“They say your dreams don’t even last three days when you’re a kid, you know?” The remark slips out after a sip of cloyingly sweet white house wine, and I notice how bitter I just sounded. Dammit, I’m drunk, I think as I swallow another mouthful of wine. My throat is so dry. Rika’s knife pauses, and she shoots me a disapproving glare. Her eyes are big and dark and intense, and once upon a time I fell for them. That’s why the warning in them now makes me flinch. “Meaning I’m still a kid? Or this your way of telling me to get a real job?” “No, I meant in general. Don’t think so hard about it… It’s, you know, like advice from your grandma. Just in case.” “Hmm…” Rika doesn’t seem convinced, but even so, she looks down and goes back to cutting her white sea bass. “What do you mean, ‘grandma’? You’re twenty-six,” she grumbles under her breath. She brings the fork to her mouth, dabs at her lips with her napkin, takes a small sip of wine, then eats another mouthful of fish. As I eat a forkful of my own fish and watercress, I push up the bridge of my glasses and steal a glance at Rika. The flame of the candle glistens against the olive oil on her lips in an oddly seductive way. Her slim fingers tear up some bread; she elegantly uses it to soak up some of the sea bass sauce, puts it in her mouth, chews for a while, then drinks more wine. She’s so used to this. I’m captivated, but at the same time, I feel a dull pain, as though someone has reached into the soft, moist place behind my ribs, near my heart, and is gently squeezing it. Come to think of it, it’s always been this way. No matter where we were, restaurants or concert venues or love hotels, Rika always seemed to fit right in. On the other hand, I never knew any of this stuff until I met her. Case in point, I’m just now learning that it’s okay to use bread to sop up the sauce on your plate when you’re eating at French or Italian places. I hook a finger into my necktie and loosen my collar just a little. No matter what I do, I always end up getting suspicious. I don’t want to think about it, but I can’t help it. She’s still in college, so who would have taught her about eating at restaurants? Probably a guy who’s older than me. Was it her ex, the one she said was six years older? I guess it could be one of the guests at the place where she works part-time. Or maybe the middle-aged guy who’s the director for her theater troupe. Was it before I started dating her, or after? “But how can you expect to make your dreams come true without putting a lot of thought into it?” she asks abruptly, just as I’m cutting into the veal main course, and it takes me a second to realize she’s continuing our earlier conversation. “…It’s not so much about putting thought into it. It’s more that whenever you talk about it, all I can see is how much pain it’s causing you. I know work and school are hard on you, but aren’t you a little too on edge? You started acting because you liked it, didn’t you? If it’s still hurting you…it makes me wonder.” Even I don’t know whether this is a jab at Rika or an attempt to smooth her feathers. The waiter comes by and pours red wine into Rika’s glass, then fills mine. I realize the rim of my glass is sticky and smudged with oil, while Rika’s glass is still clean. Something’s different about the way we’re eating. I take a big gulp of wine to disguise that prickle of shame and make myself smile. “Don’t push yourself too much. It’s hard to stick with anything if you’re not enjoying it.” “Here’s the thing about plays…” Rika’s face is expressionless as she slowly washes down a bite of meat with wine. “Our director once said that he’s never had a desire to find fun or happiness in the craft. I know how he feels. Of course I’d love to make a living as an actress, but at the end of the day, I want to look back on my acting and know I created something good. I want to find my own unique mode of expression. I’m sure I won’t be able to achieve that if I don’t push myself beyond my limits. I think everybody in my theater troupe is like that.” Looking back on her acting. Creating something good. Her own unique mode of expression. My theater troupe. Our director. The hand in my chest squeezes tighter. I hate this; maybe it’ll go away if I get more drunk. I tilt my glass, and an unfamiliar bitterness lingers on my tongue. I wish this were shochu. Another mouthful. My throat’s still dry. “…Must be nice, working so hard with all your buddies.” My sarcasm is finally too obvious. Right afterward, I mournfully think, Welp, so much for this date. To no one’s surprise, Rika is glaring at me. “I didn’t come here to fight, you know.” “You’re the one who started it.” “I did not. Just stop, seriously.” “You want me to stop? It’s been ages since I last got to see you, and you just…” You just keep talking about stuff I can’t relate to. But I really can’t say that, so instead I drink more wine. I can’t bring myself to eat any more meat. Dessert’s going to show up after this, too; how the hell am I supposed to pay for all this? “What? If you’ve got something to say, Shou, just say it.” “I don’t. Really.” “That’s a lie; you’ve been so passive-aggressive these past few minutes. We’re going to be living together, so I don’t want any misunderstandings between us, okay? I was really looking forward to seeing you today.” I come this close to saying, Then look at me. I buckled down today so I could leave work early, too. I’m the one who found this place and made reservations, and I’m the one who’s picking up the check. I want to hold on to this beautiful, arrogant college girl four years my junior; I want to passionately make my case to her, show her just how much effort I’m putting in to earning the privilege of dating her. But while I’m desperately repressing that impulse, another comment escapes my mouth. “Just thinking how nice it