Accidentally become a father-Chapter 35: The Center of the Storage System

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I had assumed the clothing store would be the hardest part of the day. I was wrong. The moment we stepped out onto the sidewalk, I realized the real challenge was just beginning.

The stationery store was two doors down from the clothing shop.

The door opened with the light chime of a small bell as we walked in.

The shelves here were packed much tighter.

The colors were far more aggressive.

Clear plastic. Glitter. Animal characters with smiles that were just a little too wide.

Yuna stopped dead in front of the very first shelf.

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"I’ll start with the pencil cases," she said.

"Why start there?"

"It is the center of the storage system."

"Sounds like a filing cabinet."

"That is its function."

She stepped closer.

Rows of pencil cases hung on display.

Single-compartment models. Double-compartments. Trifold. Magnetic. Double-zippered. Transparent. Patterned.

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Yuna took down a plain blue one.

Opened it.

Closed it.

Pulled the zipper.

Tested it again.

Put it back.

She picked up a transparent model with little specks of glitter inside.

Gave it a little shake.

The tiny grains drifted like fake snow.

She watched it for just a little longer than necessary.

Then she looked at the price tag.

Put it back.

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I stood beside her, hands in my pockets.

"This is harder than picking out an apartment," I said.

"The pencil case determines study efficiency."

"You’re only in fourth grade."

"It’s still important."

She picked up a two-tiered model decorated with tiny rabbit characters.

Opened it.

Inside, there were little slots for pencils, pens, and erasers.

She touched the slots, one by one.

"The structure is good," she muttered.

"Are you interviewing it?"

"No."

She compared three models at once.

Her eyes darted back and forth.

Her hands took turns opening and closing them.

Ten minutes passed.

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I shifted my weight from my left foot to my right.

"The clock is ticking," I said.

"I’m almost done."

That was five minutes ago.

She finally settled on a plain navy-blue model.

"This is neutral."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Her hands stopped.

Her eyes flicked to another side of the shelf.

A cream-colored pencil case with a small embroidery of a cat holding a piece of bread.

She didn’t grab it right away.

Just looked.

Then looked back at the blue pencil case in her hands.

Then back to the cream one.

She took it.

Opened it slowly.

The inner lining was a soft pastel.

She closed it again.

Checked the price tag.

Fell silent.

Put it back in its place.

Picked it up again.

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I observed without comment.

She held her breath for a split second.

"...Functionally, they are the same," she said quietly.

"Yes."

"This one is more expensive."

"Yes."

"The blue one is more rational."

"Yes."

She was still holding the cream one.

Her hand simply wouldn’t set it down.

"If you pick it up for a third time," I said, "it’s no longer a matter of rationality."

She froze.

Looked at me.

"I was just comparing them."

"You’ve already compared them three times."

She stared at the pencil case.

Then, with a swift motion—

put it back on the shelf.

"I’ll take the blue one."

"All right."

She turned away from the shelf, gripping the plain blue case tightly. Too tightly. She had won the battle against her own desires for the sake of logic, but looking at her stiff shoulders as she walked away, I knew the war was far from over.

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