Camila + Haruki

As my mum had requested, I fed my oba pink children’s n-Tylenol 4.0 every morning that always knocked her out like I’d just pasted a pint over her (We-Only-Said-Goodbye-With-Words) wig, and then I slipped out to the streets and sent Camila a fourth holotext.   I checked my EMOS intranet inbox frantically.  Nothing.  Recently, Camila had been sloppy responding to my holotexts.  Sometimes she’d pick up when I called her directly on the v-phone, but other times she pretended she hadn’t felt the haptic temple ring.  Being stuck in Tokyo made me feel like I was far away from everything I wanted in my life:  my teaching and dissertation research, my girlfriend, our rituals of pistachio o-match lattes and vegetarian buffets in Kowloon and weekend day trips to Lantau Island to see the Giant Buddha and OD on bean curd.  I could see her tumescent mole, sticking out between her shoulder blades like a rare and delicious black truffle.  I could almost taste her perfume in my pillowcase.  I’d never needed her as much as I did after spending forever in Tokyo with a woman that despised and tortured me for using the wrong word once.  This whole scenario was complete bollocks.