The Ramen Cup

Warning: The following contains strong language. Reader discretion is advised.

Author's Note: Taking a short break from "Akayuki" to celebrate my Michael and Nica's anniversary. This is how they bonded. Over a cup of ramen. 

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction. It is intended for entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to actual persons living or deceased is purely coincidental.

~o~

The Ramen Cup

One night, I’m sitting on the living room floor

in the dark, the only light the TV glow.

(I can’t remember what I was watching.

Probably a game show.)

I’m missing my old house in New Jersey,

my dead family,

Fred’s house on Elm Street,

any friends I had anywhere

because there is no one to talk to here

except Freddy, and there are things I can’t tell him,

although he could extract them in my dreams,

but he won’t because I’d kill him.

(No, I couldn’t stop him even if I wanted to.

We just agree not to fuck with each other that way.

It’s abusive and toxic.

Not that our relationship is healthy or normal.)

I’m about to give up and go to sleep

when the back of a hand bumps my right arm

just below my shoulder.

A hand covered in skin, 

not Freddy’s leather glove.

I’m startled,

look up…

it’s Michael.

His blank face is the color of TV static,

whitish-blue, and I think it’s his mask;

no, it’s his actual face.

His hand bumps my arm again;

I look down,

see he’s holding a cup of something.

There’s a familiar greasy smell in the air,

a faint hint of baked chicken.

“Is that ramen?” I ask, amused and amazed.

He makes an “Mm” noise I’ve learned is Michaelese for “yes”.

His knuckles bump my arm a third time.

I understand and take the cup of noodles from him.

The cup is warm;

it reminds me of the cups of chicken soup

Mom made me when I had colds.

I tear up, but before I can break down,

Michael’s knuckle-bumping my arm again.

When I look up, he’s pointing a pair of wooden chopsticks at me.

“Thank you.” I take them, split them apart,

pick up my cup of ramen I had set aside,

and bump shoulders with Michael, who is seated beside me.

He is sitting beside me on the futon. Oh, god.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, referring to the shoulder-bump.

He keeps his face turned to the TV.

I’m not sure he’s even watching whatever’s on.

I leave him alone and dig into my cup of noodles.

I’m suspicious (thanks to Chucky) so I sniff everything

before I pop the food into my mouth.

The noodles are soft and warm; delicious.

I eat more, foregoing the sniffing.

If he’s poisoned this, I can’t detect it.

“Shit,” I mumble when soup dribbles down my chin.

Out of the corner of my eye, Michael’s head turns towards me.

I lick the soup off my fingers before I tell him, “I’m okay.”

I can feel him staring at me before he stands up and walks out of the room.

Great, Nica, I think. You offended him.

He’s probably gone to the kitchen to get a knife.

I’m wrong. When he comes back, he attacks my face with a cloth napkin.

“I can do that,” I assure him, laughing.

I set my cup ramen aside.

He gives me the napkin then walks out of the room again.

When he comes back, he’s got a glass of ice water.

Instead of arm-bumping me, he touches the cold glass against my arm.

I shriek because I’m wearing my sleeveless nightgown. “Cold!” 

He studies me like I’m something bizarre he finds fascinating.

“Don’t do that,” I half-chastise him. I take the glass of water.

He resumes sitting beside me on the futon.

Like earlier, he keeps his face turned to the TV.

His legs are folded Indian-style,

his left hand lies spread out on his calf,

in my line of sight.

He knows I’m scared of him.

I finish the last of the ramen and set the empty cup aside.

I lay the chopsticks across the top of the cup like a character in an anime.

I pick up the glass of water,

sniff it, of course, then drink.

The water is nice and cold, 

although the ice has melted by now.

“Have you eaten?” I ask Michael, once I’ve drunk the water.

He doesn’t turn his head,

doesn’t acknowledge he even heard me.

I look down at his left hand.

He has long fingers.

I take my right hand from around the waterglass,

straighten my fingers, and compare my hand to his.

My fingers appear child-sized next to his,

easy to crush.

I sigh.

Applause from the TV.

A game show after all.

I gather my ramen cup and the waterglass.

“Um…do you mind if I wait until morning to wash the glass?”

Michael’s face is turned toward me when I look at him.

I misjudged the distance so our noses bump.

I apologize. I picked the wrong person to be a klutz around.

Michael takes the glass and the ramen cup.

(He probably thinks I’ll break the glass.)

He rises and I don’t see him again until the first commercial break

after the sitcom starts. Michael sits beside me on the futon.

We watch TV. I don’t speak. I’m not sure I should.

Two episodes of sitcoms and the opening monologue of the Late Show later,

I yawn for the fourth time in five minutes.

My eyelids slide shut and I don’t open them until I’m jostled awake.

Someone has laid me down on the futon. 

“Fred?” I mumble. No answer.

I lift my head off the pillow.

A head of dark curly hair is bent by my feet. 

Michael looks up at me.

“Goodnight,” I tell him.

I return my head to the pillow.

Michael pulls the covers over my legs and body then drapes them over my shoulders.

I settle in, and before I drift off to sleep,

warm breath brushes my right ear.

“Good-night,” Michael whispers.