Yuki is putting a strip of Seven-Eleven tape on the plastic-wrapped onigiri when he walks in. She watches as he walks down towards the row of fridges with the cold drinks.
The customer in front of her drops coins into the tray. Yuki keeps her eyes down, counting, barely saying thank you as the customer leaves. Yuki wants to disappear, to hide under the counter. She thinks about going to the back room, but she is afraid any sudden movements will make him look in her direction. Another customer leaves through the automatic doors and he is now the only other person in the convenience store. She pulls down at the hem of her skirt. Adjusts the hat on her head. He pulls a Pocari Sweat out of the fridge and turns to the till, his eyes on the osembe and crisps as he passes the savoury snack aisle.
Yuki keeps her head down and silently scans the purchase through. She doesn’t ask him if he wants anything else, like the manual says, like she has been trained to do. She doesn’t even look at him.
Yuki-san? he says.
She looks up.
Ah . . . Taichi-san.
She sucks on her bottom lip for something to do.
Hi! It’s been a while!
Yes. It has, she says.
What are you doing here?
I’m . . . Working.
No, I mean. What are you doing here, in Tokamachi? he says, smiling.
I’ve moved back. For a bit.
Oh, I had no idea!
Really? I thought . . . You would have heard by now.
No?
No. Well.
You look. Older , he says.
Thanks. Ha. So do you.
No. I mean you still look. I mean—
It’s fine, I know what you mean.
Sorry.
You’re married, Yuki says, pointing at his left hand.
Ah yes. Nagayama Eniko-san. She was the year above us.
I remember. Congratulations.
Thanks. And you. I heard you got married. To an Englishman.
That’s right.
Is he here? Have you moved back here?
An elderly man in a baseball cap walks in. He walks slowly towards the instant ramen. Yuki pulls at the hem of her skirt again.
No, he’s still in England. With my daughter. I’m going back soon. I just. It’s.
Complicated.
I see.
Yuki swallows. She watches the old man reach out for a half-price packet of noodles.
Well, it’s lovely to see you again. I’ve thought about you. A lot, he says.
Oh.
And uhh, if there’s anything I can do, just let me know. Eniko and I would love to have you over for dinner. Or you and I can have a proper catch up. Over a proper drink! he says, holding up the Pocari Sweat and smiling.
Yes. That would be nice.
Yuki imagines herself lying next to his naked body and she is filled with revulsion.
I have a mobile phone, Taichi says. I mostly use it for work. But feel free to call me any time . . . Do you have a piece of paper? I can write my number down for you.
The elderly man is waiting behind Taichi.
Please, wait one moment, Yuki says to him.
Taichi writes his number on an old receipt.
Call me. It would be good to catch up, he says, stepping away from the counter.
Yes . . . Oh, wait, please! Your change, she says, holding the tray of coins.
You can buy the first round! he says, leaving through the automatic doors.
The old man looks down at the piece of paper, the change on the counter, then looks up at Yuki and gives her a smile that makes her feel dirty. She wants to grab the instant ramen out of his wrinkly hands and whack him over the head saying it’s not what you think, it’s not what you think.
But maybe it is. Maybe it’s exactly what the old man, and Taichi, and Yuki think.
Maybe she will call him. Maybe he is her way back.
*
The following evening they meet at an izakaya. A hole in the wall with a short counter and dark corners. He talks at her. About taking over his father’s sake distillery. His daughter. His son. His wife. The trip they went on to Taiwan. How he got fat on pineapple cake and oyster omelettes. He tells her about Noriko from school who is about to give birth to triplets. Hideo-san who has landed a job in Shanghai. They laugh a lot, even though Yuki doesn’t feel much like laughing. He asks her questions about life in England, the violin. He does well to coat the questions in concern, but Yuki knows he is enjoying humiliating her, whether he knows it or not.
The beer followed by the sake loosens her. She watches him smoke cigarette after cigarette, the ash piling high. He is tired looking. His skin is dry with some kind of eczema he didn’t have before and he has put on weight. Not a lot, but enough for Yuki to notice. It suits him better than his lanky teenage frame had. He has filled out into more of man. The kind of man who drinks highballs instead of straight whisky.
So, you haven’t seen your daughter in what . . . Six months? he says.
That’s right.
God. That’s awful. Why not?
Unlike the others, Taichi’s tone isn’t full of blame when he asks her about her daughter. His brow is furrowed, face set with attentiveness. He takes a sip from his drink, the ice tinkling in the glass. Yuki always loved that sound. It reminded her of her father.
I. I’ve not been very well.
I’m sorry to hear that.
She notices that Taichi holds her gaze for just the right amount. Not too long to feel sexual, not too short to feel awkward. Of course, there are those people in the world that, no matter how long or short they hold your gaze, the eye contact feels exquisitely sexual. Like with Alex. But with Taichi it’s not like that. He is reserved in his body language. Contained. Before, when they were teenagers, he could barely look at her for longer than a moment. Now, his body is angled to her, open but held. She feels safe, tethered for the first time in a long time.
Will you go back? To London?
I want to. I’m trying to make enough to get back.
I see . . . And, your parents can’t help you?
No. I wouldn’t ask. They already—they’ve done so much already. My father used his savings to get me to London in the first place. So, no, I’m happy to do this on my own.