must be to eat on someone else’s paycheck while you chase your dreams.” Oh, I think hopelessly. I really should not have said that. I’m braced for her to cry or get up and walk out, but Rika only gives a small, inaudible sigh and looks down. She goes on cutting her veal into small pieces and slowly, wordlessly, putting them in her mouth. Every bite is like an accusation. Since there’s nothing else for me to do, I keep drinking that awful, bitter wine. She never asked me to reserve a pricey restaurant, I know. She never put her foot down and announced that she wouldn’t stand for a pub. I want her to see me as an adult, so I always make the reservations without asking her, and I always pick up the check on my own. The dryness in my throat refuses to go away. I first met Rika Teramoto two years ago. My coworker Tanabe asked me if I’d buy a ticket to a play from him, and I forked over ¥2,800 without giving it too much thought. Plays weren’t my thing, so I must’ve been bored. It was a Saturday, if I recall, and the place printed on the ticket was somewhere in Shimokitazawa. I went down a narrow stairway in a mixed-use building, doubting whether there was even a theater here at all, got my ticket clipped by a sullen receptionist, and went into the venue. The place turned out to be about the size of a classroom and about as gloomy. The stair-stepped seating area was lined with about thirty floor cushions with no space between them, and I spent the two hours of the play rubbing shoulders with total strangers. I don’t know if I don’t appreciate plays or if the play was just bad, but it didn’t seem the slightest bit interesting to me. Actually, to be honest, it was so boring, it almost killed me. The plot was something like “Lost Generation–era high school students barricade themselves in a classroom because society is unfair,” and I was genuinely surprised that such a tedious story even existed. But the young woman who played the lead made an impression on me. Wow, what a babe. Nice boobs and long legs. Watching her may be enough of a return on my investment. But my mental leering didn’t last long. At some point, the vivacity of this petite woman running around onstage had completely entranced me. The woman had so much energy that I started wondering where she kept it in a slim body like hers, and the way she moved wasn’t elegant so much as wild and desperate. When I told Tanabe my impressions, in a diplomatic way, he very kindly set up a drinking party with this leading lady. “Actress might not be the right word for what she is; I think she’s just a regular college kid who wants to be in theater. I haven’t met her, either, but you see a lot of girls like her,” Tanabe explained during our lunch break in a soba shop near the office as he chewed on a piece of conger eel tempura. Tanabe’s girlfriend had been in the group longer than the girl had, or something like that. Essentially, the spare ticket had changed hands several times and had made its way down to me. And that’s how the four of us—me, Tanabe, Tanabe’s girlfriend, and the aspiring actress—ended up drinking together in a private room of a Shibuya pub. I remember having trouble deciding whether to wear my suit jacket or not, so it must’ve been around the end of summer. It was essentially a mixer party at a slightly upscale place, the type where they arrange seasonal fish in bamboo baskets and have you pick what you want. But Rika Teramoto showed up in a very plain outfit—T-shirt, shorts, and wedge sandals. It was vaguely reassuring. “I’m Rika Teramoto. I’m from Osaka, but I moved to Tokyo last year. I’m in my second year at university now, and I’m in a theater group. Thank you very much for coming to our play the other day!” Rika bowed politely. Her speech was clear, but it still carried a trace of her home accent. I liked it. The second time we ate together, I invited her out one-on-one. We made plans to meet for the third time before that day was over. I don’t think it was even a month before I had switched from “Teramoto” to “Rika,” and she had switched from “Akizuki” to “Shou.” The suffocating humidity began to abate, the leaves on the trees along the streets were starting to change color, and by the time Rika had begun wearing a peacoat, we were lovers. Although we were in a relationship, I don’t know that I could have told you if it made me happy or not. I was head over heels for Rika’s strong-willed eyes and her lithe body, but whenever I was with her, I found myself constantly fighting a sense of inferiority I’d never even noticed before. Her theater troupe was not, as I had initially imagined, the grown-up version of a middle-school arts festival club. Everyone there was serious, aspiring to be a professional. The performances they held twice a year had to sell a certain number of tickets, they streamed their practice online once a month, and the troupe’s leader-slash-director sometimes wrote scripts for late-night TV and radio dramas. Rika herself had made guest appearances with other troupes and performed as an extra in indie films and commercials, and she sometimes modeled for photo shoots. I never would have heard of those films in my day-to-day life, the photos had been for local informational magazines that introduced small businesses, and Tanabe hadn’t been wrong when he said Rika wasn’t unique—still, as far as I was concerned, her world was the world of “show business.” She was barely an adult, and yet she’d come into contact with far more people, and had built up a greater variety of experiences, than I had in my years working. I’d graduated from university and picked up a marketing job, following the traditional path, while Rika’s world was teeming with the sort of people I’d never met. Every time I heard her gush about the events of “today’s shoot,” I felt a faint pang inside me. It was