"Oritsu," she says. "It's not really my name, but that doesn't matter. It's good enough for you."
You work the bar at a sushi place in New York City. You’re Chinese, but that's beside the point; there are enough dragons and lanterns to fill in for both countries. This story begins on a Wednesday afternoon in May. Most customers are at a booth, so there's not much for you to do except organize ingredients and wipe down the counter.
The first person to sit down at the bar that afternoon is an Asian woman with necklaces and a handbag, each probably worth more than your rent; which is saying something, considering you live in Manhattan. In fact, just the sunglasses atop her head could probably cover your bills for the next month. You notice that her eye color leans more towards gold than brown or black. Her ponytail seems to be almost iridescent: probably just a trick of the light.
"Shitty Lunar New Year bargain bin decor," she mutters as she sits down, referring to the paper lanterns and cheap calligraphy hanging around the restaurant.
"Hakkaisan sake, snow-aged," she demands. "Warmed to forty-five Celsius, give or take a few degrees." Her tone isn't rude, per say. "Commanding" would be more accurate.
She downs the shot you pour her, before raising her cup and shaking it at you to ask for more. You refill her glass.
Her fingers drum on the table. She eventually takes out her phone, but can't seem to decide what to do with it. You finish wiping down the countertop and begin organizing glasses, keeping her in the corner of your vision.
She downs the last of her sake and raises her cup again to ask for a refill. You give her more wine.
"What's on your mind?" you ask.
“Why do you care?” she replies.
"Oh," you say, "I always feel better after I talk to someone. But it's fine if you don't want to discuss it.” You would like to think it was a very smooth conversation starter.
The way her eyes narrow implies that it was not, in fact, a very smooth conversation starter. Her cheeks have flushed, and her gaze is somewhat unfocused. The bottle of sake is already half-empty.
"My boss is giving me an impossible job," she mutters anyways. "Which is why I'm drinking at three o' clock on a Wednesday."
"Do you wanna talk about it?" you say.
She looks up from her phone and makes eye contact as she asks, "are you religious?"
"Agnostic," you say. "That seems to be the norm for Chinese people."
"Chinese? Working here?" she mutters as she rolls her eyes. "Chiang Kai-shek didn't die for this." You hope that the mediocre, somewhat problematic joke is another effect of the alcohol.
She asks if you have a lot of Chinese friends. You tell her yes, you do.
Her eyes light up. In fact, you swear that they flash gold for a split second. She asks if you’ve seen a Chinese woman named Patch nearby. You tell her no, you haven’t.
She visibly deflates as she sighs.
"I mean, I'm pretty involved in the local Chinese community," you add. "I could definitely ask around."
She’s asks if you're fishing for a date. You—an honest, hardworking person—say yes.
"You know what?" she laughs. "If you manage to find her, I'll go out with you. How does that sound?"
"Why can't you go find her yourself?" you ask.
"Complicated," she says. "Her things have eyes everywhere. She'll scurry off if she sees me looking for her. So, do you wanna take me up on that deal or not?"
"Sure," you say. "I'll give it a shot."
She downs the rest of her drink and hands you her credit card. It's cool to the touch, and you discover it's made entirely out of matte black metal.
You slide her that fancy new electronic thing with a touchpad for her to select a tip. She taps the screen before telling you her number.
"Write it down," she says, "and call me if you need anything."
You plug her number into your contacts, and she leaves.
The screen says that she left a 500% tip. You're not quite sure how to react to that.
A few seconds after she closes the glass doors, she explodes into a burst of radiance. It's blinding, like a piece of light ripped from the sun and thrust onto earth. When your vision clears, the street is empty.
You feel like at some point a TV crew is going to run out and tell you it was a prank. But that never happens, and you clock out as usual, leaving as the evening shift replaces you and the bar begins to fill.
When you get home, you call every single Chinese person you know and ask how you would go about finding this Patch.
"Who names their kid Patch?"
"You don't know anything else about this girl? Anything?"
"How the fuck would I know?"
Some more identifying info about Patch would probably be helpful.
You call the woman and ask for her name, since her contact on your phone is still blank save for the phone number.
"Oritsu," she says. "It's not really my name, but that doesn't matter. It's good enough for you."
According to Oritsu, Patch has a lot of tattoos, is probably doing something artsy, looks “around her age” (referring to herself), and that’s all she can tell you.
"Call me again as soon as you find her," she says, hanging up before you can even respond.
The "artsy" and "tattoo" hints turn out to be useful. Now, you have too many leads.
You call all the universities, art studios and museum centers that people told you to check.
"Nope."
"Nobody by that description."
The faces of all the the art school teachers and museum curators are beginning to blend together, perhaps even literally. Some of them look strikingly similar.
"Think I've seen her. Check at this address,"
One of these identical museum guides tells you.
You ring the doorbell to the pottery studio he told you about. A man wearing a mud-stained apron opens the door. Every single surface is splattered with bits of clay. The sound of turning pottery wheels fills the area.
The man at the first wheel says that Patch is here. He points you across the room, where a tattooed Asian woman is currently molding a life-size humanoid figurine. She pinches and prods the clay, which seems to obey her thoughts rather than her fingers, contorting into perfect limbs and appendages. In fact, you swear that the clay continues to move as she looks away to switch the music playing in her earbuds.
She locks eyes with you for a fraction of a second before you dart back into the hallway.
"Found her," you tell Oritsu as soon as she picks up.
"What's the address?" she replies.
Two minutes after you send the Google Maps link, Oritsu emerges out of the elevator. She emits an aura of warmth, and her skin is subtly glowing. Her eyes seem to have shifted to a light golden hue. Despite the early summer heat, she's wearing a coat: something metallic glints underneath it.
“Stay out until I give you a phone call,” she tells you. She grabs your arm, and in the blink of an eye you're on the street next to the building.
You decide you should probably listen to her. You find a bench nearby and sit down.
The street is almost silent, save for the chirping of birds and the gunshots that begin a few minutes later. You get up and start walking away.
The gunfire intensifies. Your walk turns into a run.
Half an hour later, Oritsu calls you. You tell her you got bored of waiting and walked away.
She laughs and says, "I don't blame you. Hey, are you free tomorrow night?"
"Does 7:00 PM work?" you reply.
"It does for me. See you then."
You're ten minutes early, but she's already there when you show up. She still looks preoccupied, and…what happened again? Something was there, something…
You wake up the next morning, ready to go to work after a night of staying at home and watching Youtube. What a shame that she cancelled at the last minute.
Life goes on.
A month later, a woman shows up to your bar. Despite her pale skin, she seems very dark. Dark hair trapped in a black beanie, dark circles under her eyes, dark ink tattooed across her body. Her black "this cat kills fascists" t-shirt is stained with clay. She carries a faint smell of marijuana.
As you make the vodka martini she ordered, you feel like you've seen her before.
"Have we met?" you ask.
"No," she says.
One refill later, she asks how you've been.
"Fine," you reply. "What about you?"
"I've been better," she says.
"Wanna talk about it?"
"An ex. Well, sort of. It's kinda complicated."
"Ah."
"Fucking Foundation bootlicker. Throws me away and pretends not to care, just for…"
The woman pauses. You decide not to pry.
Her expression is deliberate and stern as she pulls out her wallet, which doesn’t seem to have any credit cards. Instead, it’s packed with hundred-dollar bills, one of which she takes out to ask for change. You return her $89.50 in cash.
She looks at the money before handing it back to you. “It’s a tip,” she says, before she downs the rest of her cocktail and leaves.