-Consequentially-

The first time we had sex, she was crying. Tears began to slide down her cheeks, thickening into a river, along a quiet mountain slope. She made no sound and if she was in pain, she didn't show it. The tears seemed to have no relation to what we were doing. She looked just as confused as I was but she kept telling me to continue. It wasn't easy - though I did as she asked.

The T.V. set had been on at my apartment. She wanted a change of venue and couldn't bear the thought of returning to her Nirvana poster and empty fish tank, so I invited her over. It was her first time in a man's house, she confessed. But I didn't tell her I wasn't sure if it had been my first time in a woman's place either, weeks ago, after the new bus station had shown up - when things started changing.

I tried to prepare dinner from what groceries were left, which wasn't much. And so she sat quietly at my kitchen table - the one with a splinter that I would still rotate daily - and rested her chin on her palms, hair tied up, watching me cook. She said nothing, and I said nothing. I was making Japanese curry, which was about the only dish I had ingredients for. Carrots, potatoes, beef brisket and an instant curry roux. There was the sound of the bubbling pot and its concoction, utensils, and tinkling plates.

The only thing she ended up saying during supper was to ask if I had beer. It was evening and beer was in order. It seemed to be right. We cracked open two cans of Sapporo and downed it, while watching television. None of the channels were immediately interesting, nor was she interested in it either. She seemed to be thinking.

I stopped on the news channel. For a few days, there had been no word. We stayed in our respective apartments, without seeing each other, laid low and remained in the dark. We barely spoke to one another or exchanged messages. We would disappear from the world for a little while. What had happened was too surreal and too unexpected to grasp. It had been the clash of both poles, growth and destruction, beauty and death, hot and cold. Neither could we face one another. Something unearthly had happened that we couldn't comprehend ourselves. We had simply been swept along without much conscious choice like in the fearsome wake of a tsunami. What had happened on top of the ferris wheel remained within that clear gondola. It was an unspoken mutual agreement. There was no compelling evidence to confirm it as reality. Nor should we attempt to. It could have just been the makings of hallucination or the hyper-vivid texture of a wet dream. There was no need to enquire into the subject either. It would slip into the passing of time, and avoid our humiliated and damaged ego in totality. Yet, I was still tempted to keep my eye on the news however, for any signs that it would creep into being regardless, beyond our notice like a thief in the night. There had been nothing. Up until she called that day, asking to see me, and subsequently, appeared in my apartment.

The news was covering the plummeting value of stocks and the rumours of war on Israeli borders - as if it were still news or rumour - when it suddenly switched to something else. It began with the report on a suicide on a particular Tokyu train line Yokohama-bound. Suicides are not particularly uncommon, but our heads no doubt immediately snapped into focus. As if it were something trifling and inconsequential, the host casually introduced the topic with no difference in demeanor. I checked to see if we were still on the same channel.

The report included the time and date, location and manner of death. The man had left behind no sign of struggle, no notes, no residence, no lover, no family. It was apparent that he had sold his apartment two weeks prior to his death, which might have meant he had been homeless at the time. But yet, he was remarkably well dressed and well groomed. There wasn't any issue with his bank account either. He still had a stable portion of assets and finances. He had been working at a small printing and distribution company, and his employer seemed to be in shock of his untimely death. It was strange, but not too strange. It's not at all unusual in Japan. Most people keep to themselves and hide all sign of trouble. They don't want to be a bother to people around them. Perhaps it's better to just disappear silently. But it can never be the case, as the most important detail stressed repeatedly, was that it had delayed the trains in the area for an hour and the government would have to pay for the damage.

For what we were concerned with, the news report didn't contain any relevant clues about his death. He was certainly dressed in a black suit, black tie, white dress shirt, black pants and black dress shoes. I could still remember the image of the shoe, tousled and stained on the rail. But it seemed to have nothing to do with the information given.

I was washing the dishes, contemplating the black shoe, while Shizuka was still glued to the screen, when another news story caught our attention. It was about a concert in Yokohama. We both knew which concert it had been. I turned off the tap and dried my hands and sat down beside her like it was time for a movie.

The newscaster had a monotone drawl. Facts were listed, just like the suicide had been. There was nothing out of place. There was no mention about the Cause, because it was called a charity-campaign by a youth movement that embraced pop culture and sought to make a successful transition from immature irresponsibility into society as "shakaijin" and adulthood. The youth movement had no official name but is known to be fully supported by the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology.

Pictures and video footage of uniform black suits were broadcasted, dignified, on our screen, but none remained for too long. They flipped by like looking through a photo album. Some depicted crowds dancing in fanatic motions following after their giant vocaloid rolemodel, while others were of young men and women holding crude signs in the likeness of protest propaganda: "Build a better Future." "Contribute to the System." "Unite to Strengthen." "Destroy old traditions! Forge new paths!" Their floating heads seemed more like afterthoughts than a part of the image. They were all smiling.