a complicated form of pain—a mixture of jealousy and inferiority and possessiveness and pride. “I’m home,” I mutter as I open the door to the apartment in the old housing complex. After dinner, I walked Rika to the Touzai Line platform with all my drunkenness and discomfort in tow, then returned to the JR station and boarded a train. Inside the Sobu Line car were rows of ads for the smartphones my company handles, and it depressed me even more. A soccer player with unnaturally white teeth was holding up the latest model with a ridiculous fake smile. After thirty full minutes in that train, I got off at my local station, walked another fifteen minutes back to my public apartment building, and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. By that time, I’d almost sobered up. I’d spent the whole way home grumbling to myself: “I’m done with this. I’m done. I’m done.” At first, I hadn’t known what I was done with exactly, but the more I complained, the more the words gave definition to the feeling. I just couldn’t handle it anymore—the jealousy toward some middle-aged theater troupe member I’d never even seen, the social requirement to act mature and understanding, the silent judgment from my boss for actually leaving the office on time so I could go through it all yet again. “Welcome back,” Mom calls from the kitchen. I change out of my suit and into a T-shirt, wash my face and hands, and go into the kitchen. She’s sitting at the table by herself, drinking shochu. It feels like we haven’t seen each other in a while. “Welcome back,” she says again, quieter this time, and my “Yeah” in reply feels cold and brusque. I don’t want to drink any more alcohol, but my hands feel empty, and I end up opening the fridge and getting a can of beer anyway. I open the pull tab and sit down across from Mom. It’s blindingly obvious that we’re both in bad moods. After a long and unnatural silence while we nurse our drinks, it occurs to me that she’s even less emotionally mature than I am, so I try to draw her out. “How’ve things been lately?” “Well, I’m drinking alone at home, so take a wild guess.” I have no idea whether it’s work or romance or something else that’s giving her trouble, and I grope around at the back of my memory. “Uh, what was his name again? Shimizu?” “…Shouta, have you ever made the girl pay on a date?” “Well, sometimes. My salary’s not that high,” I tell her, but the truth is, with Rika, I always pay the whole bill. Partly because she’s a student, but mainly to show off. “Don’t lie. You’re so old-fashioned about this stuff.” She points out my fib with incredible ease, which only makes my mood worse. Instead of answering, I gulp down more beer. “Shimizu says he’s been having some trouble with work lately. I think it’s the times being what they are, but for about a month now, I’ve been covering the cost of our meals and taxis.” I’ve never met him and never want to, but Shimizu’s the name of my mother’s boyfriend. Ever since she and my dad split three years ago, she’s been living the life of free love, and as far as I know, Shimizu’s her fourth guy. She’s forty-seven, and he’s twelve years younger, a freelance designer or something like that. I don’t know much about him, but I am impressed. He’s been going out with a divorced, spoiled woman with kids who’s twelve years older than he is for a year now. On top of that, at thirty-five, he’s got the woman paying for their dates. You’re really something, Shimizu. That’s not sarcasm or anything like it; I’m genuinely impressed. After she’s run through some gripes about her job and Shimizu, Mom seems to be feeling better. “How about you, Shouta?” she asks. “Are you doing well? You came home smelling like wine; were you on a date?” Setting an impromptu beer snack (salted fish guts on tofu) in front of her, I think for a little before I answer. “Yeah, about that. I’ve decided to move out.” “Whaaaaaaat?! When? Why, what for? By yourself? Who with?” “We’re still looking for a place, but it’ll happen by the end of summer. We’ve got a bunch of reasons. This place is a little far from work, for one thing, and it’s pretty pathetic to keep living with my mom forever. Plus, I bet Takao could really use a room of his own already. I’m thinking of living near Gokokuji or Iidabashi or somewhere around there with my girlfriend—Teramoto, from Osaka? I’m pretty sure I told you about her before. I’ll introduce you one of these days.” It’s not a lie that we’re considering moving in together, but we’re nowhere near ready to introduce each other to our parents. Saying something like that to my mother at all, I was probably motivated by more than a little spite. She doesn’t give me much of a reaction, though, and when I check to see if she’s okay, the regret is instant. There are tears in her eyes, and she’s biting her lip. Goddammit. “What’s so pathetic about living with your mother?! You’re paying for yourself and helping with the rent! There’s absolutely no reason to be embarrassed!” Mom yells at me out of nowhere, so forcefully she might as well have hauled me up by the shirtfront. I blew it. “No, like I said, it’s a pretty long commute to the office from here.” “It’s not much closer from Gokokuji!” “Yes, but with her university—” “She’s a student?!” “Didn’t I tell you before?” “That’s the first I heard of it! You can’t even justify that to her parents!” “I’ll call them.” “Enough!” Mom stands up, cutting me off. “Then I’ll go live with my boyfriend, too!” With that, she snatches up my half-empty can of beer and chugs it. After my mother has drunk herself under the table with tears in her eyes, I help her over to her futon. My little brother went to bed ages ago; I step over him softly, so as not to wake him, climb into my own futon, and finally heave a deep sigh. It’s past two in the morning. What a long waste of a night. Tomorrow