Planet: Chapter 2 - part 2

Previous TOC Next

When I mentioned I didn’t have any soap, the shaved-head guy told me I could use whatever was in there.

“Well, there’s only the one body wash, but I use it for everything,” he said with a shrug. Then, he added, “Take your time and clean up thoroughly; it’ll help.” The bathtub was small and blue, like the one in the apartment I used to share with my parents.

The liquid soap made tons of bubbles—it was fun. This was nice. With a bar of soap, you hardly get any bubbles at all. But as soon as I put it in my hair, they disappeared. I laughed, “Haha,” amused by the way they foamed and faded, playing with them until I forgot the pain and put weight on my foot. “Yowch!” I yelped, and from outside, I heard him call, “What happened in there?”

It’s nice being alone in the bath. Nobody waiting, nobody telling me to hurry, just taking my time. After I was all warmed up, I decided I was done and stepped out. My clothes were gone. With nothing to wear, I crawled out of the bathroom on my knees. That’s when the shaved-head guy showed up.

“I left a towel for you. Why didn’t you dry off?”

“A towel?”

He opened the bathroom door and, shaking his head, pointed to where he’d left a towel with a change of clothes in plain sight. He handed me the towel.

“Thank you.”

I dried off in the hallway and put on the clothes he’d brought for me. They smelled like someone else, someone unfamiliar, and it made me feel a bit restless.

The warm bath felt nice. I was hungry, but more than that, I just felt really sleepy.

“Why don’t you stay the night?” he suggested. “The rain’s pretty bad, and it’s already dark.”

Sometimes, people let me stay over. Like during typhoons. Kind people are out there. It’s good that there are nice people around.

“Thank you.”

I thanked him and curled up in the corner of the room.

“Um, mind if I say something?”

He was looking at me.

“I think you should dry your hair.”

“Okay.”

“I mean, it’d be best if you did.”

“I’m sleepy.”

I closed my eyes, but then a warm blast made my head feel cozy. I opened my eyes to see him drying my hair with a hairdryer.

“Sorry, I just can’t stand wet hair, personally.”

“Oh.”

Wet hair doesn’t bother me, but as it started drying, I could feel how damp it was before.

“Just stay lying down. Could you turn the other way?”

I rolled over, and the warm air blew over me again, cozy and comforting. It’s nice to have my hair dry while lying here. I don’t have to do anything. His fingers brushing through my hair reminded me of my mom’s gentle touch. This is nice.

The hum of the hairdryer stopped, and I watched as he neatly wrapped its cord around it. On his arm, there was a small tattoo—a circle, a triangle, and… a crescent moon. …An image of rain, the sea, and space.

“Are you the guy with the space tattoo?” I asked.

He looked at me and said, “Ah, yeah,” then let out a big, surprised, “What?” Startled, I jolted.

“You only just noticed?” His voice sounded slightly fast, almost irritated.

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess that’s fine…”

I usually remember things if I see them often, but it’s hard to remember people I don’t see much. It’s always like that.

My stomach growled. Ah, now that I’m awake, I’m aware of how hungry I am.

“You’re hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Want something to eat? I’ve only got cup noodles, though.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just cup noodles.”

Would he really give them to me for free? Just like those people who hand out food, he’s kind. A kind, nice person.

“Thank you very much.”

The space tattoo guy made me a cup of ramen. I was starving, and it tasted so good I drank all the broth. I was licking the inside of the empty cup when he asked, “Want this, too?” and handed me some bread. I was over the moon.

With my stomach full, I started feeling sleepy again. My hands and feet ached with a throbbing pain, but it wasn’t like the miserable feeling I’d had outside. Here, it’s dry and warm.

As I lay down, he handed me a sleeping bag. “You can use this.” Sometimes, when I sleep near the Center, I see people who have sleeping bags. I used to have one too, but I lost it somewhere. Sleeping in a bag is good. Really good. I crawled into the warmth, and my eyes were already closing.

