscious reason to become agitated at the sound of the other’s voice; and here and now I’m far less willing to hurt Sano that I was to annoy him in those days… but the parallel remains. It’s a tense conversation even in its easier moments, hinting at possibilities I’m not eager to face.
Am I grateful for the interruption of a knock at the door? I wasn’t necessarily unhappy to be alone with him, but that tension was undeniable and not particularly enjoyable. I do worry a little, however, about who this might be. A neighbor coming to talk about local safety? Apartment maintenance appearing for an unusually late job? Renee wondering why I haven’t called her? None of these options is palatable, and the last is downright nightmarish, considering I still haven’t figured out what to say to her.
Whether or not he guesses my specific concerns, Sano obviously recognizes my uneasiness about the visitor, for he reassures me, “I think it’s Meg. Want me to get it?”
He’s offering to answer the door at my apartment just as he felt free to do at my house in Japan (though in that instance without asking). I’d like to say yes, but I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea, so I tell him, “That’s OK,” and move past toward the entrance.
And Megumi it is. Like Sano, she’s still wearing the same outfit I saw her in previously — the one that makes her look like a video game character — but unlike Sano, she gives an immediate smile when she sees me. “I thought I had the right place. May I come in?”
“She’s a better vampire than you are,” I throw over my shoulder into the kitchen. Then to Megumi, “Yes, come in.”
As she does so, she reaches out a startlingly cold hand and clasps mine, shaking it with contrasting warmth. “It’s good to see you again.” And I think she means it. I know she means, by ‘again,’ not a reference to our meeting in the police station parking lot some days ago but rather to however many previous lives she’s known me in.
I return the handshake and agree with her, every bit as sincere. I can’t help staring a little, though, and I hope she’s not offended. I simply don’t remember her as nearly this… beautiful.
Despite my relationship with Sano being the most meaningful of my Japanese life, the capacity for attraction to women was, I believe, just as strong in me as attraction to men. Whether the same is true in this incarnation I don’t yet know, but currently it’s the male side of things in question; I’ve never doubted I liked women. I’ve never had any problem recognizing and admiring female beauty. My awareness of Megumi’s was always somewhat abstract, given how thoroughly occupied my aesthetic appreciation of others was by Sano at the time… but I surely would have taken greater notice if she’d looked like this.
In the dark station parking lot it wasn’t nearly as evident, with my attention so caught up in the mystery of the situation, but here in the brighter lights of my apartment, up close, with the bafflement and confusion and frustration of that scene behind me, I can easily categorize her looks as ‘stunning.’ The precise perfection of her features, the luster of her hair, the curve of her figure… it’s almost unbelievable.
But as I stare I realize just as immediately that there’s something else different about her as well, something less pleasant: a sense of otherworldliness, of horror almost, that’s deeply repellent, perhaps especially so as it contrasts with her incredible beauty. It’s not the same feeling I’ve had about Sano — I still believe that arises more from the awareness of what he wants from me than from any kind of innate human fear of a predatory alien being… but the latter is exactly what I believe this reaction to Megumi must be. Sano I recognize as someone that at least should be human, but in Megumi my instincts see little to no humanity at all. Ironic, when Sano is the one most concerned with losing track of what he was. Unnerving.
“She’s a hotter vampire than me too,” Sano remarks, obviously observing my reaction.
I pause and give my two guests a back-and-forth comparative scan. And though my goal is primarily to bait Sano, and though there’s still something about him that has far more of a personal draw than Megumi, with all her astonishing loveliness, can command, when I nod and agree with him my statement is nothing but the truth.
Sano makes a snorting, huffing sound, and, while it sounds like a darker reaction than such a meaningless tease would have prompted in him back in the day, it’s a relatively lighthearted moment nonetheless — especially when Megumi seems to validate my facetious intentions by laughing in response.
Since I resumed my progress into the laundry room in order to finish up that chore before I sit down to have a proper conversation with Megumi, Sano’s face is out of sight; therefore I can’t be sure of the precise reason he targets her with his retort, “Yeah, Meg’s a walking stereotype these days.” Is he jealous because I indirectly called her hot? Or is he simply unable, at this juncture, to aim a snide comment at me?
I ask, “What stereotype?”
“Sano’s just jealous,” Megumi answers, “because he doesn’t look like a Hollywood vampire.”
“Oh, fuck that shit,” Sano grumbles.
As they then fall silent for a few moments, I prod, “That still doesn’t tell me what the stereotype is.” By now I can probably guess, but I’d rather have one of them elaborate.
Megumi does so. “Real vampires — most of us, anyway — look more and more monstrous the longer we survive, and all of us appear less and less human. Many vampire stories used to reflect this: we were horror story villains meant to inspire fear. But over the years the public perception of vampires has changed somehow, and now we’re portrayed as sympathetic villains or even heroes, and almost always superhumanly sexy instead of frightening.”