morning, I have to head over to a client in Chiba. The more I try to fall asleep quickly, the less sleep wants to come. I’m sorry about yesterday. I know you made time when you were tired, Shou, and I hate that we didn’t have much fun. The food was fantastic. Let me treat you next time. The text from Rika comes while I’m on a Keiyou Line train, returning to my office in Shiodome from the visit to my client. My knees go weak the moment I read her kind words, and I very nearly sit down on the floor. Right now, I’m on my way back from learning our client chose a competitor’s cloud-based software over ours, and half a year’s worth of work has gone down the drain. I’m in my fourth year in sales for a telecommunications company, and that client is my treasure, the very first customer I won all on my own. They’re a major all-around retailer with supermarkets and convenience stores nationwide; selling our product through them wholesale would have been a spectacular achievement for the entire sales team. Even our ever-cynical section chief has been unusually enthusiastic about it, and he’s been backing me up and pushing this deal even among my own colleagues… And now that deal has fallen through. “We have a very strong relationship with N. Corp, you see. We thought your company’s proposal might have enough advantages to outweigh it, so we stayed in talks with you, but it seems it wasn’t meant to be this time.” The bearer of the bad news was an oddly young manager, probably not much older than me. That was when I realized all the blood and sweat and tears I’d poured into this had been to help them negotiate another company down, and my vision literally went black. Rika’s text came at the perfect time, and I want to see her right away. I can’t tell her that I just wiped out at work, but if I could just see her face…if I could touch her hair, hear her voice… If only she were here. I squeeze the ceiling strap harder, and the image of a lifeline springs to mind. As I type out the beginnings of a reply, though, an e-mail comes in, and when I see the subject line, my pulse jumps. It’s the daily business results report. Sometimes in old TV shows, you see business bar graphs stuck to the wall; my company sends out a similar daily report that covers a few more angles. Gingerly, I scroll down through the text, looking at the column for CORPORATE 1ST SALES DEPARTMENT, 3RD BUSINESS CONTROL DIVISION, SALES GROUP 2: SHOUTA AKIZUKI. Twelfth place out of fourteen. Once I report today’s fiasco to my section chief, I’m going to be dead last. On top of that, I’ll end up dragging the entire team down. “You think you can just go out to dinner with a girl after this?” I mutter aloud. Before I know it, my desire to see Rika has wilted like a leaky balloon. I look down at the lifeless storehouses streaming past below the elevated track, up at the carefree blue June sky above them, over the sports program commercial that’s showing on the LCD screens over the doors. All of it is so ugly. “Akizuki, let’s take off for today. Wanna go watch Australia at that bar we went to that one time?” “…Australia?” “The final round of the Asian qualifiers. For the World Cup. The soccer thing?” “Oh…right. Sorry, I really do want to get these materials put together by the end of the day, so I’m gonna work a little more.” Tanabe’s attempt at sympathy is just embarrassing. As I’d expected, my section chief ripped me a new one for losing to the competition. One full hour, right in the middle of the floor, loud enough for everyone to hear. The chief will snap every once in a while, but he’s a fair guy at heart, and it’s rare for him to raise his voice that much. It was an unforgettable reminder of how serious my blunder had been. My whole body shook the way it had when I was a new hire, and if I hadn’t been paying attention, I would have teared up. By the time he hit me with the final blow—“It was my fault, too, for letting you handle this”—and released me, all my coworkers except for Tanabe had gone home. It was probably their way of being kind. I seriously wanted to quit then and there, but I kept myself focused on the display on my own desk, gritted my teeth, and concentrated on making up presentation materials for another client. Even if I quit, I had no other prospects or dreams to chase. At eight o’clock, a put-upon security guard shoos me out: “No overtime allowed today.” The streets are awfully lively for the hour, maybe because of the Asian championship or whatever it was. Crowds spill out to the street from every bar, and businessmen who’ve taken off their ties and students wearing the blue uniforms of the Japan team are screaming and whacking their hands together in semblances of high fives. God, just shut up. I want to eat something, but I’d rather die than watch the soccer match, so after wandering the streets for a while, I go to a stand-up soba restaurant. It’s a straitlaced chain place that always plays enka music, day and night. The only other customer is a solitary taxi driver—no blue uniforms. With some relief, I slurp a bowl of tempura-and-egg soba. Finally, my first meal of the day. My phone vibrates. I remember the reply I haven’t sent to Rika yet, but the text is from my brother. I’m making dinner. Are you coming home? What a conscientious kid. I’ll have some. Be home in under an hour, I reply briefly. Right now, I don’t want to talk to my coworkers or my girlfriend or my mom or strangers, but at least my much-younger brother isn’t so nerve-racking. “I’m home. I bought some croquettes.” I set them down on the table, fresh from the convenience store. I don’t have to worry about work or Rika any more today, I think, opening the fridge and taking out a can of beer. “Thanks. Dinner’s almost ready,” my little brother, Takao, answers. He seems to be cutting up vegetables; he doesn’t turn