“I still have a few things to do tonight, so I’ll be in the other room…”

I could hear the space tattoo guy talking. I wondered what he was saying, but before I could even think about it, sleep took over, and everything went dark.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

I open my eyes just a little. It’s dim. A sort of dusky blue, like it's mixed with ash. Maybe it’s still a bit before morning. The rain is loud, whooshing down outside. And then suddenly, a deep thud-thud-thud, like something scary. The kind of rain that blows in, even under the eaves. It’s an awful sound.

This sleeping bag is warm. Really nice. I’d like one of these. I wonder if they’re expensive. Oh… I need to pee. Ugh. What a hassle. I don’t want to move. My foot hurt. Moving makes it sting. The pain doesn’t go away, even when I sleep. I wonder if there’s an empty plastic bottle somewhere. If I had one, I wouldn’t need to get up.

I hold it as long as I can, but when it feels like I might wet myself, I crawl to the toilet on my knees. Moving on my knees doesn’t hurt as much. Having a toilet in the room is really convenient. Neither the shelters nor the company dorm had toilets in the rooms. Well, one time there was—a dorm room with a toilet. But the lever wouldn’t flush, and when I told the office person, they yelled, “Don’t use it!” They didn’t say I had to pay for the damage, but it must’ve been my fault. I felt bad about it.

When I try to stand on one foot, I wobble, so I reluctantly sit down. This time, my butt doesn’t feel sticky. I wonder if the toilet seat’s clean. Thank goodness. When I leave the bathroom, I notice something next to the bed. A long shadow, kind of tall, moving with a slight sway like a ghost. It scares me.

“Good morning,” the shadow says.

“Good… morning.”

Greeting is important, so I do it properly. There’s a little click, and suddenly the light flicks on, making my eyes sting and blur. The shadow is the shaved-head guy. He yawns, stretching his mouth wide with a “Fwaah.” Then he walks over to the small kitchen, only half a tatami mat wide, and crouches down, opening the little fridge and looking inside. He twists his head back toward me and says, “For breakfast…”

“Is bread okay?”

“Yes.”

The shaved-head guy grabs a loaf from the fridge and pops it into the toaster. He hums a tune, sounding happy. Then he drags the little table from the head of the bed to the center of the room.

The toaster chimes, filling the room with the smell of freshly toasted bread. On a big plate, two slices of yellow-golden toast, steaming hot. The shaved-head guy says, “This is all there is,” and I wonder if I’m allowed to eat it. But then…

“I don’t have any money.”

“Don’t worry about that—it’s just bread.”

Is he giving me this bread? He’s really nice. The toast is hot, and when I bite down, it makes a crisp sound. Crispy bits melt into a gentle sweetness with each bite. So good. Freshly toasted bread is amazing.

The shaved-head guy places two glasses on the table. They’re filled with something white, like milk. “Here you go,” he says, and since my throat feels dry, I gulp it down. Yep, it’s milk. I like milk, so I’m happy. The dorm cafeteria rarely had milk. And now… oh, it’s gone. I drank it all.

The shaved-head guy goes back to the fridge and brings over the milk carton. “If you’re thirsty, just help yourself,” he says, setting it on the table. It’s self-serve. So I pour myself another glass.

“Would you like another slice of bread?”

Can I have more? I’d love more.

“Yes.”

He goes to the toaster. I’m halfway through my second slice when he comes back and says, "What! Did you eat all the toast that was ready? So you don't wait for people, huh? Ah, whatever.”

The shaved-head guy sits across from me and sips his milk. The rain keeps going, falling with a steady swoosh outside. And suddenly, I think of breakfast with my dad. The memory just pops into my mind.

The shaved-head guy seems to be watching me, his mouth moving.

“How’s your injured foot?”

“It still hurts.”

I move it from time to time, wondering if it might be better, but the pain is always there. The shaved-head guy looks at his phone for a while, head down, before finally looking back up.

“A taxi would be easiest to get back, huh? I wonder how much that’d cost. But… don’t you not have any money?”

If I go back to the dorm, maybe the cops will show up. Will they get mad and say those bones belonged to my dad? Even though they aren’t him. Cops always shout, and I hate that. I don’t want to get scolded. Working at Tani Construction is fine, but with the cops involved, maybe I should just quit and find another job. But with my leg like this, I can’t work. If I can’t work, no one will hire me. Being useless is no good. What am I gonna do?

