The End of the Moment We Had

by Toshiki Okada

  We walked to where there was only a slight slope, so slight you could call it level, across from Book 1st and near the Don Quijote discount store. Then the hill got steep, but it wasn’t far to our hotel. By the time we were back in our room it felt like we had been gone a long while, though it couldn’t have been more than two hours. It hit me that I had actually been missing the room! And the feeling grew stronger. In the next instant it filled me completely. It was the first time I had ever experienced such an instant attachment. I didn’t know such a thing was even possible. That feeling’s been with me ever since, much softer, but always there. Like being homesick. I wish I didn’t feel that way, but I haven’t been able to shake it. When it first happened I tried to ignore it. That was one of the reasons we kept having sex.

  Then I noticed that he was pressing his hands against his groin, alongside his penis. At first I thought it was because pressing like that felt good to him, but then I wondered if all this sex might be starting to make him hurt. I figured it out when I saw him close his eyes, like he was willing his penis not to hurt where it was getting raw and chafed. If you’re not feeling good we can stop, is what I should have said, but even if I had, he probably would have been like no, it’s fine, and still kept going, I bet.

  When we first got back to the hotel we started kissing, and our mouths tasted like curry and yoghurt. It made us laugh. The sex started, but the pace was much more relaxed than it had been before. Maybe we were both getting a little bored with it. The intervals we spent talking between the sex got longer and longer too. Maybe the boredom was because of having sex with the same person over and over, and maybe talking was getting easier because we had spent all this time together. Anyway, in the course of talking we decided that we would end this thing between us after two more nights. Two more nights would mean that in total we would have been at the hotel four nights. We both thought that was like the right amount of time. The limit. Pretty soon we would run out of money. But we didn’t have to leave just yet. I had several ¥10,000 notes. He had almost nothing on him, though.

  The sex was totally different now, the rhythm and the way we were doing it. The excitement we’d felt at the beginning was over, replaced by a sentimental feeling from knowing that the moment was going to end and a crazy kind of calculation that kept us going longer than we might have so that later we wouldn’t feel like we had missed out. But even that had its limits. We took long breaks, whereas at the beginning there were hardly any breaks at all. At one point, he said, so this is like, this is probably just me, but in a couple of days we’re going to leave this hotel, right, and I feel like maybe the war’ll be over by then too. Am I just being optimistic? But I mean, the difference in power is so totally obvious. And like the Gulf War was over real quick, just one pinpoint assault… When he said this and didn’t finish the sentence, we were lying side by side, staring at the stains on the ceiling. By that time we knew every little mark and discolouration, knew them by heart, which was a sign that little by little we were feeling like it was time to leave.

  *

  Him: Hey, you know, this whole time we’ve been here we haven’t turned on the TV, you know that? I mean, we’ve just been doing it non-stop, maybe that’s why. But anyway, if we made it this long without TV, let’s leave it off. What do you think? Her: Sure. Him: Yeah? Okay, great. Actually, I was going to suggest that when we got here, I just didn’t. But it happened that way, it kind of just worked out. So like, we have no idea what’s happening with the war now, right? That’s fine, you know. When we go back to our own places, when we turn on the TV, it’ll be like, hey, the war’s over! That’s how I’m thinking this whole scenario plays out. Like, man, the war ended almost as soon as it started, and then we’ll be like, in hindsight it was all for the best. And at that point we’ll be by ourselves but we’ll each think the same thing. And then I’ll be like, see, it happened just like I said it would, and I’ll be all pleased with myself. And then you (although he didn’t really say the word “you” out loud, he kind of swallowed it) will be like, oh, it’s exactly how he said it’d be. And then we’ll be like, wait a second, that means that we were doing it for the whole war. That’s pretty awesome, that’s what we’ll think. While we were fucking our brains out, the war started and ended. Like, instead of love and peace, it’d be sex and war. I don’t really know what I’m saying. But when I think about it happening that way, it kind of feels like… like we’re a part of history. I was thinking like, there’s a good chance I’ll think back on this time right before I die.

  They had sex again. The ejaculation seemed to drain his cheekbones, but he didn’t complain, didn’t say anything, even though his penis felt like rubber to him. He knew he only had to hang on a little while longer. Now she did most of the talking. He listened to her, meanwhile applying pressure to his groin, trying to look casual about it. She talked about how she felt like she was on holiday, way different from her everyday mode, how Shibuya felt like a foreign country when they were out walking, and while she talked she stretched her left leg up towards the ceiling. She spoke each word as if she was finding it on the street and picking it up. And then she changed the leg she was stretching. He thought about what she was saying as he watched her stretching her legs and said, so what would you call what we’re doing now? What is this, a life? A way of life? Whatever, to be blunt, when I think about just keeping on like this, I mean think about it, it’s impossible, right? We’ve got to face the facts. We don’t have the money, for one thing. And really, how long can we keep this up, anyway?

