Early October

     I grew up on this little fishing island. After years of my father beating the hell out of my mother, he killed her and then himself and I was sent here to grow up with Grandma. And when Grandma died when I was sixteen, my ties to this island were cut.

     But I didn’t leave.

     I decided to stay. I mean, hell, I had no real choice. I’ve never been anywhere. I’ve never been on an airplane, on a train, beyond the town on the shore…

     So that’s why I’m here. I’m not really sure why he’s here.

     He was in the war. The war I heard about occasionally on the only radio station you can get on this island. (And you can only get it for about two months… If you’re lucky.) The war that was probably mentioned in the newspapers, but since my life mainly revolves around this island, I never bother to read the papers.

     This war apparently changed the entire world. Apparently it had a huge affect on things.

     Bloody hell if I know. My life is this island. Life hasn’t changed here in years…

     I suppose if I wanted to imagine I was him, I’d say he was here to see a nice calm life. But I have no idea. It’s not really any of my business anyway. O

     ur island takes about an hour to drive around. Not that it’s that big, but you need a 4x4 truck to pull off successfully driving down the two rut roads. And that’s not even hinting at what it’s like in the winter.

     The town consists of two paved roads, one stop light, a school that I went to until Grandma died and then I promptly dropped out of, a gas station, diner, store, a few little shops that have been around since AC 100 for all I can tell, and a lot of old people. All the young people are leaving. The real world is out in space now, I hear. Now that it’s safe (as compared to before, I suppose) to live out there, people are heading that way in droves.

     Except for me.

     And him.

     He’s my next door neighbor. Well. As next door neighborish as you can get here. Basically it’s a ten minute jog down the beach, and you’re crazy if you’re willing to run on the beaches around here. They’re nothing but rock and ratty fishnets washed up from the waves.

     My house is a ratty old saltbox of a thing with tiny windows and chipped paint and dark wood floors. It’s cold in the winter and salty in the summer.

     The only reason I know that he lives here at all is that I like to walk a lot. And he’s usually out at the crazy times I’m out. He stands out there, by the water, screaming something at the top of his lungs, swinging a sword around, and generally doing something that I assume comes from the aftershock of war.

     He merely stared at me the first time. Now he occasionally says hi, or mutters something along that line. I don’t think he speaks much English.

     I’m not much of a socialite myself, but given that I would assume it would be hard to live on a tiny island where the people only speak English and you don’t would be hard, I get a big kick out of him. I like to bake, so I’m constantly making a little extra to walk over to him. He appears to like my apple pie.

     I saw him today. I made blueberry muffins and walked them over. He wasn’t out today. It’s cold out. Only crazy people go out in this weather. So, I walked up to his house and knocked on the door. I’d never been up to his house. It peeks out from the trees and is just barely visible. You have to walk up a ratty set of stairs to get there. The siding is old cedar and the roof is rusty tin. Actually, it looks just like my house.

     He opened the door looking rather shocked that he could hear knocking through it.

     “Ah. Hello Asia,” he said in his broken language. I think he likes my name. I don’t know where he’s from exactly, but it must be in Asia.

     “Hello Wufei,” I said, holding up the little basket. “I brought you some muffins.”

     “Ah. Muffins. Very good. Thank.”

     I smiled as he took the basket. He stared at me.

     “Ah. You want, in come?”

     “Oh, no! Not if I’m intruding!”

     “It cold is. Come in. Come in,” he pointed me in and shut the door. “I not know company coming. House messy.”

     I laughed at the oft said comment and looked around. He called this messy?!? The place was extremely simple. Only the most basic of furniture decorated it, except for the shiny shrine to his sword over the fireplace.

     “Ah. You see sword,” he said, pointing to it. “I very trained.”

     I smiled. “That’s pretty cool in a modern world like this.” He blinked while translating in his mind. A second later he nodded.

     “Ah yes. This sword, save me in the middle of technology many time.” I started to laugh.