“I’m not going back to the dorm.”

“Not going back? So, what will you do?”

The toaster dings. The shaved-head guy takes out the bread, exclaiming, “Ow, ow!” as he holds it and bites the edge like a hungry dog.

“I don’t want to go back, so I won’t.”

The shaved-head guy just says, “Hmm,” tearing another bite of his bread.

“I’ll work somewhere else.”

If I go to the Center, there’s a recruiter’s car. But it’s raining and late, so it won’t work out today.

“Your foot hurts, right? Looks like you can barely stand. Can you really work?”

When I broke my foot before, it hurt so bad I couldn’t walk for a long time. I stayed in the dorm room until it healed, just watching TV all day. I racked up a mountain of debt with room and board fees, but I was okay with it. What am I supposed to do? I don’t want to go back to the dorm. If the cops come, they’ll start saying unpleasant things. I really hate it… ugh, my head feels like it’s getting all tight and clogged up, all those things they’ll say piling up till I can’t make sense of anything…

“Would you like to stay here for a bit?”

That’s what it sounded like.

“If you’re okay with the sleeping bag, you can keep using it.”

Stay here? This isn’t a dorm—it’s the shaved-head guy’s house. If it’s not outside, places to sleep like dorms or shelters usually cost money.

“I’ll pay. For food and a bed.”

“Uh… didn’t you say you’re out of money?”

“I’ll work and pay once the pain’s gone.”

“… Well, it’s not really a big deal.”

I feel relieved. “Not a big deal” means it’s okay even if I don’t get it all right. I don’t have to think too hard about it. This guy really is a good person.

“You’re very kind.”

“It’s not kindness, really, it’s just… it feels like fate that we happened to meet there.”

The shaved-head guy pours milk into a glass with a splash, a little wave of it spilling out and forming a white circle on the table.

“I don’t really cook or anything, so it’ll mostly be cup ramen and convenience store meals.”

Cup ramen and convenience store meals are fine. They’re better than the dorm food.

“The area behind that curtain over there is my studio,” he says, pointing at a rust-colored curtain. Studio—that word sounds familiar. What was it again?

“When I’m working in there, I usually have music on, so I might not hear if you call me. Just don’t worry about it. You’re free to watch TV as much as you want—it doesn’t bother me unless it’s blasting.”

Am I not supposed to go behind the curtain? I feel like I should say something back, so I just go with, “Alright.” The shaved-head guy turns to look at me.

“Do you want to go to the hospital for your foot?”

“I don’t know.”

The shaved-head guy gives me a startled look, blinking. When I got hurt before, my dad or someone from the company would take me to the hospital. Now that they’re gone, I don’t know how to get there myself. It hurts when I walk on it, but it doesn’t hurt if I don’t walk. It’ll probably heal eventually. I don’t really need to go to the hospital, right?

“I’m not going to the hospital.”

The shaved-head guy pauses, then stands up, saying, “Well, that’s up to you to decide.”

“I’m gonna get to work now, so just make yourself at home. Oh, do you play games or go online?”

“No.”

“Hm,” he nods, then slips behind the rust-colored curtain. Now I’m alone. I’m here by myself. It’s okay for me to be here. Once I can work, I’ll pay back what I owe for room and board, all of it. That’s what a decent person should do. My dad always said honesty was best.

The glass the shaved-head guy was drinking from is still on the table, empty. I rub a finger over the circle of milk on the table, and it leaves a white line, like thinned-out paint.

There’s absolutely nothing to do. Would it be too loud if I turned on the TV? The room’s only divided by a curtain, and I don’t have my own earphones either. I lie down on top of the sleeping bag, rolling over onto my side. I’m not really sleepy, but I close my eyes anyway. Let’s think of something fun. The sky, dark and vast. I really wish I could go to my own star soon. Maybe if I get there, my leg will heal right away. It seems like it would… And then…

“Hey… hey, sir.”

