In an effort to restrain his agitated emotions, he reached into his pocket and squeezed the box cutter by its handle. The feeling of its cold metal against his skin calmed him, as if he were a babe and the knife were his mother’s breast. The sensation of the metal traveled across his skin and through his body, reaching into the depths his mind.
The man smiled.
Without even realizing it, he stopped caring about the other fans around him. The only ones in the event hall were him and Yuma—at least that’s how it felt, as his fantasy subsumed all other thoughts in his head.
When she finished singing “Lariat of Love,” Yuma returned to her green room with sweat on her brow.
Bando was there waiting for her, a cold glass of soda in hand. “You did great!” he said. “The crowd was really into it.”
Yuma accepted the glass of soda and downed it in a single go. Her cheeks flushed in exhilaration, she said, “That was amazing. It was like a rock concert out there.”
Bando said, “All that’s left is the handshake session, and we’ll be done here.”
Yuma nodded deeply and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her blouse.
A little table and a cushioned folding chair waited on the stage. The set made for a rather dreary locale, but that was par for the course for these kinds of events.
Dressed in her street clothes, Yuma climbed the three or four steps to the stage, sat on the metal chair, and looked out at the room. It was the same as always.
The mostly teenaged boys who had been passionately waving their arms for her song now obediently sat in their seats waiting for the chance to shake hands with her.
To Yuma, it was beautiful, but at the same time, absurd. She couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle.
The shrill-voiced woman emceeing the event announced, “We’ll now begin the handshake session. Guests with tickets numbered one through ten, please line up at the stage.”
The elephant-eyed man watched nothing but Yuma on the stage. He wondered how much it pained her to have to shake all those other men’s hands.
But worry soon wormed its way into his fantasy. What if she was actually enjoying it? He needed to find out. He wanted to ask her, “You only shake those other men’s hands because it’s your job, right?”
What would he do if she answered, “I don’t do it because it’s my job. I do it because I like it.”
As his mind worked through the scenario, he felt the blood drain from his face.
He struggled to remain in his seat. He couldn’t bear to wait another minute without knowing how she felt. He pursed his lips. He clenched his teeth. He gnashed them so hard that his molars made a sound like they were crunching on leaves.
Yuma, please don’t betray me. Please, please, you won’t betray me, right?
He put his ticket back into his pocket, and his fingers brushed against the box cutter.
Yuma put emotion into each and every handshake. She held on to each fan for at least three seconds. She looked them in the eye and gave them a smile.
After around 150 handshakes, the effort started to tax her. Her hand didn’t feel like a part of her anymore. It was like it was someone else’s.
She looked out at the audience. Roughly half were still waiting. Though she kept reminding herself she should be thankful that all these people wanted to meet her, deep down she was so dreadfully sick of it.
His turn had finally come.
When he put his foot on the steps leading up to the stage, his entire body tingled. A single word came unbidden into his head: destiny.
This is my destiny.
He saw each step that brought him closer to Yuma as a step toward his destiny.
He climbed onto the stage, and Yuma was there, a few short meters away. For some reason, seeing his soul mate up close, he felt a little flustered. Just two, maybe three more steps, and they would be nearly touching.
His composure was faltering.
If this isn’t fate, he asked himself, then what is?
With his eyes locked on to Yuma, he took one step, and then another, toward that which he believed was preordained.
Just then, Yuma felt a prickling pain in her chest. Lightly, she held her right hand over her heart where she felt the discomfort. It wasn’t the pain of a physical wound or an illness. It was something more unusual.
A premonition, she thought in realization. That’s what this is—a premonition.
As she kept on shaking the hands her fans offered to her, dread and that unfamiliar pain swelled in her chest. She understood that her body was trying to warn her on some primal level. Something sinister was drawing near. It was the same dread she had felt standing outside the entrance to her apartment building.
She looked into the face of the boy standing nervously in front of her. Was he the source of her distress?
When the elephant-eyed man saw he was now second in line, he felt a rush of energy springing up from somewhere deep within, like magma racing up an erupting volcano. But at the same time, he also felt a pain that was hard for him to place. It was something akin to shame, or maybe how a virgin bride might feel as she faced her wedding night.
He became suddenly embarrassed at the thought of Yuma looking upon his face and his appearance.
