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,