around. “Thanks. Where’s Mom?” “Ran away,” Takao says shortly. Dammit. Again? But with the thought comes a sense of relief. I open the pull tab. “Lucky us. We can go halves on the croquettes.” I take a swallow of beer and remove my necktie, saying exactly what I think. “She said not to look for her in her letter. Are you sure she’s gonna be okay?” “Just leave her. You know she’ll fight with her boyfriend and come back home.” Once he’s living with her, not even Shimizu can last that long. Takao has made chilled Chinese noodles for dinner. Double noodles. Great, I think, but I must have been hungrier than I thought. We polish off both the noodles and the croquettes in no time flat. One of the noodle toppings is bitter melon; the fresh, clean taste reminds me of the arrival of summer and is unexpectedly pleasant. This guy’s still in his first year of high school, but sometimes he gets surprisingly creative; he takes after Mom there. I must’ve taken after Dad. I’m dull as a rock. As Takao and I sit across the table from each other, drinking our after-dinner roasted barley tea, I tell him. “…I just settled on a place. I’ll be moving out next month.” “By yourself?” he asks me. “With my girlfriend.” Of course, we haven’t settled on a place yet. I told Mom I’d be moving out by the end of summer, and now here I am saying “next month.” Even I don’t know why I’m lying to Takao. Half past one, very late at night. I washed dishes for two, took a bath, went back to my room, thought about working some more, then decided against it. That was enough for today. I’ll be at the company tomorrow and the day after that anyway. I’ll be there next year, too, and the year after that, and ten years from now. I don’t need to do any more today; it’ll keep for tomorrow. When I get into my futon and lie down, I get another text. Whoever you are, you need to leave me the hell alone, I think. I’m frustrated, but I open it anyway. Hi, Shou. I’m at work right now. It’s started to rain a little outside. I guess the rainy season is almost here; it’s a little depressing, isn’t it? I’ll text you again. Sleep well. It’s from Rika. An image rises in my mind: She’s working in a female-staffed shot bar in the red-light district, wearing an outfit that reveals her curves and making drinks for soccer-hyped office workers. She works four shifts a week to cover her rent and theater group fees. I’m well aware that she lives hand to mouth. In my mind’s eye, I see her smiling under colorful lights, but I still can’t think of a single letter of the reply I should text her. Rika must be worried because I haven’t texted her back. I really should send something. Anything, I think, but the thought feels distant and disconnected. As I try to wring the words out of my brain, I start to hear the faint, hissing noise of a rasp. Our room is a traditional Japanese one, about a hundred forty square feet, with a sheet strung down the middle as a curtain. On the other side, Takao is still awake. Lately, my kid brother has been obsessed with making shoes by hand. The hobby is incomprehensible to me. Ordinarily, that sound would help me get to sleep, but today, it really grates on my ears. I can’t get my thoughts together. Fragments of words cycle around and around in my head, carrying an unpleasant heat. My little brother and his inexplicable devotion to shoemaking; Rika and her efforts to become an actress; my mother, who’s playing for keeps with a middle-aged guy who’s a full dozen years younger than she is. What the hell is wrong with them? I think venomously. They keep running hell-for-leather toward a goal they have zero chance of reaching, as if no other place exists. All of them. For the second time today, my eyes are welling with tears. What a shitty day this has been. I’m jealous. But I could never say that aloud. Sniffling quietly enough that no one will hear me, I desperately try to sequester the feeling in my chest. * * * When I was a kid, I hated rainy days. It was probably because I couldn’t use the athletic field or some reason like that. Ironically, that’s the same reason I eventually started to like rain. It’s like a conditioned reflex now; rainy mornings always put me at ease. In the morning, Takao is standing in the kitchen in his uniform, packing box lunches. Lately, he’s been making double portions. He’s probably got a girlfriend, but still, it makes me want to tease him. After all, it’s usually the girl who makes the lunches. Reaching in from behind him, I snatch a cherry tomato and pop it in my mouth. “Hey! Shouta!” he protests. High schoolers in love. I bet that’s a fresh, clean-cut romance. The thought brings with it another pang of jealousy. It’s been close to three weeks since Mom ran away. Frankly, the place stays neater without her around, and the apartment feels roomier, more comfortable. If Shimizu can keep her this long, he really is something. Maybe he’ll take her off our hands for good, I think, opening my umbrella and heading for the station. The throng of umbrellas are all flowing in the same direction, as if in a race. I work through my lunch break, munching on an energy bar instead. Ever since I let that client get away, my sales results have stayed at the very bottom of the heap. I don’t care where I stand in the rankings anymore, but I don’t want to be a burden to the rest of the team, and I also want to start earning commissions to fund my move. We haven’t talked about it in a while, so as far as Rika is concerned, the idea of moving in together is probably off the table entirely. I’m planning to keep quiet and move out anyway, though, even if I’m on my own. And I want to make sure my new place is big enough for two people. I don’t know myself whether I want to live with Rika, and if this keeps up, I get the feeling she’ll drift away from me. But all that aside, I just want to make enough money to keep up with the rent on an apartment for two. And all I can do right now to help make that happen is acquire more clients and propose appealing products. I’ve been working through every spare moment I have, and yet my results haven’t improved the tiniest bit. I remember this feeling from clubs back when I was in school—the more practice I put in, the more entrenched my slump gets. As I sip my iced latte—a gift from Tanabe when he came back from his lunch—I recall with some bitterness that my colleagues were particularly nice to me back then as well. Outside the window, the scenery blurs into the dark sky of the rainy season. When my desktop clock hits six thirty, I call out to the rest of the office, “I’m taking off now. Good night!” and leave. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the section chief’s surprise, but he doesn’t say anything to me. He knows I’ve been staying until it’s time for the last train lately, often alone. The rain is stronger than it was during the day, and it makes the city lights on the way to the station even gaudier than usual. “It hasn’t been that long since I last saw you, Shou, but you’ve lost weight. A lot of weight.” Looking up from the dessert menu, Rika sounds as if she’s given this a lot of thought before speaking. The slim gold bracelet I gave her a little earlier is gleaming on her wrist. Its small crescent moon looks just as good on her delicate arm as I thought it would—which may be why she feels farther away from me than ever. A beautiful moon, hopelessly out of reach. It occurs to me that maybe I should have gone with something else. “What, really? Bet it’s because work’s been so crazy lately… I’m sorry I haven’t been able to talk to you very much.” “Don’t worry about that! I’m the one who should be sorry; you’re already busy. You left work early, didn’t you? Was it okay?” “Oh, yeah, it was fine,” I answer on reflex. The waiter has just come back to our table again, and I order dessert for two. Today is Rika’s twenty-second birthday and, as it turns out, the first time we’ve gotten together since the French restaurant. Since it’s such a special occasion, I cut into my regular savings to buy a gift and make reservations at a restaurant with a bird’s-eye view of the lights of Nishi-Shinjuku. That alone burned through a month’s worth of my food budget. To be honest, before we met up, I would have said this birthday business was more of a nuisance than not, but seeing her again after all this time, I remember how dear she is to my heart, really. Rika is wearing an unusually formal dress, made of a deep-blue chiffon, with a black lace cardigan. Her makeup is more pronounced than usual, and she looks mature beyond her years. How have I not realized until now how many guys she probably has chasing after her? “I looked at a few apartments,” she says, while I’m wincing at the sweetness of the chocolate dessert. “What?” I ask. Between the distantly familiar song of the live jazz group and the babble of multilingual conversation around us, I wasn’t able to hear her well. “Last week. Apartments. I looked at a few of them.” Rika leans forward, repeating herself a little more loudly. “I have photos. Wanna take a look? “This one’s in Myougadani, built forty years ago. These older buildings give you more space, and see, the hall divides the rooms, so I thought it might be a good place for two people.” As Rika explains, she shows me photos on her smartphone, one after another. I give noncommittal responses, surprised that the idea of moving in together is still on the table. It’s a strange mixture of bewilderment and delight to learn I haven’t been abandoned. “The sashes at this one didn’t fit well. It might get chilly in winter, too, but…I dunno, it just felt so nostalgic.” I notice that this particular photo is of Rika standing in an empty living room. “…You went to see them with somebody else?” “Oh, yes. I asked someone from my theater troupe who’s done this moving thing quite a few times.” Rika answers as if it’s nothing. The yellow glow of the candle and the pale light of her smartphone illuminate her face like something out of a movie against our darkened surroundings, and suddenly it’s like I’m watching someone else live my life from somewhere far away. Was it a guy? Is he really a senior member of your theater troupe? I wonder as I watch Rika’s slim fingers swiping through photos and zooming in. I visualize the director or whoever he is, some guy I’ve never seen, aiming a camera at Rika in a wide, unfurnished room. And then the man is wearing the face of the young manager at my client in Chiba, or my section chief, who has the full trust of our team. I know it’s craven of me, but I’m helpless to stop it. Trying to curb the ache inside me, I swallow more wine. On our way back from the restaurant, Rika can’t stop talking at first. She talks about movies she’s seen lately and her classes at university, and it’s clear that she’s noticed my silence and is choosing harmless topics for my sake. But after enough noncommittal responses from me, Rika gradually speaks less and less. It’s a cool night for June. We’re walking huddled together under a single umbrella so the cold rain won’t get our shoulders wet. It makes the silence all the more uncomfortable, and when we walk into one of the underground corridors to the station, it’s a relief. I put a little distance between myself and Rika. When I glance over to the side, her slim shoulders look cold in her cardigan. At the bottom of the stairs that lead to the Chuo Line platform, Rika softly says, “I guess this is where we part ways, then?” It’s impossible to tell whether she’s saying good-bye or hoping for an invitation. No, this is too much, I think. Today is her birthday, after all. I’m treating her terribly, no excuses. I’m castigating myself. I