“Just that…” Amon reached out and touched a white flower. To his surprise it felt soft and a white petal fluttered to the table. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier on the phone. I wanted to but it didn’t seem like the right time.”
“Why? What was it?”
“He…” Amon gulped nervously, “He told me his dream was to have a family. He wanted to find a wife, have babies, and raise the kids himself. I told him he was being hasty, that he needed to shape up at work and plan carefully if he was going to afford that. But as you know, Rick is no good at waiting. The dream brought him too much joy. He was going to… propose to you.”
The last sentence floated out over the table like a black mist, slipping over the edges and drifting to the floor, where it fed the shadows of everything in the room. Mayuko said nothing. She had just lifted the glass, but now her hand froze, holding it hovering barely above the tabletop as her fingers gradually tightened. Her lips began to tremble and her eyes glittered with moisture, peering into his with raw sorrow that seemed to beg him to somehow soothe the pain. Unconcealed by digimake, it was the most sincere expression of misery Amon had ever witnessed in his life, and he immediately regretted what he’d said. Part of him had wanted her to know the truth about her relationship with Rick, but maybe he should have kept it a secret forever, or at least until everything else had stabilized.
Quickly, she looked back at the flowers and the expression disappeared, a lifeless deadpan appearing in its place. Whatever she did, she didn’t seem to be able to get comfortable. Her hands gripped the lapel of her yukata and released it. She brought her chair forward, gripped her bang, and rested her right elbow on the edge of the table. She sat up straight, put her hands in her lap, and pushed her chair back out. Finally her hands made their way back onto the tabletop and settled around the bottle. She topped up Amon’s glass, which was still half full, poured her third, and said: “Looking back, it should have been obvious. But somehow I never realized he was that serious. I guess you’re not the only one in denial.”
“Why? You mean you weren’t planning to marry him?”
“I liked Rick, of course. He was a good friend for such a long time and I never thought of him as more than that in the beginning, but I lost my confidence and… he always said such sweet things. He made me feel beautiful again.” The awamori’s spell appeared to be working, for without seeming to realize it, she was leaning her whole body slightly to the right, her words coming out half-slurred. Looking up again at Amon, she forced a smile, but the rest of her face grimaced, creating a commiserating contrast. Meanwhile, her fidgeting seemed to get worse and worse. She inserted the fingers of her right hand in and out of the hair tied up tightly on the top of her head while the fingers of her left hand opened and closed repeatedly on the tabletop, and she shifted in her chair almost constantly, her breaths shallow and quick.
“Are you okay?” Amon asked.
Mayuko finished her third glass of awamori and said. “I’m just upset… and maybe a bit tipsy, that’s all. And this is the first night I haven’t run on my treadmill in ages.”
Frowning, Amon thought for a moment. “I remember you were always good at sports, but you were never really into working out. You just liked the fun of it. Now it seems like every time I talk to you, you’re on that treadmill and you’ve got this look on your face like it’s some kind of chore.” In spite of himself, he stifled another yawn. “When did you start exercising so much and worrying about calories?”
“After we broke—” she stopped herself. “Around the time Rick and I started dating.”
After we broke up, thought Amon, wondering what it was about that Mayuko felt the need to hide. She glanced at him with a look almost like guilt and saw that he’d noticed her cover up. Then something in her seemed to shift, and she shuddered. Her eyes lost their point of focus, her mind drifting off into some hidden theatre of tragic memories. Then tension built up in her face as she fought to maintain her composure, the muscles around her eyes beginning to tick, her shoulders to vibrate with long, shaking breaths.
Confused, Amon put his elbows on the table and hid his face in his palms. He didn’t know why, but something about what she’d said was affecting him deeply. The feeling was unfamiliar, and it took him a moment to figure out what it was—remorse. As though it were a fine glass dust permeating the very air he breathed, his chest stung with every inhalation. What does that night in Ginza have to do with her exercise?
“But. You… I…” he mumbled, wanting to ask her many things, but they had never once talked about their breakup and he struggled to find the words. To make matters worse, a wave of numbing exhaustion and inebriation was spreading across his body, submerging his thoughts in murk before they could reach his tongue. He bowed down too far and laid his head on the table for a half-second, hoping to rally his clarity, when the whole room suddenly melted away into the darkness of sleep.
20
WAKUWAKU CITY, MORNING
Amon awoke to the sound of rumbling rails and exhilarated screams: Wakuwaku City’s birdsong. He found himself lying on the couch. He had been tucked in beneath a thin summer blanket, his head resting on a firm pillow. His right eye read 11 a.m. He sat up.
On the floor beside him, his suit was neatly folded with the duster resting on top. He guessed that Mayuko must have had it dry cleaned while he slept. On the table he could see dishes laid out and realized that she’d made him breakfast. There was a jar of strawberry jam, a boiled egg, a cucumber and tomato salad, triangular chunks of sliced persimmon, two thick slices of white bread, and a pot of coffee. With no sign of Mayuko, he supposed she’d gone to work. Standing up, he went over to the table, sat down, and began to eat.
Spreading the jam on the toast, he suddenly remembered the end of his talk with Mayuko the night before and felt a stab of guilt. Here he was sitting in the apartment she’d rented, eating her food, subsisting on her salary. With no hint of resentment for all the pain he’d put her through, she had rescued him. Now she was covering the interest on his loans, second by second. If he stayed dependent much longer, it would be more economical for her to pay off the principal and bring him back to zero. But could she afford that? Either way, it was too much to ask.
Taking a bite of the jam-slathered toast, Amon saw that a black petal now rested at the base of the glass vase beside the white one he’d dislodged with his finger. The white petal seemed more withered and dry than the previous night. The black one still retained some moist fullness, but it was dotted with holes. Where had they come from? With each bite of toast, he was gnawing through a fallen flower, shamelessly mutilating its elegant form. At that moment, he decided his next move. He had to find a job and get back on his feet.
Amon was startled when the bathroom door opened and Mayuko stepped out. She wore the same white shirt and khaki half-pants as yesterday, her comet hair flowing loose to her shoulders. “Above the banner,” she said, opening the door to her room. “Then the font will have to—” She stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind her, muffled words indecipherable. Fully immersed in her task, she hadn’t noticed that Amon was up. He remembered then that her company didn’t own an office and she was always working remotely.
After finishing the toast, salad, and egg, Amon ate the persimmon with a toothpick and finished his coffee. The tone of Mayuko’s voice coming through the wall rose in volume and pitch, sounding impatient, and Amon guessed she was directing one of her assistants. He remembered the look on her face in the car when she’d talked about finding ways of coping with one’s profession, and started to wonder if she was speaking from experience. Mayuko worked for Capsize Solutions, a young, independent corporation that specialized in buying bankrupt companies at a low price, repackaging them, and selling them at a higher price. Her job was the repackaging. As head of marketing, she coordinated the design of logos, mottos, promotional videos, uniforms, websites, customer service overlays—in short, the entire audiovisual identity—of these failed enterprises, so as to increase their value in the eyes of investors. Her imagination was a tool that made shattered hopes appear like opportunity, that painted over marketplace vulnerabilities and obsolete business models with a chic new look. Now he suspected there was more to her obsession with exercise than their breakup. Her very means of earning money had to be taking its toll. All the more reason to start making his own living as soon as possible.