I nod my understanding, both of the phenomenon she describes and of the specific stereotype she therefore seems to embody. Why she’s evidently not included in the ‘most of us’ that look more and more monstrous the longer they survive has yet to be revealed, but everything makes sense so far.
“It’s bullshit.” Sano is still irritated. “Some of the old stuff used to be almost accurate, but these days people have this entire concept of vampires that’s 100% wrong. There’s nothing sexy about us, for one thing,” he finishes in disgust.
I glance over, giving him a skeptical look, unwilling to bring up aloud the way he somehow forced me to want him so desperately in order to ‘make this easier’ when he was restoring my memories of life in Japan.
“Well…” He obviously knows exactly what I mean with the expression, and has the grace to look a little sheepish. “Yeah, I mean, there is that. We’ve got a sort of sexual attractiveness we can turn on and off to help us hunt. But it’s not like we can take it any further than that; we can’t do any of that shit anymore — at least not without eating, like, three people first. And you can stop rolling your damn eyes at me, Meg; we’re not all born aces.”
“It’s certainly easier not to worry about the circulatory system that way.”
I believe I understood that exchange, though the reference to aces might have gone over my head if sexual or romantic orientation hadn’t already been at least a little on my mind. I never knew Megumi was asexual; as she says, it’s probably more than a bit of a blessing in her current form. I think back to my concerns about this specific topic in Japan, and wonder how sexuality in the long term is affected by becoming a vampire and the changes in bodily function that transition represents — by the apparent need to ‘eat, like, three people’ before attempting sexual activity. It seems insensitive to bring up, however, so instead I revert to what I previously wanted to know: “And how do you manage to look like a Hollywood vampire?”
“I’m a cannibal,” Meg replies easily. “I drink blood from other vampires, which heightens all of my abilities and makes me…” She gives a reluctant chuckle. “…sexier.”
“Yeah, she’s like a vampire squared.” I glance over in time to see Sano aim a blow, lightning-quick and totally unnecessary, at Megumi’s face and she, from where she’s seated at my dining table, catch it and throw it back with zero apparent effort.
“And you can survive that way?” I’m about done folding my laundry, and very interested in this new information.
“As long as I feed on non-cannibals. Which is a shame, really; if cannibals could all live off each other, we could leave humans entirely alone.”
“So why do you do it?” I hang the last pair of pants and emerge, deciding that, today at least, I’m not ready to put away my laundry (including underwear) in their presence. It can wait where it is until they’ve gone.
Megumi leans back in her chair with that outlandish undead fluidity and soundlessness I’m just about accustomed to by now. “Drinking the blood of other vampires gives me insight into their abilities and evolution, and helps me understand vampires as a species better. There are a lot of things about ourselves that we don’t understand, and cannibalism helps me study them.”
This starts to answer some of the questions I took from my conversation with Sano about the mysteries of vampirism, but not all of them. Before I can decide what to ask next, however, Sano responds to my assumption of the third seat at the dining table by lifting a pack of cards he’s withdrawn from somewhere and asking, “Wanna play?”
Since a card game — whatever card game — seems an optimal technique for staving off awkwardness among the three of us as we chat, I readily agree, and the next few minutes are spent going over the rules. This involves Sano writing out a list of scoring parameters on a piece of notebook paper I retrieve at his request, and I find myself inordinately interested in what his handwriting looks like in English and modern times.
I’m also intrigued by his reaction to his role as rules authority for the game. It’s only a reminder for Megumi, with whom he’s obviously played this before, but to me it’s all new, and Sano is surprisingly engrossed in — indeed, at times almost excited by — the simple action of teaching me how it works. He always did love to gamble, and, though we’re not wagering anything here and now, it seems games of chance still rank among his favorite pastimes. It’s yet another moment of Sano seeming like Sano, and my own engrossment in learning the rules is definitely enhanced by my pleasure at seeing this.
So here I am again hanging out with vampires — one my lover from a previous life, one the most beautiful woman in the world and yet so off-putting that my chair is decidedly closer to Sano’s side of the table — casually discussing the drinking of blood and other horror-movie concepts, this time without nearly so much discomfort as I experienced in the previous instance: I’m getting used to this. Exactly how used to it I can become remains a matter of question, along with a host of other things, but at the moment I’m relatively content just to play cards with a couple of friends without worrying about the fact that they are physically programmed — magically programmed? — to require the death of people like me for their own survival. Without worrying about how startlingly much I enjoy the presence of one of them when I’m not sure how I feel about him personally and he’s literally here to offer me a fate worse even than that aforementioned death.