Page 72 of Faking the Goal

I've heard of places like this, especially in Japan, but I've never actually been inside one. And now one has apparently been sitting five minutes away from my new apartment like the universe decided to throw me a consolation prize for spending Thanksgiving hauling my own furniture.

I walk farther inside, expecting someone to greet me, but the reception desk near the entrance is empty. There's a little sign propped beside the register explaining the holiday hours and another board listing the lounge rates: eight dollars for an hour, eighteen for three, or thirty for the entire day.

My eyes move toward the café counter on the opposite side of the room. There's a whole menu mounted above it—coffee, matcha, tea, sandwiches, cakes, pastries—but the lights behind the counter are off.

A small sign reads:

CAFÉ CLOSED FOR THANKSGIVING — LOUNGE OPEN

I stare at it.

"Well, that's just cruel."

So close to food. Yet so tragically far.

Whatever. I'll survive. The convenience store isn't going anywhere, and right now there are several thousand manga volumes calling my name.

Then I notice three vending machines lined up near the back wall.

Oh, thank fuck.

I head over.

The first is stocked with cold drinks—water, soda, bottled teas, juices. The second dispenses hot drinks, which fascinates me for longer than it probably should because apparently you can buy hot coffee from a vending machine now and I've been wasting my life standing in Starbucks lines.

The third one is snacks.

And not just regular snacks.

There are brightly colored packages covered in writing I can't read, boxes with cartoon characters on them, little bags of crackers, cookies, gummies, chocolate sticks, chips in flavors I can't begin to identify from the pictures alone.

Japanese, probably.

Maybe Korean.

Possibly Chinese.

Honestly, what the fuck do I know?

I press closer to the glass and spot something that appears to involve chocolate and strawberries.

Good enough for me.

Five minutes later, I'm carrying a hot coffee, two mystery snacks, and absolutely no actual dinner while wandering between shelves like I've just stumbled into my natural habitat.

I should probably go to the convenience store and buy real food.

I should probably go home and finish unpacking.

I should probably assemble my bed so I don't spend my first night in the new apartment sleeping on a mattress surrounded by cardboard boxes.

Instead, I pull a volume from the shelf and turn it over in my hands.

Then another catches my eye.

And another.

Oh, I'm fucked.