“On what basis?” I ask.

  I see her blink for the first time. Though briefly. Emptily.

  The girl then regains her unblinking, wide gaze, manic.

  “I was most fair in mi evaluation,” she says. “Do you doubt me?”

  Of course I do.

  Her lips part a little. An emotionless smile. Eyes turn hollow.

  “Of course I not,” I say, scared shitless.

  Was never an avid fan of rodents, if someone were to ask.

  “Everibodi starts from fifti,” she says. Lifts her hand from under the bnket and licks under her palm like it’s an ice cream.

  “Minus ten for being a coward. Minus twenti for being zi. Minus thirti for no boobs.”

  “But I’m a man?” I ask.

  “Yes, yes. You are. I hate men. Men are ugli,” she says.

  As a straight dude, I can half-rete.

  “So I am in the negatives?” I ask.

  “Not quite,” she says. “Minus five for abhorrent stile. All bck, seriousli? Do you have no life? Minus five for being a gss-wearing four-eyed nerd. Minus twenti for locking yourself in a room like a loser with no life that you are—”

  “Okay okay, hold on,” I say. Csp my shaky hands together. “Let’s just skip to the positives. You said seventy. So the good qualities must have overdriven the bad ones.”

  “Fifti. Minus ten for inabiliti to accept good criticism. Minus ten for being a spineless coward.” She pierces my heart.

  “But you already deducted ten for cowardice?” I object.

  “No. That was for regur cowardice, but you are a super coward, a spineless coward,” she insists.

  “Aniway,” she tsks. “Let’s begin our long and prosperous retionship on a good note.”

  “Plus ten for reading books.” She points at the dusted shelves. “Plus ten for being a nerd.”

  That makes absolutely no sense.

  “Plus ten for looking handsome. Plus thirti for having a kind heart. Plus fourti for accepting the contract. Plus fifti for having great taste.

  That makes sense. God bless Domino’s Pizza. The math doesn’t add up, but that makes sense.

  I nod to myself repeatedly. So she’s not that bad?

  “Minus ten for being a prideful spineless coward,” she says. “So we’re at forti now. Or fifti? I don’t know. I lost count. Just know you are trash.”

  So when do I get papers for divorce?

  With her eyes she smiles and shoots up with her pink earrings juggling and jiggling, unwraps the bnkets with a shake and two, wobbles and burps, takes a sit before my desk across from me, turns to me.

  Then crosses her legs, crosses her arms, like an Italian mafia.

  Is that what a slice of pizza does to a rat?

  “I made miself clear in mi message to you,” she says commandingly, licks the crumbs off her lips dictatively.

  The windows and the sunlight sheeting the white carpet separate us.

  “You accepted. Yet now you look all displeased. Did you not know the implications of a contract?” she asks.

  Implicashuns my ass.

  “No,” I say. “Will you care to expin?”

  “Nonsense,” she says. “But you don’t seem to be lying. Interesting.”

  Her hair dances just as mine does, easy to sway, covering half her face at the mildest breeze, the silvery strands barely reaching her shoulders. And she stares at me through them, unfazed.

  “Don’t call me a you. I have a name. Michiko. Just Michi is fine,” the rat says, presses a hand on her heart. “You see the color on mi pendant? It’s pink. That’s love. I am a Mirmidon of Love.”

  “So a magical girl of love?” I ask. “Does that mean each color represents different concepts?”

  “Yes and yes.” She toys with her nails, sighs. “The marriage contract is the part of the trial to rank up. I decided to fulfill it in a far nd because I love traveling and discovering new pces and learning new things. And bi fulfilling it, I will scram and let you rot here all you want.”

  “What’s the requirement for you to pass?” I ask.

  “For you to love me,” she says with a strain while lifting her hand as much as she can without leaving the chair. To grab a book. “Before it, I can’t leave this pce, wherever this is. There’s not even ani mana in the air. Not ani bit. Is this world truli magicless?”

  “You’re on Earth. There’s no magic,” I say.

  “Figures,” she huffs, having an awkward grab at the stack of Lord of The Rings without looking, the books almost falling on her head. I wish they did. “I have never heard of Earth. The magic has yet to spread here. But soleli from the fact that I could get here, it means the world is not far from its genesis. How did you even receive the contract?”

  “You know what? Never mind that,” she interrupts herself. Leans back and leafs through the pages of the book, half-gncing at me. “What’s your name? You’ve been asking questions non-stop. It’s mi turn.”

  “Dave,” I say.

  “Dave,” she says.

  She yawns. Rolls her eyes.

  No way she deducts points for my name.

  “Minus twenti. That’s the mest name I’ve heard like ever,” she burps. “I lost all mi interest.”

  But of course. I know my wife well.

  “Really sad to break it to you, but you won’t be able to complete the trial.” I smile lightly, eyes lowered.

  “Whi so?” she asks. “Did some chick break your heart?”

  “I only believe in love in oneself,” I tell her, raising a palm. “Chasing love from outside proves a ck of it inside. When you care for and accept yourself, you stop depending on others to feel whole. This is true love. As for yours, your understanding of love can be divested down to a chemical cocktail.”

  “Chemi what?” she asks, stupefied.

  “Chemistry.”

  “Chemistri?”

  “Chemistri,” I confirm.

  “Chemistry,” I reiterate. Point at a certain book above her. “You’ll figure it out. You may not believe me, but this is what it is, that I will never love you. What will you do, then? Kill me just like you said in your message?”

  “No?” she says, abandons Tolkien and rises for the book I pointed. “You are veri dense. Don’t you get ani jokes?”

  I do. My life is a joke.

  “Can you then not use magic since there is no mana?” I throw another question.

  “I can’t use elemental magic, yes.” She frowns as soon as she opens the accursed book that cost me long sleepless nights. “But I can use mi magical powers.”

  “Do I get a magical something for forming a contract with you?” I ask, not hopeful for any fruitful answer.

  “Yes,” she says. “You become a mirmidon, a magical girl.”

  Ah, yeah, sure. I become a magical girl. Wait. What? A what?

  A magical? A girl? A magical girl?

  I look down and check in between my legs. Still there.

  “That was a me joke,” I say, sigh in relief.

  “Not as me as your name,” she says, spitting, “and it’s not a joke like your name.”

  I blink repeatedly. This makes zero sense.

  “You officialli have zero points,” she notes.

  “Zero as in points or balls?” I ask.

  “Yes.”