     “Had to hack your way through a few computer wires, eh?” He blinked. I don’t think he understood.

     “Well, I don’t want to intrude. But thank you for letting me in,” I said, turning to the door. At that very moment, it started raining. We both stared out the window.

     “Oh no. Raining. You not walk back in that,” he insisted. “You stay here. We have lunch,” he lifted the muffins, still in his hands. “I have fresh made muffins!” He started to laugh as he walked out of the room. He looked like somebody who had never laughed before.

     I sat at the table while he pulled out mounds of random things from a refrigerator that you’d be shocked to know all that food actually fit in. There were only two of us, but he could have fed twenty.

     “I not used to company. Not know how much food pull out,” he smiled apologetically.

     “That’s okay, Wufei.” I smiled. God that’s a lot of food, I thought.

     “So, why you on island?” I blinked. “Well, I was raised here.”

     “Ah. And what you do?”

     “Um…” it sounded like a pushy question, but I figured it was just the broken English kicking in. “I do paintings and send them off to a gallery and they sell them for me. It’s actually turned out to be a well-paying profession.”

     He smiled happily as though this was his grand scheme for me. “That good,” he said. “And old how you are?”

     “Oh. I’m eighteen.”

     “Ah,” he nodded. “I nineteen.” That shocked me. Nineteen? How in the world had he been allowed to fight that young?

     “How come you’re here?” He looked at me.

     “Ah. Fought in war. Now war over. Come here.” I decided at this point he was Chinese. It was based on stereotypes and movies in which the Chinese person always looked down at their plate in just such a way when they refused to continue on with a conversation.

     “You have friends around here?” I asked.

     “Ah. Friends,” he looked up. “I have friends. Most in space. Few on Earth. Live other places,” he started to laugh again.

     “They speak English, no?” I grinned.

     “Yeah, well. This is America anyway. We don’t speak anything but English!” He really started to laugh at this.

     “I knew American. Crazy man. Laugh like… um…” he pondered this for a moment. “Idiot! He laugh like idiot!”

     “Oh yeah?”

     “Ah! And I know Japanese man. He be grumpy!” he suddenly made this most ridiculous face, after which he decided to take a drink from his glass and nearly spit out his water laughing at himself.

     “Latin guy,” he said, shaking his hands. “He wear hair like this-“ he held a hand over one eye. “He speak less than grumpy guy.”

     He was dying of laughter now and I couldn’t help but laugh with him, even though it was clear that he was reflecting on things he probably never found funny before.

     “Arabian boy. Very nice. Always complaining though.”

     “What about?”

     “Ahh! War! He complain about war and then go fight!” Wufei nearly fell off the chair laughing about this. He wiped the tears from his eyes and went back to eating.

     “And what story yours?” “My story? Well… I came here when I was ten. Started painting when I was sixteen. And here I am,” I held out my hands.

     “Ah,” he nodded. “Why you so sad?” I blinked.

     “Sad?”

     “Your voice,” he said, pointing to my mouth. “You say happy but it say sad.” I wasn’t really sure what he was talking about.

     “You not understand me,” he said, apparently blaming his English. “Try again: You not sound happy like you say. Maybe you try make other people think you happy?”

     How in the hell had he done that?

     “Ahh! I see I right by look in eye! Well, I not happy for long time either. I know what like,” he said smiling. “But why you not happy?”

     “I had an… interesting… childhood.”

     “Ah. But that not it. What real reason?” I blinked. I don’t know what look I got on my face, but apparently it was the equivalent of a stereotypical Chinese person glancing at their plate.

     “Ah. I see. You not want talk. I understand. Wufei not idiot American, no?” he laughed until he realized that I was American. “Oh no! Not mean that!”

     I started to laugh.

     “No no! I get it! Don’t worry!”

     He grinned. I don’t know a thing about him, but I do believe this is home for him.

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