Kuno would fidget and talk about what was happening on the inside at some religious organization—all secondhand info, too. His mother and wife had joined this group, and Kuno ended up eventually joining as well to get more work. He constantly complained about the leader, and Iwako quickly lost interest in Kuno, who probably thought he was doing her a favor by sleeping with her.
Ugh, I can’t deal with this…
Iwako, meanwhile, had already mentally checked out of their affair and soon ended things. Kuno was vaguely handsome with his wire-framed glasses and had sort of a bad-boy appeal, which he seemed aware of. Iwako liked that about him.
Nevertheless, no man’s charms were any match for Oba’s. Iwako was currently infatuated with him, head over heels. Oba worked for a lumber company in Kyoto, and Iwako used to travel to Kyoto from time to time to learn flower arrangement. That was where she met him, at a flower arrangement workshop. He had been with his wife that day.
“She dragged me here,” he said.
Oba’s wife wore glasses, and her cheeks were plump and beautifully fair. They seemed to have a loving marriage. This workshop was in Kyoto, a major city, so there were plenty of male attendees, young and old alike. Iwako kept going to Kyoto at her teacher’s insistence, but the workshop started getting in the way of her job, so she ended up dropping out. Iwako was never planning on teaching flower arrangement, nor was she interested in using a flower arranging diploma as a tool for marriage. She was only learning it for her own enjoyment, which was why she was free to start and quit whenever she wanted.
“You’re not coming by anymore? It’s going to be lonely without you,” said Oba. They’d exchanged pleasantries over the past year that Iwako had been attending the workshop: Good evening. Sure is hot today. Chilly out there, isn’t it?
That was the extent of their relationship, until…
“I hope I get to see you again,” Oba said tenderly to Iwako and immediately took her hands in his.
It was cold that day, but Iwako wasn’t wearing gloves. She thought his hands were extremely warm. His large, manly fingers wrapped around hers; it was the first time Iwako had ever experienced such a thing. No one had ever held her hands in theirs like this, even the men she slept with.
He’s so soft and gentle, she thought. Oba clung to her like some otherworldly mollusk. He’s perfect. The perfect fit.
Nevertheless, Iwako still didn’t consider having a relationship with him at that time. After a year went by, she suddenly got a call from Oba saying that he was in Osaka. He apparently had some business to take care of in Yokobori, so they met in southern Osaka. That night was when it all began. They started meeting up once a month or three times every two months after that but never spent the night together. This went on for a year and a half. There’s the storied cliché that “every day felt like a dream,” but that was precisely how Iwako felt.
Her public life as “the clerk from Yamatake Fabrics” involved years and years of going to the bank, calculating bills, and bookkeeping. There was another seasoned accountant in the department who was related to the CEO, so Iwako didn’t have any big responsibilities. She would even make tea for her coworkers and clean the shop. Reserved though she was, Iwako came across as friendly, so customers seemed to like her and consider her a nice lady.
Iwako always wore her hair the same way, used the same old bag, ate lunch that she made herself, and took the subway to and from work. She lived in a cheap, privately managed apartment in Sagisu and always bought one lottery ticket at a time, which the convenience store staff knew she put in her wallet. Iwako never seemed bothered by working overtime and would enjoy her favorite kitsune udon that the company bought for everyone, slurping up every last drop of broth. Once she was finished eating, she would collect everyone’s bowls and wash them in the breakroom; she was very helpful in every sense of the word. The fabric shop sometimes hired young women who would normally end up getting married or finding a different job, making Iwako the only permanent presence—a very soothing one to both employees and customers alike.
So when the bank teller called for the clerk from Yamatake Fabrics and Iwako responded, nobody was able to tell how rich her life was, that every day felt like a dream to her.
Whenever Iwako thought about making love with Oba (she preferred the term make love to sex like people called it nowadays because it seemed more accurate to their relationship), she felt as if she were drowning in a sea of melancholic joy. She became acutely aware of her womb, like how a person can feel the path a drink of cold water takes as it slides through their body. Just like how Iwako got her first period early, she started menopause early, or at least she’d forgotten when she’d last had her period beginning the year prior. And forgetting was the perfect thing for her. She’d even started forgetting that she used to menstruate at all.
Iwako secretly believed this was the best part of her life, so she didn’t get sentimental about menopause. In fact, she likely didn’t care one bit about having a uterus. Iwako was aware of her womb not as a physical object, but as female life itself.
It was the core to a woman’s life and proof of her being.
Every time she recalled the excitement that making love with Oba brought her, it felt as if a powerful, warm liquid drug was quietly passing through her body. She had no idea if they were going to break up, but the mere thought of having met such a wonderful man was enough to satisfy her. Of course, Iwako had no desire of ever marrying Oba, and she liked that he similarly had no interest in marriage. His relationship with his wife was going well, and he had balance in his life, which Iwako liked, too. She cared about him being married as much as she cared about people at the bank calling her the clerk from Yamatake Fabrics for the past decade or so. It didn’t matter to her. It was simply another part of her day, like transferring and depositing money.
“Can I open a window?” Iwako asked quietly.
Just like a kiss that could melt ice, Iwako had opened herself up to Oba but still felt shy at first whenever they met, as if she’d never done any of this before.
“There’s never any ‘to be continued’ with you. It always comes to an end, then the next time I see you, it’s a fresh start,” Oba had once told her.
Iwako herself wondered why she was like this, yet she nonetheless continued to struggle with the unbearable shyness that always came with seeing him.
“It’s cold,” Oba replied, but he still opened the paper sliding window for her.
Looming behind the cedar and cypress trees was Arashiyama. The sky was gray, and the trees changing color here and there on the dreary, dark-green mountain surface looked like the stripes of a tiger.
“We came to the coldest place in Kyoto at the coldest time of the year,” Oba said with a chuckle, but Iwako didn’t mind the chill. She remembered hearing something about sharpening swords with winter’s coldest water to make them shine like a mirror, and it reminded her of the chilly Kyoto winters: punishingly cold, but nonetheless lovely.
“Your tea…,” said the woman from earlier. It really did take her a long time to bring the tea, just like Oba said it would. She had steamed wheat buns with her as well.
After she left, Iwako said, “These are from Fuuka, aren’t they? The little shop on Sawaragicho Street.”
“Yeah, they’re the sweet buns they wrap in those bamboo leaves. Do you like them?” Oba asked.
“I love them.”