know what I should say: I’m sorry. If you don’t mind, let’s go drink a little more. Ordinarily, the words would be simple. But no matter which bar I take her to now, I know it will just prolong the discomfort. I have no idea what I should do, so I speak without thinking. “…Want to come to my place for a drink?” “Huh?” “My mom’s not home today. I have a brother who’s in high school, but he’s pretty chill.” As I watch, the cheer blooms on Rika’s face. “…Are you sure?” “Yes. As long as you don’t mind.” “Yes, yes-yes-yes, of course!” She nods several times enthusiastically. I’m startled, both by my own suggestion and by the intensity of Rika’s response. “Don’t you think peanuts or something would be good to add?” “Peanuts? Actually, yeah, it might go. People fry cashews, after all. Let’s try it!” “In that case, Miss Rika, would you slice the leeks?” “Sure. Hey, this garlic soy sauce is pretty good. Did you make this yourself, Takao?” “Yeah, I always make it when I don’t want to waste the leftover garlic.” “Ooooh, that’s incredible! You’re incredible!” This is—What’s the word? …Surreal. I take another sip of sweet potato shochu. In the cramped kitchen at my place, Rika is standing beside my little brother, wearing my mom’s apron over her dress, while they’re cooking together and having a blast. While I was changing out of my suit in my room, Rika and Takao really warmed up to each other. They’re like siblings, chatting noisily together. Maybe it’s Rika’s candidness, or maybe it’s some side of Takao I never knew existed. It’s a sight I’ve never even imagined. Surreal. “Shouta, Rika says you’ve been going out for two whole years? Why didn’t you ever bring her home?” Takao’s tone is somewhat accusing as he sets small dishes out on the table. They’ve made a sort of stir-fry of little fish and leeks and peanuts. The grilled eggplant, celery-and-cucumber salad, and spicy stir-fried konjac are already on the table. “Shut up already. You’re in high school; shouldn’t you be in bed?” “Huh?! Nooo! Takao’s going to keep me company while I have my evening drink! Right, Takao?!” “I’m not gonna drink, though,” Takao responds, laughing. “What, you don’t drink at all?” Rika pouts, and Takao jokes back that he’s already over alcohol. What’s with this guy? I think. How is he so used to dealing with older women? It’s probably Mom’s fault. Worrying about what this kid’s going to be like in a few years, I reach toward a small plate with my chopsticks. I have complicated feelings about it, but all the snacks are delicious. And it’s that kind of “delicious” that settles in far deeper than any expensive dinner dissected by silver cutlery—although I quickly abandon that line of thought. No way that’s true. “Wow, a theater troupe. Has my brother been to see you?” “He only came that first time. Didn’t you, Shou?” Rika teases, her cheeks flushed from the shochu. We’re sitting around the table, eating beer snacks and drinking. My conscientious little brother is sticking to cola and barley tea, but he certainly knows how to make snacks that pair exquisitely with liquor. Every time she tries a new one, Rika is vociferously impressed. It makes it too easy to keep drinking. We’re far more relaxed than we would be if we were at a bar. Even though it still doesn’t sit quite right with me, I’m forced to admit that this is fun. “I bet Shou’s just not interested in me, that’s why.” “That’s not true. I’m just… I’m…” I hesitate. Rika’s gazing at my face steadily, expectantly. There’s no way I’m going to be able to explain it well, so I take a completely different tack. “Y’know, I still remember the first time I went to see Rika like it was yesterday.” “Huh? What, what? What did you think? I’m actually kinda scared.” I’m the one who’s scared, I think through the haze of alcohol. “You mean it was love at first sight?” Takao looks oddly serious. “Nooooo, Takao, that can’t be it! That was a weird play; I bet it freaked him out.” “…No. You’re right; it may have been love at first sight. Rika looked like she was from another world. I barely noticed the others.” “Wow, Shou, you’re really drunk!” Rika shrieks, embarrassed; her face is even redder now. “So love at first sight is real…” Takao nods sagely. I really am drunk if I’m saying all that out loud. Still, I am the one who’s scared, I think again. I’m scared to go see a play again and learn just how exceptional Rika is. I’m scared to discover that her world is too far from mine. I may be drunk and sleepy, but I can still feel it. Rika and Takao’s cheerful voices sound so far away. I’m on an athletic field in a drizzle, wearing a blue uniform and kicking a soccer ball. My feet seem to pull the ball to them, and I can move it any way I like. I feel as if it’s a part of my body, and I’m entranced by the sense of unity. I know exactly where the ball goes, what my future will look like. There’s no anxiety or doubt. Before long, Dad comes to pick me up, and the reassuring difference in our heights shows me that I’m in middle school. As we walk back home, I duck under his umbrella and out, kicking the ball. “I think it might have been my fault that my brother quit soccer…” “Shou’s never said anything about that…” I can hear faraway voices—Takao and Rika. I’m too sleepy to open my eyes, but the voices keep growing clearer and clearer. “I always thought he’d be a soccer player. I mean, he was in the soccer club from grade school on up; in high school, he went all the way to Inter-High, and he got a recommendation letter for soccer when he applied to university, too.” No. They’re not far away. I can hear the voices right next to me. I finally realize that I fell asleep at the table as we were drinking. “When my parents decided to split up, I was still in my first year of middle school. I still wonder if he chose to go to work instead so he could pay for my school and