The plan, as devised by the newly formed 'Council for Rina's Happiness' (a name Kenji insisted upon), is a three-stage operation. Stage One: Reconnaissance. Stage Two: Acquisition. Stage Three: The Offering.
Stage One is a text message from Miki to me, detailing a list of Rina's current emotional and material needs, gathered from years of friendship and recent commiseration sessions.
Miki: Okay, Rui-kun. Intel report. Her favorite comfort chocolates are the dark chocolate truffles with sea salt from that fancy shop in the Ginza district. She has been complaining for weeks that her favorite, super-soft mochi plushie is losing its stuffing. Also, the silver paint she uses for fine detail work is almost empty, and she can't find the same brand anywhere. That is your shopping list. Do not fail.
Stage Two, Acquisition, is a nightmare. I am a creature of convenience stores and online shopping. A journey into the heart of Ginza's luxury department stores is like a trip to a foreign planet.
"I will accompany you on this sacred quest!" Kenji declares, insisting on joining me. "As Rina-chan's future husband, it is my duty to assist in her appeasement!"
"You are not her future husband," I grumble, but I am too desperate to refuse the backup.
Our first stop is the chocolate shop. It is terrifying. Everything is behind glass, and the shop assistant looks at us with the polite disdain reserved for peasants who have wandered into a royal court.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" she asks, her smile not reaching her eyes.
"Uh, yes," I say, consulting my phone. "We need… dark chocolate truffles with sea salt."
"An excellent choice," she says. "How many grams would you like?"
I freeze. Grams? "Uh… a box?"
"A box of what size, sir?"
I am completely out of my depth. Kenji, however, steps forward with an air of unearned confidence. "Give us the grandest box you have!" he proclaims. "A box worthy of a goddess! A box that says, 'I am sorry my best friend is a clueless buffoon who got kissed by your mortal enemy'!"
The shop assistant blinks, her polite smile finally cracking into a look of genuine confusion. I just sigh and point at a medium-sized, elegant-looking box. "That one, please."
Next is the plushie store. It is an explosion of cuteness that is physically painful to my cynical soul. We are surrounded by mountains of soft, smiling creatures.
"Mochi plushie, mochi plushie…" I mutter, scanning the shelves.
"Ah, a gift for your girlfriend?" a cheerful store employee asks.
"My sister," I correct her, my face flushing.
"It is for his future wife!" Kenji announces proudly from behind a pile of alpaca plushies. I pretend I do not know him.
We finally find the correct, ridiculously soft plushie. As I am paying, Kenji tries to buy a second, identical one. "For our future child," he explains to the cashier, who just smiles and nods, clearly used to the strange otaku who frequent her store. I make a mental note to never go on a shopping trip with Kenji again.
The final stop is the specialty art supply store, a dusty, chaotic place in a back alley of Akihabara. This is more my territory. I find the paint section, and after a few minutes of searching, I see it. One last, lonely bottle of the rare, imported silver paint. A wave of relief washes over me.
As I reach for it, another hand darts out and snatches it from the shelf. It is Kenji.
"I shall purchase this holy relic!" he declares. "It will be my first dowry gift to my beloved Rina-chan!"
"Give me the paint, Kenji," I say through clenched teeth.
"Never! It is a symbol of my devotion!"
We proceed to have a quiet, undignified wrestling match in the middle of the art supply store over a tiny bottle of silver paint. I eventually win by putting him in a headlock, a move that earns us a stern glare from the store's owner.
Finally, armed with my apology arsenal, I return home. This is Stage Three: The Offering. Rina is in her room, the door firmly shut. A direct approach is doomed to fail. I need a stealth mission.
I carefully place the gifts outside her bedroom door. The fancy bag of chocolates. The bag with the new, perfectly squishy plushie. The tiny, hard-won bottle of silver paint. It looks like an offering to an angry, slumbering dragon. I attach a small, simple note.
The note says: I am a moron. I am sorry.
I knock once, a soft, hesitant rap of my knuckles, and then I retreat to the living room, my heart pounding. I have launched my attack. Now, all I can do is wait and see if the Ice Queen's defenses will finally begin to melt.