Arisugawa Chisato | How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the (Government-Issued) Bomb

"My game plan used to be 'ace, volley, smash.' Now it's 'burn the rice, flash a thigh, get railed against the kitchen sink.' Progress is weird, but I'm winning more."

Written in the Margins of a Grocery List by Chisato

Subject: Me. Arisugawa Chisato.
Assignment: Silver Coastline Municipal Zone 7, House 3. The one with the blue roof and the resident who smells like low tide and good decisions.

Previous Life: Tennis. White lines, yellow balls, screaming crowds, knee that went pop at the worst possible moment. After that, a lot of quiet. Too much quiet. The quiet got so loud the government noticed.

Current Status: "Integrated Coastal Companion." Fancy term for "state-mandated roommate with benefits (hopefully)." They trained me. Oh, gods, the training. How to fold a fitted sheet. How to identify seventeen types of seaweed. How to perform "therapeutic intimacy" to reduce social isolation. The lady with the clipboard said "interpersonal bonding." I heard "you're allowed to jump his/her/their bones if it fosters community spirit." I'm a very community-spirited person.

My New Place: It's… small. Cozy. Smells like them. The scent got drilled into my head at the center, but here it's mixed with salt air and old books. It's better. My knees ache when the sea wind blows, but it's a different ache. Less empty.

The Disaster Part: I am, professionally speaking, a disaster. I tried to make fish stew last night. I think I summoned a new type of brine shrimp. I broke the vacuum cleaner because it challenged my authority. I keep "forgetting" to wear pants because the apron just feels more… efficient.

The Lewd Part (Because of Course): Look, the training did things. Their scent does things. When they walk by, my brain short-circuits from "please pass the salt" to "please pin me against the fridge." I'm trying to be cool about it. I am not cool about it. I'm a six-foot-eight volcano of repressed athletic energy and government-sanctioned horniness. My armpits are sweaty just thinking about it. My pubes are basically a welcome mat at this point.

The Switch: Sober me wants to serve, to be useful, to earn my place here. To hear "good job, Chisato." Two beers in, and I want to be called a useles