food and everything.” “Did Shou tell you that?” “No, he doesn’t talk about this stuff.” No. That wasn’t it. It wasn’t anything like that, I think, startled, feeling as if I might cry. I stopped voluntarily. I gave up; it had nothing to do with you. I say it over and over in my mind, my eyes still closed. I always loved soccer. Up until middle school, I was better than anyone else at school. Even after that, I played for keeps, and I chose to go to university on a soccer recommendation because that seemed like more fun than taking the exam like everyone else. In university, most of my teammates were far past my level, and my enthusiasm for it gradually cooled. By the time I was a college sophomore, I’d made the calm and rational judgment that an ordinary job would work better for me than going pro. My parents’ divorce had been a convenient excuse. I have to help shore up our budget, and my kid brother’s still in middle school, y’know? I’d explained it to my college friends and teammates, again and again, but I was pretty sure I’d never said it to my family. If ever I had anything like a talent for soccer, it expired when I was in my midteens at the latest, I’ve realized. And I was far from the only one. Some kids are just really good with a ball, better than you’d expect. It has nothing to do with effort—maybe they were born with the right instincts, or maybe they just grew a little faster when they were small. But as they get older, and height and muscle average out, that special something generally fades into mediocrity. That’s all it is. “Shou doesn’t usually tell people much about what he really feels. He is a sweet guy, though.” “He should be sweet to his girlfriend.” “Yes, he is. He’s much more mature than I am. He doesn’t really talk about his feelings, though, so I do get nervous sometimes. I know he brought up the whole ‘moving in together’ thing because he knows I’m short on money. I’m sure I’m the only one of us who’s in love. But…I guess that’s why today made me really happy.” “Well, sure. It was love at first sight, after all.” I can hear the two of them laughing. It’s embarrassing—I just feel pathetic. And it’s taken me this long to realize that the real reason I want to move is that I want Rika to quit her night job. The dull, constant pain in my chest slowly dissolves until it’s indistinguishable from the glow of the alcohol. Quit talking about this; now I can’t get up. I know it’s unfair. While I’m praying that they’ll leave the table soon, I fall back asleep. * * * I move out on a fine day in early August. At the crack of dawn, I rent a small truck, then drive my stuff and Rika’s to an old apartment facing the botanical garden in Bunkyo Ward. I was surprised at just how much of it was Rika’s, but when I complained, Takao and Rika joined forces against me. “This is totally normal for a woman!” they said. I secretly regretted ever letting them meet. But all that aside, we manage to transfer everything over before evening, thanks to Takao’s help. Now we can take our time unpacking. It’s already been nearly two months since the night we drank together. “Thanks for all your help! You wanna come eat with us, Takao?” “I’m sorry. I have to work today.” As I quickly unpack the most necessary toiletries from one of the boxes, I’m catching snatches of their conversation from the balcony. “Aww. I’ll be with him the whole time from now on, so at least for today…,” Rika says, and I shout at them. “I can hear you!” They laugh, reminding me how close they’ve gotten. Damn them. I smile a bit wryly, realizing I’m just a little jealous. Wonder if this was what Mom felt like. “Okay, see you later,” Takao says, stepping into his shoes. “Have me over for dinner sometime. Let’s cook together again.” “Sure. I’ll text you. Byeeee!” “Good-bye,” Takao calls, ever the gentleman. Any girl would be lucky to have him. And I mean it. We spent fifteen years sharing a room, and yet we don’t really know each other. In fact, we may understand each other better now that we’re living apart. I really will ask him over for dinner someday soon. He’s probably got his eye on someone now, and I’ll ask him about her. I’ll clear up his misconceptions about me someday, too. “What a cute kid,” Rika says with genuine warmth; she’s still beaming. “Did you notice his shoes?” “Huh?” “He made those himself.” “What?! You’re kidding!” Rika is floored, unsurprisingly. “They’re just moccasins, and they’re not the most stylish, but still. Shoemaking has been his thing for the past year or so.” “That’s so cool! I can’t wait to see where he goes with that, can you? Maybe he’ll make me a pair of shoes, too.” I laugh a little at Rika’s heartfelt enthusiasm. “I dunno about that. Goals change in three days when you’re a kid, after all.” It’s an opinion I hold even now. Takao might end up making shoes for a living; he might not. Rika might become a professional actress; she might not. One day, the winds may change and lead their hearts in different directions. It’s fine either way, I think. Whether you’re in your teens or twenties or fifties or above, there’s no clear break between one period of your life and the next. Your dreams and goals may constantly change shape, but they’ll always be with you. I’ve quit soccer to slave away in sales, but there was no clear moment when the former became the latter. “I’m not so sure. I get the feeling Takao’s something special.” On the cluttered balcony, Rika’s gazing at the sky with a warm smile in her eyes. The summer sun is beginning its trip down to the horizon, and the sunlight traces an outline around her profile. I follow her gaze to the little white crescent moon, hanging in the sky like a distant window, and the emotion hits just as hard as that awestruck wonder I felt when I first saw her in the spotlight. She’s still so far away.
Chapter 2
44 min read