I woke up to my body being gently shaken. Who’s looking at me? Oh, it’s the shaved-head guy. He’s younger than me… oh right, the shaved-headed guy’s here.

“I got us some lunch. Want some?”

There’s a bento and a cup of tea on the table. I crawl over on my knees, peering down at the bento from above, and I spot karaage (fried chicken)—yes! I’m glad.

I sit across from the shaved-head guy, and we start eating our bento meals together.

“Does it bother you if you’re woken up while you’re sleeping?” he asks.

His mouth keeps moving, either talking or eating, nonstop.

“If it does, just let me know. I can buy food and leave it here, and you can eat whenever.”

I don’t mind being woken up. Dad used to wake me up every morning. Come to think of it, even though he called it lunch, I’m not really that hungry. Usually, I’d be starving by lunch, but maybe that’s because I’ve just been lying around doing nothing. The food in the shaved-head guy’s bento quickly disappears—he eats fast. There were a few quick eaters back at the dorm, and he’s just as fast as them.

Something falls from the shaved-head guy. It floats lightly over to me—a thin, blackish strand, coiled a little like a butterfly’s tongue. When I pinch it between my fingers to get a closer look, it crumbles into a powdery dust. “Just throw that away, it’s wood shavings,” the shaved-head guy says.

Wood shavings this tiny… I wonder how they get made. I’m playing with it between my fingers, and some of the dust falls into my tea, forming pale specks on the surface. I try to fish it out with my finger, but I can’t, so I just drink it as is—if it’s just wood, it should be fine.

I finish my bento, close the lid, and say, “It was delicious. Thank you,” bowing my head in thanks to this kind person.

“Oh, right. I picked up some bandages or something while I was out, so here you go.”

The shaved-head guy sets a box on the table. Bandages are for covering painful spots. After the doctor told me my bone had healed last time, my leg still hurt for a while, and he gave me some bandages. They had a sharp, minty smell that hit my nose, and there was an old man in the dorm who smelled the same, so that’s where the smell must’ve come from. It was annoying; the smell clung to me like a swarm of flies the whole time I wore it.

“You said you’re not going to the hospital, but I figured I’d get this because I was a little worried.”

Oh, right. My leg hurts. Maybe if I put this on, it’ll feel better.

“How do I use it?”

“You just put it directly on where it hurts.”

The shaved-head guy opens the box, takes out a white, thin sheet that looks kind of like a flat piece of hanpen (soft fish cake). It’s a bit different from what I saw before, but that same sharp smell hits me.

“Alright, I’ll put it on for you, so stick out your leg.”

I put both legs out from under the table like he said.

“Uh… it’s just one leg that hurts, right? Which one was it… oh, the swollen one here, huh?”

The shaved-head guy presses the bandage onto my leg, and the coolness of it makes me shiver. “Ah! Ah! It’s freezing!” I shout, twitching my leg from the shock. It hurts.

“Heh,” the shaved-head guy chuckles, but quickly apologizes, saying, “Oh, sorry.”

“Hope it helps,” he adds, putting away the empty bento and leaving a big bottle of tea on the table with, “Just make yourself at home.” Then, he slips back behind the rust-colored curtain.

The rain outside is getting louder. There’s nothing to do. …My leg, the one with the bandage, feels cold. It’s unpleasant, like wearing wet, heavy clothes. Do I have to keep it on? Would he get mad if I took it off? I don’t want him to get mad.

Am I not supposed to talk to him when he’s behind the curtain? But this cold feeling on my leg… it’s getting to me, and I can’t take it anymore. On all fours, I crawl over to the rust-colored curtain. Careful not to make a sound, I lift it, just a little.

My eyes go wide. The room is about six tatami mats in size, brighter than where I was. The lights are on full blast. A guy with a shaved head is sitting at a big desk attached to the wall. His back is perfectly round. Occasionally, his arms move a bit, making a soft, scraping sound.

“Um…” I try.

No response. I try a bit louder, “Um…” but still nothing. Is he ignoring me, or does he really not hear me?

