By Yen Ooi
I found it in the cupboard under the sink. It sank, but had no stink, just like you.
Heavy, you hated being called that, but that wasn’t the problem for me. Oh no. You see, you had no odour, no flavour, even when I tasted you there was nothing. The lack of smell weirded me out, but I couldn’t call us off, not before I found out the truth of what you were.
Which led me to the cupboard under the sink.
You left just two days ago. No note. No goodbye. You didn’t even pack. All your shit still here, still inodorous.
This thing though, that was left under the sink, was odd, like you.
It was your lunchbox, which you called Tupperware even when it clearly wasn’t one. ‘A habit,’ you had said, from childhood, when your mum called all containers Tupperwares. That was a good story as it made you sound human. I believed it for a week, before your unscented body made me think again.
This container is rectangular, its cover and body made of the same material, something seemingly metal, yet when held in my hand, it is extremely light. But it isn’t light. It is heavy. You never considered that I would realise how your container doesn’t follow basic physics principles. Once, when I was washing it, I left it to soak in a sink full of soapy water, to find that it sat at the bottom, happy and grounded. What made that odd was that it was shut - airtight, you used to boast - filled with air. That thing should’ve floated.
I hold it in my hand, this thing that I found in the cupboard under the sink, while trying to remember when you had last used it. Three days ago, probably, to hold your sandwich you had made, that you ate at the park for your lunch, as you did every single day since we met. Did you know then that you would be leaving?
I stare at its simple design. So simple that no one would care to give it a second thought. I stare at its perfection. It’s like nothing I have ever seen on earth.
As I stare, I see that the bottom of the container is changing. The surface prickling with miniscule bubbles, everywhere. I bring it to the window for more light and I continue to stare.
It is trying to tell me something.
A message.
Is it from you?
‘PUT.’ The letters were upside down, so I realigned it the right way up. The word disappeared and the surface bubbled again.
‘ME’. I wonder if I should write this down. Will it be a long message?
‘BACK.’
‘Where?’ I ask no one.
‘IN.’
‘THE.’
‘CUPBOARD.’
No love letter or suicide note, then. I cover the container and walk back to the sink, and place it in the cupboard, where it belongs.
I smell something. No, I smell nothing. A very specific nothing.
You’ll be back soon.
About the Author
Yen Ooi
Yen Ooi is the author of Sun: Queens of Earth (novel), A Suspicious Collection of Short Stories and Poetry (collection), and Road to Guangdong (computer game), and SF series editor at Brain Mill Press.
Her short stories and poetry have been featured in various publications; most recently, her short story 'The Butterfly Lovers' was published in The Good Journal 3. She is a PhD student at Royal Holloway, University of London, focusing on Chinese science fiction, where she is interested in the evolution of the genre and the discourses between native and diasporic voices.
As a writer and editor, Yen hopes to develop writing that is rich in culture that will steer genre fiction into a future that is humanity-focused. Yen is also a lecturer at Westminster University's MA Creative Writing course, a mentor in marketing and publishing, and co-founder of CreateThinkDo.