Because they are experts in the art of teamwork, they have a natural aptitude for team sports. They are particularly talented at volleyball, and have won every intercompany volleyball tournament so far. Their determination during the match is so formidable, it’s as if some kind of spectral energy is rising off them.
Of course, in its sporting formulation, Team Sarashina is still composed entirely of female members, but even when faced with a rival team that is mixed or all male, they emerge victorious. Though they won’t say it explicitly, it’s clear that they simply love to win, and they seem particularly jubilant when they beat a men’s team. People still talk of the time when their rigid composure broke after thrashing a team of hulky men at basketball, and they beamed with joy. That was how people discovered that ten grinning Sarashinas actually make for quite an eerie spectacle. You just don’t know what they’re going to do.
On that occasion, someone called Ms. Sarashina as she was headed into the changing room, and somehow summoned the courage to ask her why she liked winning so much.
“We like showing people what we’re capable of,” she said calmly as she wiped away the sweat from her neck, and then she and the other Sarashinas filed into the changing room with supreme poise.
As it happens, the most recent intercompany championship wasn’t a sports tournament, but a traditional Japanese dance competition. When I first heard about it, I assumed it would be a step too far even for Team Sarashina but they began to practice with astounding dedication right away, as if they’d been issued a challenge to which they were determined to rise. As soon as their work for the day had finished, they’d flock to the dancing school and rehearse for at least three hours. You couldn’t help but admire their extraordinary effort. Where did they get this drive?
On the day of the competition, I set out excitedly for the hall where it was being held. Wielding skills I never knew she had, Ms. Nogiku danced a stunning solo, which was followed by a fan dance from Ms. Sarashina and Ms. Tagoto, who made quite the stellar duo. The other members, positioned around them onstage, sporting their usual composed expressions, joined in for the dazzling finale. When it was over, I applauded their accomplishments and their ethereal brilliance with all the gusto I had. I imagine there may be readers who think that because the Sarashinas have mastered Japanese dance, they’d be an asset for entertaining customers in a tatami room, geisha-style, but I am happy to report our company has never engaged in such brain-dead practices.
Unfortunately, this time the Sarashinas had to suffer the indignity of second place (first place was snatched up by an invincible team who’d been dancing for more than a decade). With no perceptible change of expression, they filed out of sight into the changing room. I can only imagine that their attempts next year will be even more determined. If anything, the display renewed my resolve to follow their progress as a devoted fan.
The picture below shows Team Sarashina standing with their customary composed expression in front of the shelf outside the company reception room, where a medley of trophies and certificates they’ve won are displayed.
A Day Off
I’m lying faceup on my bed right now. I did get up this morning—I ate breakfast and quickly vacuumed my apartment—but then I felt the urge to rest, and I’ve lain here since. I’m sprawled on top of my bedcover, a thin, Korean-made quilt that I bought online after falling in love with its pretty shade of violet-blue. The weather’s about to turn cold, and soon I’ll be needing a blanket at night. I’d better start looking for one. Then I’d better buy it.
The eruption of children’s voices from the grade school next door must mean it’s lunchtime. Honestly, the time just whizzes by. It’s my day off, Wednesday is ladies’ discount day at the cinema, and a part of me would like to go to see a movie, but the thought of leaving the house is so off-putting. It seems as though today is destined to be an off day. I’m not even properly dressed yet—I’m still lounging around in my Hanes blue sweatshirt. I wish the school would make me lunch too, in recognition of my living so close. It’s been such a long time since I ate those stews and curries and other less easily categorized dishes from those aluminum bowls, and I’d love to do it again. Those weird vinegary salads they used to give us along with pickles and other stuff. Truth is, I really can’t be bothered to make my own lunch, and I can’t be bothered to go out to eat either.
Gum is sitting on my chest. That’s a pretty frequent occurrence, so I can’t recall the exact moment when she jumped up there, the toes of both her feet arranged in a neat little row. She’s perched in the exact spot where, if my chest were a bit more voluminous, travelers would start to feel concerned about the cleft in the terrain stretching out ahead of them. As it is, though, my chest seems to shrink with every passing year, so any visitors to the area would probably only feel disappointment at the lack of adventure on offer.
Gum is staring fixedly in my direction, but it’s not like she wants anything in particular. She’s just staring. It’s only Gum who looks at me this way. When humans stare at other humans like this, it ends up taking on a certain
