Staring at the ghosts in the glass, remembering her laugh…that sound that used to make angels stop and listen. Losing myself as I rummage through my variable realities. Sifting through the what IS from the what WAS. Weeding out the what COULD HAVE BEEN from the what WILL NEVER BE. Trying to discern what MIGHT have been from the what’s been MADE UP.

And finally surrender feeling more jaded than before, because…sometimes what IS never WAS, or wasn’t entirely altogether. And maybe…maybe now as I prate and unprofoundly complain, maybe now still ISN’T, and I’m only taking for granted that it is.

I am somewhere else, alone in a nowhere place I swear I’ve been before.

Am I remembering? Or simply here again?

I am somewhere else, but I am not myself…

Always enjoy the rush hour when the world is rushing the other way. I get on the Tokyu Toyoko-sen, Limited Express, bound for Yokohama. Empty train car, save a sleeping boy cat-stretched across four seats.

Never mind, off we go.

3 minutes later – Naka-Meguro Station. The sleeping boy remains sacked out, slumbering. Passengers glance and frown at him, but soon take their places and feign ignorance. By Jiyugaoka I begin to worry, the sleeping boy hasn’t moved – not a muscle in 9 minutes.

It’s then I notice, beneath his dangling arm, a mobile on the ground. I get up to retrieve it – and then see blood – trickles of it dried down the side of his mouth. Something’s definitely wrong. I feel the stares of others fixed on me – I’m causing a scene. But I tap the sleeping boy on the shoulder anyway, nudge him and ask if he’s all right. No one bothers to offer assistance and I feel angry as I have to ask, “Someone call a station attendant!”

But no one does. No one moves, except to look the other way.

8 minutes later – Hiyoshi Station. Passengers pouring into the train car, passengers streaming out. Everyone jostling for their favourite positions as furtive looks are cast my way. And then out of the blue, a 20-something female acknowledges me. She apologizes as she makes for the doors, says she can’t be late for work but she’ll call for help.

And I’m left in a moment that almost goes on forever…

Until a handful of station attendants appear like whirling dervishes. They scurry inside and methodically proceed. Passengers are ordered to clear the area, and I’m pushed to the side as they identify the sleeping boy and carry his body onto a stretcher. I remember the mobile and attempt to explain, but it’s ripped from my hand as they all whisk away.

In the end an empty train car, save me. Bloody fucking efficient, I think.

…as I feel the cross stares of those who’ve been delayed, inconvenienced by my interference.

Beware when doing good deeds.

Naka-Meguro. Some local artists (including myself) have just finished a show and want to celebrate, but between the five of us there isn’t enough money for a proper pub crawl. Solution: we hit a konbini and stock up on as much beer, chūhai, and Black Nikka as we can afford. Shopping done, we drink at abandoned storage units underneath the railroad tracks.

Fast-forward to good night: I get on the express about to leave for Hiyoshi, thinking I can transfer to Yokohama there. It isn’t until I reach Hiyoshi Station that I realize it’s the night’s last train.

Taxi – not an option. Walking – out of the question (ask me about Isogo some time). Not much else to do but wait until morning – three or four hours to kill. Except it’s cold, and not a lot to see, so I look for and find a manga kissaten near the station.

Keep in mind this is before the manga kissa boom and today’s full-service (complete with shower/bath, gourmet snack food, private booths with PS3 stations and chairs you can sleep in) chains. This place is a single room divided by cheap-looking office partitions; a slightly outdated selection of manga limited to a single 150cm x 200cm bookcase. Coffee or tea only, but free – and there are PC’s with internet access so no complaints from me.

After signing in, I pour myself a cup of green tea and pick a terminal at the far corner of the room. Seems I’m the only customer in the shop. Grateful for the warmth, I remove my coat only to find, in one of my pockets, an unopened bottle of Black Nikka. Can’t remember how I wound up with it, but keep it out for later.

Fast-forward an hour or so: I hear the door open, someone walk in, and then a girl’s voice speaking to the clerk. Make eye contact as she enters the room, a very cute late 20-something dressed like she’s just come from the office. Her face makes me think of what’s-her-name from that new Kurosawa film I saw last week, Dopperugengâ. Our glances still met, she pulls a seat over next to me. I should be surprised, but instead intrigued.

“Miss the last train?” she asks.

“Looks like you did, too.” I reply.

“Stupid company party. They’re doing karaoke now.”

The small talk continues, both asking and answering questions without getting too personal. She tells me she works customer support for a well-known electronics company, but still looking for a better paying job with a better location, better colleagues, and better boss. She asks what I do, then asks for details when I say I’m a struggling writer posing as a struggling artist. I tell her about the recent exhibition and last night’s events.

“Sounds cool,” she sighs.

“In theory, maybe.”

We laugh.

“Care for a drink?” I ask, showing her the whiskey.

“Sure.”

The small talk continues, both seeming perfectly at ease with each other, despite the fact we haven’t traded names. Somewhere along the way she lights a cigarette; offers me one. We nurse our drinks, smoke our tabs, blah-blah-blah in-and-out of silence and disconnected conversation. How much time passes I don’t know and really don’t care.

And it’s exactly at that moment, as I consciously appreciate what’s happening, that the girl leans into me and kisses my mouth. She doesn’t stop to check if she’s offended; I kiss her back to show none taken. An exchange of lips takes place, each taking turn to taste the other’s. A prolonged kiss that’s shallow, purposefully slow, goes on and on like eating caramel. I take her head in my hands, begin to stroke her hair, wanting this to last as long as it can.
.
.

.

It was the station coming to life that broke the spell, music to announce the arrival of the morning’s first train.

Pleasantly drunk. On my way home. Getting off the Hanzomon-sen, making my way to the Tokyu Toyoko-sen.

Up the steps and just past the JR ticket machines when I hear my name.

I’m scanning the crowd for a familiar face, but at Shibuya Station on a Saturday night -with last trains approaching- everyone and everything’s a blur.

It’s better that way, sometimes, getting lost outside the crowd instead of in it.

But I hear my name again and then there she is, standing directly in front of me shaking dry her umbrella, Mitsuko.

A few pleasantries exchanged and how has it been? Not bad, and you? Same as always. Hey, why don’t you have an umbrella, it’s raining out there! I never use one. Well you should, you’ll catch cold!

Mitsuko asks if I’m drunk. When I tell her I am she laughs. She is too, she says, blows on my face to prove it. She laughs again, I smell shōchū…and laugh back. Then she excitedly takes my hand.

“Let’s go for a drink!” she says.

And I want to. We’ve only ever met once before, but we flirted our way then to now’s exact same proposition.

I want to, but I can’t. Not tonight. And when I say so, Mitsuko sneers, but tells me she understands. And she should, because she should know why.

“Next time, eh?” I offer.

“I could make you promise.”

Without thinking I kiss her forehead. It’s a stupid thing to do but I’m doing it, and then -too late- it’s done.

Mitsuko looks at me a little disappointed. Then she’s digging around in her purse, and before I have a chance to say or do anything, she gives me a slip of paper with her number on it.

“Next time, eh?” she smiles.

“Promise.”
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.

.

I could have used another drink on the way back home.