DOGFISH, miyuki kazuya

like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song where it falls

I wanted
the past to go away, I wanted
to leave it, like another country; I wanted
my life to close, and open
like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song
where it falls
down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;
I wanted
to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,
whoever I was, I was

alive
for a little while.

━━━━━━

So, naturally, you don't expect him to come back.

Not at all.

And that's okay! He did way more than he needed to.

But you find those expectations smashed to pieces the next day.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Each of those times, he says he is simply 'checking in.'

Guilt and obligation are his main motivators, you're certain of it. But you don't say anything. You like talking to him. You've made certain everyone knows they don't need to hang around while you're at the hospital and you don't regret it, knowing they all have other things to do, but you also don't mind talking to someone. You never do. You love your fellow humans very much and you are always willing to chat with the people around you, provided they are willing, too.

Sure, he may be coming here out of a sense of duty but he is still engaging with you. You appreciate that.

Alongside that, you are slowly but surely recovering. The worst symptoms of your concussion subside, like your spatial misperception and the blurriness in your vision when you try to focus. On your fourth day, you venture outside. You have to wear sunglasses initially but bit by bit, it becomes bearable. You'll still experience sensitivity for the next several weeks, headaches, too, but it won't last forever.

Hopefully.

Your good old friend, brain contusion, is getting better, too. Not completely healed yet but not getting worse. They think it'll be healed by your follow-up appointment. Your bruise still looks bad. It will for the next week, probably, then it'll start to heal.

Miyuki keeps coming around, even on Saturday, after the parade celebrating the Padres' win, where they have a massive turnout on Seventh Avenue; something like a million people came out for it.

Your discharge creeps on you. Soon, it's Tuesday, the first of November, the day before you're to be released.

You're in a chair by your window, the blinds pulled all the way up, giving you a view of the greenery around the hospital; immaculately cut grass, neatly trimmed bushes, rows of planted trees. The table in front of you has a half-completed puzzle, a vintage map of New York City. You've done this one before but it's been a while. You don't mind, anyhow. They often help to pass the time on slow nights during the show.

You don't lift your head when someone knocks on your door.

"Come in!"

The door opens. Miyuki shuffles inside, dressed in his usual nondescript manner (joggers, a t-shirt, and a ballcap tucked over windswept hair). That's the nice thing about living in San Diego. Even if November is today, you can often get away with a shirt and shorts most of the year. A shirt and leggings if you want to bundle up a little more.

Except this time, it is not just himself but...

"Is that for me?"

He smirks, shutting the door with his shoulder as his hands are preoccupied with a to-go bag from In-N-Out that you can smell all the way from here, and a cup of something in his other hand, sounding full by the way it sloshes around.