Next to the curtain on the wall is a low shelf about as high as I am on all fours. On top of it are several framed pictures standing up. The picture in the very front is of outer space. My head fills with a warm glow of happiness. I wanted to see this picture again. Yes! I slowly step inside. The real picture is even better than the one in my memory. I love it.

A black space, dotted with white. A huge number of white stars fill it. I wonder which one is my star. When I move closer to the picture, it feels like I’m going to be pulled right into the blackness. This has to be the entrance to space, right? Maybe I can go through. I wonder what my mom and dad are doing on our star. Maybe they’re having lunch together.

“Whoa!”

At the sudden loud voice, my chest goes thumping, like it’s about to leap out. It feels scary, like I’ve messed up big time. The guy with the shaved head has turned in his chair and is holding his chest, saying, “Phew.”

“You startled me. I didn’t know anyone was here.”

The guy took out something like white earbuds and asked, “Did you need something?”

Oh, right—what was it again? Why did I come here? I look to the side and see the picture I was just looking at—the picture of outer space.

“This picture… it’s nice.”

The guy laughs, “Haha. You really like that one, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Want to see the woodblock?”

“The… woodblock?”

“Yeah.”

The guy pulls a cardboard box from a big shelf behind his desk. He takes something out of it and shows it to me. It’s a slice of wood.

One side of the wood is pitch-black, almost like it’s burned, and there’s a picture on it. It’s similar to the picture of space. Is it the same one? The space in the picture looks like it could suck me in, but this one doesn’t. It looks the same, but it’s different. What is the difference? The wooden one feels more open and cramped, more and more black, so black… and deep. Yeah, deep, with a suffocating feeling.

Space inside the wood. When I touched it, my fingertip felt scratchy, and I quickly pulled my hand back. There’s something there. Behind it, there’s something. It’s definitely there. The guy traces the place I touched with his finger.

“We ink this type of woodblock and use it to print.”

I lean closer, wanting to get deeper into this universe. Ah, I think I could slip right in. I’d become as tiny as a grain of rice, then… something taps me on the forehead. Tap, tap.

The guy chuckles, and that deep place I was about to enter fades away. The guy’s looking at me.

“What are you doing?”

I’m not doing anything weird, but the guy’s voice sounds amused.

“This is space.”

“If that’s what you think, then that’s fine.”

“I think I can go in.”

The guy says, “Hmm.”

“That’s my universe, though. Even if you knock on it with your head, the door for you won’t open.”

Oh, now I get it. Just now, I understood. This space is where his star is. So, my star isn’t here. They aren’t the same.

“I see.”

I move my face away from the wood. Then, will he one day return to his star, too? There must be lots of people like that, staying silent about it so they can go back when the time comes.

“Are you… waiting for someone to come for you?”

As soon as I ask, a deep fear comes over me. Mom told me not to talk about this with anyone. But… I didn’t say anything about “returning to my star,” so maybe it’s fine? Maybe I’m safe.

"Does 'waiting for someone to come get you'… mean dying?" The shaved-headed guy tilts his head.

Waiting for someone to come isn’t death. That place isn’t death.

“No.”

“It’s not? I don’t really get what you mean.”

The guy puts his universe back in the cardboard box and places it on the shelf. It’s out of sight now, but the universe is still there—the universe framed in the picture. But the universe in the wood felt so packed and dense that it made the one in the picture look flat. Yeah, I think… I like the universe in the wood better.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

In the mornings, I have bread, at lunch I boil water for instant noodles, and at night, I eat a bento. The shaved-headed guy leaves in the morning and comes back at night with a bento.

While watching the picture of his universe from behind the rust-colored curtain, I must’ve fallen asleep. The shaved-headed guy woke me up saying, “Dinner’s ready.”

Tonight’s bento has a red and yellow “discount” sticker on it. I like those. When I was little, my dad used to peel off the stickers for me, and I’d stick them by the TV. That was fun. The shaved-headed guy brings a bento back at night, so he’s kind of like my dad.

“You’re like my dad.”

“Me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Do I even look like him?”

His face… I’m not really sure, but he probably doesn’t look like Dad.

“No.”

“So, is it the atmosphere?”