Do you plan to stay in London? With your husband?
Oh. Well. Yuki falls silent. She swallows.
It’s okay, I didn’t mean to pry. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.
Yuki drinks.
When did you get so good at talking anyway? When we were teenagers, you were useless.
I know. I apologise. I was mad about you and you made a mute out of me. Taichi blushes.
Buried beneath the shock of his words, something stirs inside Yuki. His words jump-start something inside of her, spluttering alive. A relic of a feeling. The feeling of someone desiring her.
(He’s drunk) she thinks, (he must be drunk)
She smiles at him, tight-mouthed and bashful. This time he doesn’t look away.
Another drink?
Sure.
Same please, Master, he calls.
Coming up, the owner replies.
So, you don’t have to tell me. But, seeing as you once dumped me in the park where I took you for our first date, I’m certain nothing that you say can be more humiliating than that.
Oh. Yuki laughs weakly. I uh . . . I can definitely beat that.
She tells him. Not the sports commentary version of the breakdown of a marriage. The real one. She tells him about the loneliness. The maddening solitude of motherhood. The way little Meiko looked at her like she was the most wonderful person on earth—even though her soul knew she was not—and how, after a while, that look was the only thing getting her out of bed in the mornings. How eventually the idea of getting up at all and walking to the coat hook and putting on a raincoat and opening the door was unbearable to her. How everything reached her through a thick pool, a haze, until even her own daughter’s face was vague. She tells him about the girl-woman, the parasite, with the face that made Yuki want to rip at her own. What Yuki does not mention is the deep unending nothing that still comes to her from the corners of the world, seeping towards her across bedsheets, pinning her down until she is choked of breath. How the winter just past was not of this world. How it came from the depths of something much darker, evil and ancient. How it wrapped her up in its decay and swallowed her bit by bit until she was barely visible. She does not speak about how, more often than not, she wants to return to the darkness that existed before she was born. She keeps those things to herself. That would have been too much for a reunion drink.
As she talks, she finds herself justifying what to her ears sounds pathetic and crazed. But Taichi does not make her feel entirely mad. When he listens, he is sombre and still. He doesn’t search her eyes for the psychosis that others search for. When he looks at her, he is looking at a human—perhaps one he’d like to make love to—but a human all the same, in pain.
And he’s filing for divorce? he says.
Yes. And wants full custody of Meiko. He’s citing abandonment and negligence.
I’m so sorry, Yuki-chan.
He uses the familiar honorific—chan . It makes Yuki feel both young and so very old.
If it hadn’t been for the divorce papers and custody letters that had arrived in January, Yuki might have stayed dead for much longer. After the endless winter the stirrings of humanity had returned to her. The dirt in her mouth started to taste like food. She could go to the supermarket and walk down the meat aisle without cowering at the sight of a stranger, a rack of ribs. She had something in her that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Anger. It heated her insides and made her move again.
I once felt . . . A similar— I went through a similar thing. When I first started working for my father, Taichi says.
What do you mean?
Well, what you’re describing.
Oh. It happened to you?
Well, not exactly that. I mean I can’t even imagine being parted from my children and what that must be . . . But I, I guess I felt something like what you’re describing. Like you’re not really there. Or shouldn’t be. Ha. He moves a beer mat from side to side. Drains his drink.
I understand, she says.
He looks at her and she feels that flip again.
Yuki, if I can help in any way—
No, no. Honestly.
On a minimum wage you won’t be able to cover all that you need to fight this.
What choice do I have? I don’t have a degree, I don’t have a husband. Not anymore.
You could teach the violin?
No.
There it is again. The anger.
I don’t play anymore.
That’s a shame.
Not really.
Yuki finishes her drink and pulls out her purse.
Hey, hold on. It’s my treat.
She feels a flood of relief as he pulls out the notes in his wallet.
Outside, under the lights, his eyes are watery and bloodshot. She smells the whisky on his breath as he leans in close to her. The thought of reliving her teenage years with Taichi had occurred to her throughout the night, but outside in the chill air Yuki feels sober.
When he kisses her, she pulls away from the shock. She is surprised at how his mouth covers her own, how huge and enveloping it feels. She comes away from the kiss, her lips covered in his saliva. She wants to wipe it away, but she doesn’t want to hurt his feelings, so she doesn’t. She just leaves it there.
Yuki, he says.
And for one wild moment Yuki thinks he is going to get down on one knee and propose to her. The way he says her name is so earnest, so heartfelt. She wants to laugh.
Yuki. Let me help you. I want to help you. I have money, you know that. I want to give it to you. I want to give you the money.
What money? Taichi, it’s fine. I don’t need—
Money for the flight. Back to your daughter.
She looks at him, open mouthed.
The saliva on her lips drying down to a residue, tight and sweet smelling.
Taichi—
Please, Yuki. He takes hold of her shoulders. I want to. Let me look after you.
He smells like cigarette smoke, and again she is reminded of her father.
(What does he want?) she asks herself.
And she hears the knowing knocking back the answer.
(One of these days he will come for you and you will lie down and let him.)
Yuki looks at him. She looks at herself looking at him, standing under the alcove tunnel with its bright electric lights, the empty, paved streets, the coloured flags of the stores billowing in the wind. Her soul reaches out still, stretching, stretching for her daughter. It strains for her.
Okay, she says.