逆の世界

Sometimes I don't update because nothing much is happening, and sometimes I don't update because so much is happening that I don't know what to say. Right now I'm sitting on the couch at our Cape Cod house watching the Little League World Series and eating pasta, and Japan feels like a dream. I've also entered the parallel universe that I've felt fluttering just out of reach of the real one, and it feels like the (admittedly rather lame) ending of the Narnia books, when they realize that what they thought was reality was actually a pale shadow of it. I don't know how to write about any of that. Instead, here is a random little snippet, a moment when I almost dipped into the new universe, I guess. It's not very good but whatever, it gave me something to do during all the rain delays in the baseball. ^_^; I'll post a more rambly, anecdote-y update sometime after (eep!) my grad school classes begin this week...


~ ~ ~

"Soro soro," she whispers to the dark ceiling.

"Ah," comes his voice from his futon, an affirmation. Soro soro, what you say before you leave. Like all aisatsu, Japanese greetings, there is only one accepted response. You don't contradict aisatsu. "Soro soro ne."

She lets out a breath and runs her hand slowly over the tatami, up to the futon next to her on which she rests her head. The futon she finally pushed off of herself so she could breathe; the futon he had grabbed from the closet, springing up from under his covers, startling her as she lay on the floor, and piled on top of her, burying her as she giggled helplessly under the weight. It's Gyaku-Land, he told her as he shoved a pillow on top of the futon over her feet. Gyaku, backwards. The air still rings with those giggles, with their laughter as she fell to the floor, giving in to pure tired silliness. "Taorechatta!" they had yelled in spontaneous unison. Fallen, defeated. That's how she feels. After a day of tension and confused longing, completely defeated. Light from the hazy full moon shines weakly through the sliding balcony door, which hides the wet laundry hung up to dry out in the drizzle. It won't dry by tomorrow, and it's her fault, her fault that it will mildew curled up in the suitcase, her fault because she didn't think of this sooner, because she was supposed to think of everything, because she has to be the perfect host, because this trip has to be perfect, perfect, because this is her only time with him, just one more week before he goes back to Her. Because he belongs to Her, and he always will.

But not in Gyaku-Land. In Gyaku-Land it didn't matter. In Gyaku-Land, clothes are put out in the rain to get wet before wearing, and the futon goes on top of you. Maybe in Gyaku-Land, he could belong to her...

But now the futon lies next to her, and the aisatsu hang in the air, banishing the traces of their laughter. Inescapable. She said it because she has no right to be here. No right to just want to lie near him, giggling and breathing and forgetting. Soro soro, she will push herself up, stand, step down into the hall, send more aisatsu across the room as she leaves -- oyasumi, mata ashita. See you tomorrow. Descend the stairs to her own room, where she can't hear him breathe as she can now. Soro soro, soon, soon...