  He kept on talking: So, as far as money goes, I’ve got only like ¥2,000 yen on me. I know, sorry about that. But if we go to an ATM, I should have maybe ¥30,000 or ¥40,000 in the bank. My job pays once a month, so it’s a low period for me now… It was at this point that the two of them decided to call it. The day after tomorrow we’ll leave here and go back to our own places and by then the war’ll probably be over. When he said this, her response was, it’ll be like going home not knowing if Japan won their World Cup match today and then putting on the news to find out, you know, that kind of nervous feeling.

  Neither one of them was certain who was the first to suggest they end it on the fifth day. Maybe he said to her: I mean I can’t imagine you could’ve been thinking you wanted to stay here like this with me forever anyway, right? And you can say it. I mean I feel the same way, so we might as well both say it. She said, okay, and he said, okay. They both had a feeling of release, like a fake tear duct that suddenly came unblocked. When they both said okay, by chance their voices overlapped perfectly, seamlessly, in a way that felt almost like another miracle. Their voices had matched so perfectly that they couldn’t even crack a joke about it. Instead they both tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. Then he started talking again, and like, this thing between us, it’s probably not going to turn into like a lifelong connection, is it? But, and this is just what I think, but it’s not that a lifelong connection is somehow more special, or that we didn’t make a lifelong connection because this wasn’t special, or because we couldn’t make that kind of connection, it’s not like that at all. You get what I’m saying, right? She said she got it. And, he went on, I think that’s like luck, I mean I think that spending time, days, like this with someone who understands that, that’s incredible. Not everybody would understand that. I think it’s super-incredible. But you could see someone saying, what’s so incredible about it? All you two did was fuck the whole time.

  They needed to check what time it was. First, they had sex. It felt different from before because time was back in the picture. He pulled the phone out of his bag, which had been tossed in the corner of the room. Their moment that seemed to go on forever was coming to an end. The LCD screen showed three in the afternoon. They had guessed it was night, and only a few hours left before morning. He turned the phone off. Since they had more time than expected, they had sex some more, casually. She was worrying about the pain in his groin, but he said he was fine, so she made
up her mind not to worry about it. They spent the time until the morning having sex, and resting, and every so often he reached for his phone to check the time. This was repeated through the hours, and they couldn’t quite tell if it felt like the hours were moving quickly or slowly. The passing of time seemed slow, but if they took their eyes off it for an instant it seemed to skip ahead. Before long the digital numbers told them it was morning. Just a bit past eight. They lay on their backs, and he held his phone at arm’s length, raised it towards the ceiling, while they brought their faces close to watch the seconds flash on the screen, to watch minutes go by. It was time to leave. They put their clothes on and gathered their things together. That didn’t take any time at all. He dialled the NTT information number for date and time, brought the phone up to his ear and listened. Of course what was announced was the exact same as the display on his phone. But just seeing it on his screen, he didn’t quite believe it.

  When they stepped out of the room, a feeling washed over them of something coming to an end, a stronger feeling than it had been before. She paid for their stay at the desk and they went out into the day. The light stabbed at their eyes, giving them a headache like a hangover. They walked. The ATM on the way opened at 8:45, so they had timed their departure accordingly. What bank do you use? she asked. He answered, Hokuriku. She didn’t know they had a branch in Shibuya. But they did, in the same building as the Lotteria. She waited on the sidewalk while he withdrew the cash. When he came out, he handed her ¥20,000. What’s with this 20,000? Your share is more than that, she said. But that was almost all he had in his account, and he let her see the receipt that showed the ¥20,000 withdrawal and an account balance that was only in two figures. They walked to Shibuya Station. One was headed to the Toyoko Line, the other to the Yamanote Line. Bye was all they said, and they parted ways. But after he left, she lingered, didn’t go to her train. She knew that if she got on her train and rode away from Shibuya, then she would lose this Shibuya that felt like a foreign country and her non-everyday mode would disappear and probably never come back. She wanted to keep the feeling just a bit more, so she decided to stay. But only a little while longer. She walked back the way they had just come, towards Love Hotel Hill, as if she had left something behind and was going to collect it. She worried that having already gone to the station the special feeling would have vanished, but it was still there. She turned the corner past the Bunkamura, nearly scraping the building with her shoulder, and came to the foot of the hill where their hotel was. The sloping street caught the morning light and glistened like frost. The air smelt like last night’s garbage. Utility poles rose up from the sidewalk. One pole near her had a plastic trash can attached to it, and next to it was a large dog. The dog was stooped forwards snuffling, rooting around in the garbage spilling out of the trash can. But when she looked again, she saw that it wasn’t a dog at all. What she’d thought was a dog’s head was actually a human ass, the bare ass of a human being. It was a homeless person taking a shit. She felt the sudden urge to vomit, her throat constricting audibly. The homeless person turned towards her, still squatting. It wasn’t a sharp look, more like the mild attitude someone might have listening to the wind blow. Shocked, she turned away, trying not to be too obvious, making like she too was listening to the wind, but she had in fact jerked away violently. She started walking along the side of Bunkamura, following the breeze that was blowing. After a few steps she started to run. She knew there was a toilet in Bunkamura, but the building was closed. She didn’t know of any other public toilet around and the shops hadn’t opened yet. There was nothing she could do. Her vomit erupted out of her and splattered onto the street. It wasn’t the sight of someone shitting on the sidewalk that made her vomit, it was revulsion at herself for not knowing a human being from an animal. She realized this as the vomit was coming out of her, and even after it stopped. She stood in place until she calmed down, then walked away from the puddle of her filth, pretending it had nothing to do with her. Some of the vomit had gotten on her clothes. She went back to the station and this time went through the wicket. While she wiped off her clothing with toilet paper in the station restroom, her special Shibuya vanished, replaced by the same old Shibuya as always.