It’s not just the shaved-headed guy—lots of people talk about ‘atmosphere.’ I don’t really understand it. It’s not the name of a thing, but everyone uses it. When I don’t know what a word means, I just say “yes” to be safe. Some people get mad if I ask. “Didn’t I tell you before?” That scares me, so I’m careful.

“Yes. You bring back bento at night.”

“Ah, I see,” he says, eating his hamburger. I already ate the hamburger from my bento. It was good.

“What’s your dad like?”

The shaved-headed guy looks at me. My dad… What’s he like?

“He’s kind.”

“Must be nice,” he says, popping some tamagoyaki into his mouth. “I don’t think I ever thought my own dad was kind.”

“Really? That’s sad.”

“Sad?” he repeats.

“People who aren’t kind are sad. It’s better if they’re kind.”

He mutters in a low voice, not exactly mad but sort of mumbling, “He wasn’t exactly angry at me, but… being so indifferent, without even trying to hide it, was tough. I haven’t seen him in a long time. Feels like he’s dead to me.”

Dead. That word stood out so clearly. A hazy memory of the face of an uncle who died on-site comes to mind—the screams, the loud ‘thud’ sound. Then, that loud crashing and grinding suddenly stopped, along with the machine engine going quiet, shrinking down, and then silence. Inside, I felt a weird, creeping chill. Nobody spoke. After that short silence, the noise picked up again, louder than before. “He’s dead,” “It’s no use,” people were saying. The ambulance sirens whined in my ears. They carried the bloodied, unmoving uncle on a stretcher. Everyone watching kept saying, “He’s dead, he’s dead.” So, I guess he really was dead. Humans die when they fall from high places, just like dropping a cup. If you drop a cup and it smashes, that’s it. It can’t be used anymore; you throw it away.

There are so many things I don’t remember clearly, but this one stayed vivid in my head. I wish I could forget things like that.

“Death is sad.”

“Yeah, most people feel that way,” he says, putting his empty bento into a plastic bag and setting it down.

“There’s something detached about you and the world around you,” he says, seeming like he’s talking about me, though it sounds complicated. I live because I’m alive. I eat when I’m hungry. I don’t want to die. Death must hurt. There would be blood.

“You don’t seem to have attachments, either.”

Not having attachments is supposed to be good. It makes work go faster. So it’s fine to not have them.

“Sometimes I wonder if the world I see and the world you see are even the same.”

The world I see? The world is the stuff around me. Everyone has eyes, so it should be the same, right?

In front of me, there’s a cup. It’s filled with tea I poured from a big bottle. I pick it up and move it closer to the shaved-headed guy.

“It’s a cup.”

“Well, yes, it is.”

“Can you see the cup?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I can see the cup, too.”

“It’s not that simple or concrete. More like… I guess you’d call it perspective? Atmosphere? Which makes it even vaguer and harder to grasp.” The shaved-headed guy hums thoughtfully, crossing his arms.

“So, in the end, maybe it comes down to whether things you can see and touch are the only real truths,” he says.

Visible things and invisible things… Is it like people who can see ghosts? Doesn’t really matter to me.

“Shaved-head guy is kind like my dad.”

“…‘Shaved-head guy’? You mean me?”

“Yes.”

He sighs. “Yeah, I am shaved, but being called ‘shaved-head guy’ is a bit much,” his voice trails off. “Most people call me Kan or Kan-san, using my first name. That’d be better.”

“Kan-san?”

“Yes. My first name is pronounced ‘Kan-u’ and is written with the characters for ‘sweet rain.’ When people first meet me, they often assume I’m named after the ‘Kan’ in Romance of the Three Kingdoms’s Guan Yu, unless I show them my business card.”

Sweet rain. Like a candy. It’s a nice, tasty-sounding name. I like it.

“Kan-san.”

“Yes.”

The shaved-head guy is now Kan-san. I remember an old man who went by that name once, too.

“What’s your name?”

“Mura.”

“…Mura-san, then. Mura-san, you really like karaage, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You always eat the karaage first from your bento. I try to get it when I can, but it’s popular, so there isn’t always any left.”