We had thought it was over and I was about to return to the dishes when the report cut to an eerily familiar picture. It hit us with such shock, I staggered half standing, half sitting. There we were, two faces, pressed close, her eyes closed, hair lightly framing her cheeks, her lips touching his. Red parkas. I blanched. It happened in all less than a second, a quick flash of the picture. Then a return to the host. But we had seen it nevertheless. There it was.

But oddly, Shizuka had recovered alarmingly fast. Her face was blank and soft once again, while mine remained on edge.

"I've thought about it," she began.

"About what?"

"That."

"What did you decide?"

"Make love to me," she said.

She had gotten up and sat down on my bed and undressed, without any trace of hesitation or embarrassment, while I stared, in what might have been bewilderment or awe. She sat there, naked, shadows under her eyes, hands folded on her lap, her well-formed breasts rising and falling. Nothing made sense in my mind, and my mind had become blank. It wasn't possible to admire her body at the time either. She hadn't bothered to explain herself.

"Make love to me," she said again.

I was unsure of what love meant, but I did as told, the image of us on national television, lips together, in my mind. When I entered her, she started crying. Everything was wet. Like I had breached a dam inside of her, and opened a sealed away portion of her soul. She hadn't explained anything, but she told me it was the right thing to do, to not leave her alone ever again, and desperately clung on for life.

Somehow, it had set things into motion.

*

Five days after that night, the phone calls and messages began. They came one after another. At first, it was my phone, but as my phone was overloaded with voicemail messages, hers received the same relentless treatment. Some of the numbers were unfamiliar; a few were even foreign, from China, America or Europe. Some were blocked as unknown numbers. Others were from numbers already on our contact lists. When I first picked up a call from one of our friends from Friday drinking nights, I was greeted with such polite mannerism, I thought there had been a mistake. "Maeda-san," he said, "I am moving to Osaka tomorrow, I thought it would be courteous to let you know." I asked why so sudden but he didn't say. Instead, he told me to be careful, that people weren't what they seemed, and that he didn't know himself very well either. "Have a safe trip," I really meant it. "I will. Maybe I will see you again," he said.

He wasn't the first one to move. Some contacts called with a blunt request to not contact them anymore, as they were cancelling their phone service - which was hard to believe - and still others mentioned that they had a new job and would be busy. The university contacted me, asking if I would like to apply for a scholarship to study abroad. When I declined the offer, they hung up abruptly.

One particular evening, just as Shizuka had been showering, a number and a name I hadn't seen for years lit up on my display. It was a bizarre sight, to see my own last name printed on the screen. Maeda Chitose. Below her name was the word for mother.

I hadn't spoken to my mother for years, and the memories of her had been tucked so far away that it took a while of foggy, sedated searching to fully register. It was a good minute before I could take a deep breath and answer.

"Nao-kun?"

"It's been a while."

"Yes," her voice trailed off. It was fainter, weaker, rougher than I had last remembered. But how much I could trust my memory, I did not know.

"How have you been?" she said.

"Fine. Are you doing well too?"

"I am doing as well as an old woman does."

"That's good to hear."

"I don't know when we will speak again, Nao-kun." She sounded emotionless. But there was also a trace of sorrow.

I remained silent.

"Please take care of yourself and your friend."

"My friend?"

She didn't reply for a while. I waited. "Did you know that your father used to make delicious Korean kimchi?"

"No."

"I miss kimchi."

"I'm sure."

"Will you come have kimchi sometime?" She asked in a detached tone. Like she was inquiring about the weather.

"Maybe," I said, knowing full well it would likely not happen.

"Good, good."

There was silence. I could barely hear her breathing. In the background, I made out the sound of a clock ticking and the static of a radio. She was probably still living in the same house, using the same landline phone. I wondered if it was still drab and cold in the winters. Neither of us had spoken, until there was a click as she hung up.

While Shizuka didn't have much family, aside from her foster parents, nor friends from her years staying at home, she received emails and calls from institutions she had no real recollection of. The postal office asked to confirm her address; credit cards she never had cancelled her account; the hospital seemed to make mistaken calls about her fictional dying father; and she finally broke down when an escort service informed her that her client would not be showing up. "Shut up!" Her composure had shattered in front of me completely. All I could see was a lonely frightened girl.

I had turned off our phones, put them in the garbage can and held her that night.

"I'm sorry," I said the next morning.

"I'm sorry that I am useless," she replied.

"We can be useless together."

She finally smiled.