What will she think when she sees me? he asked himself. The thought made his body flush hot from head to toe in anxious embarrassment. He wasn’t a handsome man. A dreadful worry sprang up from the depths of his mind. What if she hates me?
He ground his teeth, forward and back, like a chewing elephant. He felt as if sharp little pins were pricking into the backs of his eyes.
Oh, if only I were good-looking…
The thought hurt. It truly hurt.
How much pain I endure for you, Yuma.
He stared at her, unblinking.
You wouldn’t betray a man who loves you as much as I do. You won’t betray me, right?
Please, don’t betray me!
For an instant, Yuma flinched.
The hand she was shaking felt oddly sticky.
The guy was probably sweaty—they often were—but his hand felt gummier than sweat usually did. It was almost like some kind of bodily fluid, and on top of that, he smelled vaguely like a wild animal.
Yuma pulled away her hand sharply. She looked at his face. His skin was darkish, rubbery, and creased like a tire tube. His dull eyes reminded her of an elephant, and they stared at her anxiously. His expression was lonesome, yet aggressive.
Could it be him…? Yuma wondered. Was he the source of her dread?
She turned her head to break away from his stare and said coldly, “Next in line.”
When he faced Yuma, the man noticed her give him a signal.
She looked at him and nodded slightly.
At the time, he thought, She really does know who I am. He felt her message like it was an electric signal she transmitted directly into his brain. A long time ago, when he watched her on his television, she had sent him a message from beyond the curved glass tube: I love you. But now, at this short distance, the signal was all the stronger. It was too strong, in fact, distorting beyond recognition.
This isn’t working, he thought. I still can’t tell what she’s feeling.
To ask her what she felt for him, he concentrated his own feelings and sent out a signal back to her. As their hands grasped, their passions manifested into sweat.
Is this sweat not my question manifested in form? And look, see how sweaty her hand is, too. Is that not her feelings for me, manifested in form? She loves me; that’s why she sweats so.
With a satisfied smile, he thought, Is this how passionate a woman can become for the man who loves her?
He tightened his grip to say, I love you.
And that’s when it happened.
Yuma suddenly broke away from his hand.
Then, as if she were speaking to a complete stranger, she said, “Next in line.”
The man was stunned.
What? he thought. Does she hate me?
His grim fear returned to dominate his thoughts. A sound like an elephant’s trumpet escaped his nostrils.
Yuma’s gaze froze on the man with the elephant eyes.
As he stared back at her, his body began to visibly tremble.
Suddenly, without warning, the letter—that sinister letter—came to her mind.
Somewhere, beneath his animal stink, this man smells the same as the letter.
The elephant-eyed man fought to hold back the impulse bubbling up from deep inside and everywhere. Inside his pocket, he squeezed the box cutter as hard as he could, as he struggled to suppress a savage, violent urge.
Yuma sensed physical danger and stood reflexively. Bando came running from backstage.
Yuma’s eyes locked onto the man’s. She felt that something terrible would happen if she looked away.
Despair filled the man. He could read the mixture of terror and contempt in Yuma’s eyes. Inside his pocket, he exposed the blade from its handle. His mind began to work like a computer circuit, racing down the branching paths of potential outcomes.
Do I stab Yuma with this box cutter? But then he thought, If I stab her with this many people around, what will happen next? I’ll be captured, arrested. I have to restrain myself for now and wait for my next chance.
He turned his back to Yuma.
Somehow, Yuma carried out the handshake session to the very end. Exhausted, she leaned against Bando as he walked her into the green room. All she could think about was that man.
“Make sure he’s not here,” she said. Her frightened eyes darted into the shadows around the door.
“Make sure who’s not here?” Bando asked.
“You know who I mean. The man with those elephant eyes, of course. He’s not hiding on the other side of the door, is he?”
“Calm down, Yuma,” he said as soothingly as he could. “Nso one can come here. The public isn’t allowed in this area.”
Yuma shook her head forcefully. “Not him. He could come here. Nothing is impossible for him.” She squeezed Bando’s hand. “He came to my apartment. Only you and I are supposed to know I live there. But he found it anyway.”
Bando put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re safe,” he said. “Even if he managed to come here, he couldn’t do anything with all the staff around. Besides, you don’t even know if he’s the same guy who wrote that letter.”
Yuma nodded. But as she did, she thought to herself, No matter what anyone else says, I know he wrote that letter. I know from his smell. And I know he’ll come to me again…