He tosses the empty bento into the trash and says, “I’ll be in the other room. If you need anything, just call,” before going behind the rust-colored curtain.

Now I’m alone. There’s nothing else to do, so I turn on the TV. Kan-san said I don’t need headphones. He says the TV doesn’t bother him. I’d thought that was unusual, but now I realize I don’t mind the noise, either.

When I lie down on the sleeping bag, my sore leg throbs. I forgot about the pain and moved it too fast. I wonder if it’s getting better? It still hurts when I stand, so I’ve been here for days. The money… well, Kan-san’s probably handling that, like the admin person back at the dorm. Once my leg stops hurting, I’ll go work. I’ll pay him back properly. My dad said it’s okay to borrow money as long as you repay it.

Outside, people might steal from you while you sleep or hit you, but here, I’m safe. I can stay inside, watch TV, eat meals. My body doesn’t get itchy, and I can take a proper bath. Kan-san is kind. He’s kind, just like my dad. It’s nice here. Really nice.

If I had a cigarette, it’d be perfect. You need money to buy cigarettes. I don’t have money because I’m not working. I wonder if Kan-san smokes. I’ve never seen him smoke. Some people at work don’t smoke or drink, either.

I only drank once. When I became an adult, my dad gave me a cigarette and a cup with alcohol to celebrate. The alcohol smelled like thinner, made me feel sick, and I threw up. Dad said, “I can’t drink, either. Guess it’s genetic.” My dad always smoked, though. His clothes had a nice tobacco smell.

Man, I really want a cigarette. I don’t have any. I’d need money to buy some. I wonder if I could borrow money from Kan-san. Even if I did, could I make it to the convenience store to buy them? Can I walk that far? Where is the convenience store, anyway? I think this place was near a park. I’ll figure it out once I’m walking.

Lying on my stomach, I look under Kan-san’s bed to see if there are any half-smoked ones left behind. I stretch my hand out and feel something rustling. It’s something blackish. I pull it out. It’s a small, square plastic bag, no bigger than my palm. It’s thin. Gum, maybe? The bag’s not opened, so maybe it’s still good to eat. I place it on the table.

Dust covers my arm, so I brush it off. I wonder if Kan-san has a cigarette. Even if it’s damp, I’d take it. Should I ask him? I didn’t need one until now, so why am I suddenly craving it so badly? Maybe it’s just because I keep thinking about it—cigarettes, cigarettes.

On all fours, I crawl over and lift the rust-colored curtain. A sharp scent hits my nose... is that semen? Kan-san is sitting in a chair, moving his hand between his legs. Oh, he’s rubbing himself.

His back shifts slightly, then freezes. He turns his head towards me, and with a loud “Whoa!” he hunches forward. I flinch at his shout, and he hurriedly apologizes, tucking his now-standing penis back into his pants.

“Do you have a cigarette?”

“A… cigarette?”

“An unfinished one would be fine.”

“I’ll… I’ll look. If I find one, I’ll bring it to you.”

I go back to the TV. Kan-san was rubbing himself. I do that sometimes too. Dad once told me, “If you’re going to do that, only do it in the bathroom or under the covers. It’s not something you show to others.” The dorm toilets were always stinky and filthy, so I’d always do it in bed. But here, the bathroom’s clean, so I use it instead. I wonder why Kan-san doesn’t use the bathroom or his bed for it.

There’s a soft rustle, and Kan-san comes out from behind the rust-colored curtain.

“About earlier… sorry about that.”

He’s apologizing again. I wonder why. I’m not mad, but I reply with a “Yes.”

“…I think I mentioned, just as a rule, to call out before you go over there.”

Call out? Did he tell me that?

“Oh, okay.”

Kan-san’s face is redder than usual. Is he angry? Or maybe he’s embarrassed about being seen?

“I only saw a little bit,” I say.

Kan-san’s face flushes even deeper, and he looks down, trembling slightly as he grabs the gum packet from the table and stuffs it into his pocket. His ears are a bright, fiery red.

“It’s best to rub yourself either in the bathroom or under the covers.”

With a small “yes,” he replies, then slips back behind the rust-colored curtain.

Previous TOC Next