1 / 3 66 T O T O K YO BY TAYLOR D. SKOKAN Magda explained the movie plot, but I heard nothing as I stared at the fleshy spot where her nose used to be. She was still pretty, but there was no denying that the nose had improved things. I nodded along, wondering how I’d look without my nose. She leaned in, placing a cool hand on my knee. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, why?” “Is it that bad?” she asked. “What?” She covered the center of her face with a hand. “What? I hardly noticed.” “I’m going to have it fixed.” “It’s fine.” “Hopefully next year,” she said. “It’s just cosmetic, thankfully, but it’s awful.” A woman with half a face at the next table shifted in her seat and leaned into her beet salad. “Does it hurt?” “No. Not really. Just feels stuffy.” “That’s good.” We sipped at the last of our lattes in silence. “Are you sure you still want to go?” I asked. “There’s a good place just around the corner?” “No. Why?” “It’s just far.” “We might as well do it right. This is a big deal.” We walked the few blocks to the teleport, Magda’s sinuses making a throaty click as she breathed through her mouth. At the station, passengers spilled from the propped double doors and onto the sidewalk in mirrored, snaking queues. As we stepped into line, an attendant approached. “Traveled with us before?” he asked, extending a flyer filled with colorful graphs. “Yes, thank you,” I said, waving away the flyer. “And you, miss?” He looked up at Magda. “Oh, you must be a VIP with us.” “Yes,” she replied, growing flush. “Wonderful. Right this way to the VIP lounge.” He motioned to another entrance, its doors closed and smoked an obsidian black. “We’re together,” Magda said. “Then I guess it’s your lucky day,” the man said to me with a smile, peeling two “VIP” stickers from a roll. “Please.” We made our way to the VIP entrance, stepping over familiar flyers offering assistance in Understanding Your Personal Risk Assessment and slowing behind a man with a cane who had been peeled from the queue by a smiling attendant moments before. Inside, we were greeted with a tray of disposable, plastic champagne flutes filled with a flat, pale liquid. The hobbled man balanced his cane beneath one arm and took a cup, which lifted from its sticky tray with a quiet snap, like the click from Magda’s shuttered nasal passages. “Welcome home, VIP,” the signage read, in a tasteful, curling font. An attendant approached with an armful of tablets. “Welcome,” she said with a perfected warmth. “Traveling together?” “We are,” I said, gesturing to Magda, whose eyes wandered nervously. “Wonderful. Right this way.” She led us through rows of bodybleached lounge chairs. “And where are you ladies headed today?” Magda, head tilted downward, appeared not to hear. “Tokyo 449,” I said. The attendant gasped. “So jealous. Special occasion?” Magda remained silent. “It’s my birthday,” I said, sheepishly. “Ah! Happy birthday!” Arriving at two empty seats, the attendant No. 125
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