  MY PLACE IN PLURAL

  THE PHONE IS NESTLED between my belly and my thighs as I lie on my side on the futon. It must look like I’m warming an egg. In my mind I keep hearing a line from a song I listen to a lot, although I’m not listening to it at the moment. I have no reason to try to block it out, so it’s been playing over and over. Today is a Friday like any other. But I decided to stay home from my part-time job. I don’t feel like doing anything at all.

  At this point I’ve only made up my mind to stay home, and I haven’t called in to tell them yet. The rumpled white sheet forms a ridge around my body, an almost perfect square enclosure which I’m finding it surprisingly hard to move from.

  The song in my head was recommended by Nakakido, one of my husband’s friends, and my husband listened to it but it wasn’t really his thing, so he didn’t burn a copy or play it a second time, but I liked it, and ended up listening to it all the time.

  My left hand keeps running through my hair, like I’m testing its thickness.

  It’s morning. The futon mattress is nearly flat and has these soy sauce stains and other discolourations. Even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to get them out.

  At around two in the morning (I could pinpoint the exact time if I checked my phone but I can’t be bothered), I got a text from somebody named Wakabayashi. I don’t know anybody by that name, so it’s probably somebody my husband knows. The text said something about the first anniversary of Nakakido’s death coming up and everyone should get together. Somehow instead of the text going to my husband, or just to my husband, I was included in the text, or maybe it only came to me. I was still awake when it came in, so I read it then. It didn’t make me sad, if anything it made me feel kind of uncomfortable, since I don’t remember my husband telling me something had happened to Nakakido. I thought he was still alive.

  My husband was at work when the text came in, cooking at a diner until I think 6:00 a.m. At the moment he’s somewhere killing time until his next job starts at ten or eleven. He’s probably getting some food or napping. I think about sending him a text.

  But my fingers don’t make a move.

  The song is still on repeat in my head. My left arm is under me, pressed against the sheet. I’m not looking at the glass pane of the sliding door, but I know that the light pouring in is milky, maybe because I was looking at the door before, or maybe I can just tell without looking.

  I hear the tinny melody played by the garbage truck in the distance. I have the feeling that if I get up right now and move really quickly, I could probably get the trash out in time. I’ve been able to before. I think about it but I know that today I won’t be taking out the trash. I doubt I’ll be getting out of bed.

  The couple times that I managed not to miss the garbage collection, the sanitation guys were finishing loading up and about to leap onto the back of the truck when they noticed me running towards them, sandals flapping, and they were nice enough to wait for me.

  My phone buzzes. I’m thinking it must be my husband.

  My phone is red, and seeing it lying upside down like it is now makes me think it looks like a tiny little flipped-over sports car. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought that.

  It turns out the phone buzz was a phantom buzz. I stroke the body of the phone. How come the sun is shining outside and everyone’s running around but I don’t feel the least urge to do anything? How come I don’t care? The light in the room feels heavy, like a chunk of ice that’s starting to melt and the edges are beginning to get soft and round.

  Any time my phone vibrates I get the distinct feeling that I knew it was about to happen a few seconds before it does.

  I notice now that I have two unread messages which came in after the text from Wakabayashi. One is from my mother.
The time stamp says exactly 4:00 a.m. I read the message and shake my head several times, trying to get my hair out of my eyes. But that doesn’t do the job, so I brush them off with my hand.

  A while back I accidentally left a sweater at my mother’s house. Her text was asking if I was planning to come and get it. It’s the third time my mother has asked. Maybe the fourth.

  It’s a sweater with a half-circle fringe, beige, I think, but it could be lavender. Not once has my mother offered to send it to me. At one point I told her it wasn’t the season for sweaters, it was summer, but she wrote back that in summer you need a sweater because of air conditioning. It’s now September of 2005, so the sweater’s been there over a year.