Yumi and the Nightmare Painter(45)

These weren’t his friends anymore. This feeling he felt? It was false. He turned to go as the food arrived, brought by one of Design’s assistants. Two bowls for Tojin—no noodles, just extra eggs and pork—and a small one for Masaka.

There was nothing for Painter here. Why had he yearned so long to come back to this?

He walked off. Yumi gave him a panicked look as he did, but she was the one who had wanted to come down here and talk to this crew. She could do it without him. He wanted to be as far away as he could get—well, as far away as he could get without being yanked every time Yumi shifted. He made it to the bar, where he settled on an empty stool, facing away from the group.

Yumi joined him a few minutes later. “They said,” she told him softly, “I should come up here to order? Which means…tell them what food I want, right?”

He nodded.

“Is there a specific dish I’m supposed to have?” she asked.

“You pick any you want,” he said.

She drew in a breath, appearing nervous about that idea.

“Get a small mild pork with salt,” he said. “No add-ons. My guess, from what I’ve been fed in your world, is that you’d like something with a more…non-complex taste.”

“Thank you,” she said, then held up a sheet of paper. “Um…Masaka gave me this…”

It was a picture of a rabbit drawn with deep, cavernous holes for eyes and a stare that seemed like it wanted to swallow the world. Text underneath said, “Yumi reminds me of a cute bunny.”

“Oh dear,” Painter said (lowly).

“What?” Yumi asked, her voice rising.

“She likes you.”

“Is that bad?”

“Never can tell with Masaka,” he replied.

Yumi settled down on the stool next to his. “You were right,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t…know how to be a person, Painter.”

“Well, maybe I was wrong. Because you need practice.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t need practice to become something I shouldn’t. I’m not a person, Painter.”

He frowned, looking toward her. “Of course you’re a person, Yumi.”

“No, I’m a concept,” she said. “A thing, owned by society. I would be better as a machine, like that box that shows stories in your room. If I didn’t think, if I didn’t feel, I’d do my job far better.” She gazed downward, concentrating on the counter. “The nibbles at freedom I had today are dangerous, Painter. They taste of things I shouldn’t want. If I let them control me, then what? I still have to go back. Take up my duties again. Do you think maybe the spirits sent me here to warn me? Or maybe…to test me?”

“No,” Painter said. “I think they sent you here as a reward, Yumi. So that you could taste these things. Enjoy them, for once in your life.”

She glanced at him, then smiled. And suddenly he felt ashamed for his earlier joy at her discomfort. Perhaps he should have seen it before, but this was a person who somehow felt more isolated than he did.

He’d thought himself alone. He’d barely understood the word.

Her smile faltered, and she averted her eyes. “I wish I could believe you were right. But the spirit that came to me, Painter…it was hurting. It needed something. This isn’t a reward. It might not be a punishment or a test, but it’s no reward.”

“You could still enjoy it,” he said. “While you can.”

She glanced back at him. And instinctively, he reached his hand toward hers. She looked like she could use something to hold. But…then he stopped, because he couldn’t touch her even if he wanted to. He blushed, feeling foolish.

A bowl clattered to the floor.

They both jumped, turning toward Design—who had just left the kitchen. She didn’t seem to notice the bowl of soup she’d dropped; instead she stood there slack-jawed.

“Storms!” Design said, staring directly at Painter. “Nikaro? Are you dead?”





It took Yumi a moment to register what had happened.

This strange woman with the white hair and the outrageously full figure was looking at Painter. She’d called him by name.

She could see him.

Someone could see Painter.

“Design!” he said, leaping to his feet. “You can see me?”

“Um…” Design said, glancing to the sides at the nearby patrons, who were staring at her because of the dropped bowl. “Nope. Nope, can’t see any ghosts here. Mortals hate talk of ghosts.” She raised her eyes and spoke louder. “Just an accident with my clumsy, inefficient meat-fingers! I did not see a ghost. Everyone, enjoy the noodles!”

“Design!” Painter said, pained.

Design nodded toward the ground in an exaggerated way. Then she crouched to begin cleaning up the noodles. Painter rushed around the bar, and Yumi—feeling awkward—grabbed some bar cloths and did the same, kneeling down.

This left the three of them all out of sight but perfectly audible— except maybe Painter. This method seemed more suspicious to Yumi. But she didn’t know how normal people acted, so maybe she wasn’t the best judge.

“Painter!” Design said. “How did you die? Did you choke on an overly large noodle?”