I recalled the evening she last stopped by my lodgings when we had our final talk. I remained the perfect gentleman throughout the encounter. At its conclusion, I shook her hand wordlessly, and the two of us parted ways.
After she left, I sat in my four-and-a-half-mat room, dazed and directionless. After some thought, I decided that a typical man in my situation would proceed to get dead drunk. I resolved to be typical for once and grabbed some alcohol.
A few drinks in—and much to my surprise—I found I was rather enjoying the typical way of going about things. I sent a text to Shikama detailing what had occurred.
When his response arrived, it read:
If we assume that happiness is a finite resource, your misfortune necessarily creates a surplus elsewhere in the system. I, of course, intend to locate that surplus and claim it for myself.
I took another great gulp of liquor and cackled at my compatriot’s response. He truly was a great man.
A few more drinks, and I felt I’d sprouted wings. I began to wonder. Where had I gone wrong?
Of course, try as one might, it is quite impossible to have a productive search for answers when sequestered in a floating castle of inebriation. Far from providing answers, my efforts were thrusting me deep into a maze of confusion.
Was it because of the Christmas gift—that solar-powered maneki-neko? Was it because I’d insisted she try the eel liver based only on my own preference—and her subsequent case of awful red welts? Was it because I never managed to get through the ten quires of Uji, and she thought less of me for it? Was it because I introduced her to the Tower of the Sun? Or…? Or…? Or was it because I was simply so great that she could never hope to understand me?
I remained awake all night, taking sips of liquor here and there until just before dawn. Around five in the morning, I decided to head out. I wandered the town, indifferent to the piercing cold. I stopped at a twenty-four-hour beef-bowl restaurant to fill my belly.
As I passed through the still-dark neighborhoods, it occurred to me that, really, all this meant was that I’d gone back to my prior state. It was no great calamity. I needn’t think myself thrust into the depths of misfortune or loneliness.
I was no longer obliged to stay attentive to her feelings or to have my own moods driven by hers. I’d not have to endure the quips she made when she did not care for something I’d done. I would no longer suffer the unruly urges of my second head. And I’d no longer have to arrange my schedule or set aside time for mutual outings.
I was now free in the fullest sense of the word. I had cast off the fetters of our relationship and could finally return to being my true and honest self. Surely, I would soon recover from the state of mental disarray that is love. In truth, this turn of events was quite fortunate.
In the face of heartbreak, the common man envisions himself the hero of a tragedy. He stumbles out into the pouring rain, lamenting his cruel lot, even when in truth his love was no grand story for the ages. He puts his disgrace on display for all the world to see. Oh, what folly!
I, for one, would not allow myself to sink to such a state.
I was churning those thoughts over and over, still walking the early morning streets, when snow began to fall silently from the deep-indigo sky. I stopped, lolled my drunken head about a bit until I managed to angle it back, and stared at the heavens. Frosted fragments fluttered down one after another, alighting on my flushed cheeks.
There had been a night like this, two winters ago.
We’d been walking outside when the first snow of the season began to fall. I saw that some snow had settled on her bangs. I reached over and gently brushed it away.
It had happened so smoothly. So gracefully. And—not to sing my own praises—it had seemed to me quite the thoughtful gesture.
Yes. I could still picture her standing in the endlessly falling snow. The memory was so vivid it was almost as if she were here with me now.
But I would not allow myself to be swept up in the saccharine intoxication of nostalgia.
I swore it to myself. I would not succumb.
I continued to walk the early morning neighborhood under the falling snow, squeezing myself, trying my hardest, until finally I had to surrender.
Just today, I decided, tears welling in my eyes.
Allow me to dwell upon the past, just for today.
✦ ✦ ✦
I stepped off the Eizan and into a meadow bright with spring. The Tower of the Sun was there, just beyond the trees. I saw a figure in the distance—a tiny mote bending back with all its might to take in the full height of the Tower.
I strode across the crisp grass, aiming for a spot at her side. The refreshing scent of green filled the air, and the springtime breeze was cool upon my cheeks. All was quiet. It was the type of calm you only find at the ends of the earth.
✦ ✦ ✦
Of what transpired next, I have no intent to write.
I’ve no need to, dear readers, for my tale ends more or less just as you’ve imagined.
✦ ✦ ✦
Somehow, in some way, they must be fundamentally mistaken.
And I suppose that I, too, am most likely in the wrong.