Crossings

i tell taku about it a few hours later. His fiancée is visiting family in Nagoya. We’re sprawled naked across my sofa, a little dizzy in the afterglow.

Weird, Taku says. He sounds like a dickhead.

Your words, I say.

And the whole thing feels like a bad omen.

You believe in that shit? I ask.

You don’t? Even after what just happened?

It makes sense that I’d see him.

In the largest city in the world?

Whatever, I say.

Taku inches onto his elbow. I take a moment to try to really look at him. His hair’s all over the place. Usually, we both wear glasses, which leaves us squinting at each other after we fuck without them.

Where would you go on your honeymoon, he asks, poking me in the chest.

Rural Jamaica, I say.

Be serious.

I’m never getting married, I say.

You say that like it’s an option here, Taku says.

And you aren’t getting married either.

It’s not like Emi actually wants to. She keeps putting it off.

Then it’s settled.

Taku runs a hand over my head. He stands, stepping into a pair of boxers, ambling toward the kettle for coffee. I’ve still got his cum on my chest. I rub it between my fingers. When we’d first started fucking, Taku wouldn’t even keep the lights on. Now he insists on riding me, squeezing my belly, dictating our pace.

Do you think you’ll see him again, Taku asks.

What, I say. Why the fuck would I do that?

I don’t know. Seems like something worth investigating.

And how would that make you feel, I say, if I did?

Taku whistles. Then he pours water over the grounds, moving the ladle in a circle. The coffee blooms, settling, as he refills it to the brim once, then again. For someone so transparent, I can hardly read his tone.

Doesn’t matter, I say. Probably won’t hear from him.

Jay texts the next morning. Asks if I’ll meet him for coffee.

We’re staying in Ni-chōme, he writes. That’s the gay district.

I fucking know that, I write back.

Of course you do, Jay replies.

Despite myself, a few hours later, I’m exiting Shinjuku Station, juggling a tote through the crowd. It’s the busiest train hub in the world, but it takes only two seconds to spot Jay, hunched over his phone. Which gives me a moment to decide what the fuck I’m actually here for.

He really does look like an entirely different human.

But then Jay spots me too. Smiles entirely too wide. And suddenly we’re walking next to each other under an overcast sky, as if we’re the type of people who do this all the time. It isn’t long before we’re caught in the crowd, crossing intersection after intersection in waves alongside cops directing traffic.

Look at us, Jay says.

He’s being polite. I’m dressed like I’ve just wandered out of bed, in sweatpants and a hoodie. Jay’s donning designer wear, clean-shaven, walking with a looseness wielded by certain kinds of beautiful men. We step into a coffee shop off Naka-dori. He turns to me as the barista approaches, and I order for us both.

Hey, Jay says, you can speak Japanese?

It’s been years, I say, which feels like I’m stating the obvious, but something seems to pass over Jay’s face.

And just like that, sitting across from him, I don’t know what the fuck to say.

Jay gives me the highlights: Their wedding was in Dallas. They bought a condo in Austin, where the husband works. Jay’s job is remote, but it brings him to San Francisco every other month.

Computer shit, he says.

Fucking AI, I say.

Nothing as interesting.

So, I say, how’d you meet?

We don’t have to talk about Chris, Jay says.

Chris is a cute name, I say. Unique.

Fuck off, Jay says. And you can call him Christopher.

Fine, I say. So, how?

Jay blinks a few times. He squeezes his shoulder, exposing a bicep.

Through friends, he says.

So you met on an app, I say.

You’re still funny, Jay says. I’m glad that hasn’t changed.

He asks about my life. I strongly consider lying.

Still teaching English, I say, but I’m quitting soon.

You’ll never quit that job, he says.

You don’t know that.

Jay smirks, but he doesn’t press me.

Gauzy rock plays from the speakers above. The shop is filled mostly with locals, chatting softly among themselves. Eventually, it seems that Jay has no intention of finishing his coffee.

So I stand. Tell him I have somewhere to be.

Me too, Jay says. Tokyo Tower. Chris will be wondering where I’m at.

Did you tell him that you’re seeing me?

What do you think, Jay says.

A beat passes between us. I don’t know what the correct answer is.

Then Jay laughs, slapping my arm.

Of course, he says. You’re a friend now. It’s fine.

But let’s see each other again, he adds. I’m here for a week.

Before I can respond, Jay grins and steps around me on his way toward the door, waving a hand at the cashier.

the last time I saw him, Jay had been a crying mess. That was nearly ten years ago. Back at our old place in Austin.

He sat on our sofa, hugging his legs. I stood in the hallway, flexing my hands.

So you’re saying we’re done, Jay said.

I think that’s best, I said.

You know we don’t have to, Jay said, right? I don’t want this.

Doesn’t matter what we want, I said. It just needs to happen.

I’d fucked someone else for the fourth or fifth time. Jay had tried to take it in stride. But being with him was turning me into someone I didn’t want to become. So I’d told him, after he’d gotten home from work, that things had come to an end.

But why, Jay said.

It needs to happen, I repeated.

Then he looked up at me. Smiling through tears.

I’ll never forgive you for this, he said.

I don’t expect you to, I said.

I’m not mad, Jay said. But I won’t forgive you. Not for the rest of your life.

after my english lessons, I ask Taku if he’s down for a drink. He rarely messages me first. I think he prefers it this way—he always has the chance not to respond. But tonight, like most other times, he sends me a thumbs-up.

I meet him outside Ueno Station. He’s in his suit and tie, vaping. Then we’re at our usual bar, a place that doesn’t brand itself as gay, although I’ve only ever seen other men here, still in their work clothes, groping all over each other.

So, Taku says, how was it, seeing your guy?

He’s not my guy, I say.

Fine. The ex. Did you make up?

It wasn’t like that.

Oof, Taku says, pulling on his vape. That’s boring.

Raising his arm, he flags the bar’s matron down for an order of fried chicken and tamagoyaki. She waves a hand at us, winking at me.

Look, Taku says, I know you’ve said it was hard breaking up with him.

I told you that?

I do remember things, Taku says, smiling. And he obviously wants to reconcile. He wouldn’t have contacted you otherwise.

You don’t know him, I say.

You’re right, Taku says. But you don’t either now, right?

What he said hits me hard. The hostess sets the chicken thighs between us, asking if we want more beer. Before Taku can decline, I raise two fingers. He narrows his eyes when she puts the mugs on the table.

We both work tomorrow, he says.

Yeah, I say. But we’ll fuck before then, right?

I don’t need to be drunk to do that, Taku says, blushing.

Then he reaches across the table, fondling my knuckles over the plate.

Your palms are sweaty, he says.

I start to move my hand away, but he holds my fingers steady. No one else is paying attention to us. And Taku just rubs me, like a small bird, some soft thing.

my first winter in Tokyo, I was so lonely that I couldn’t breathe. Whole weeks passed where I found myself gasping: on the train; in line at 7-Eleven; between lessons with students; at night in my apartment, bracing myself against the kitchen counter.

Every time, the solution felt clearer and clearer. It’d been a year since I’d left Jay, and I needed to reenter the world.

I slipped into the app scene. Something about the language barrier and being a foreigner had kept me off them. But now, most nights, I’d chat with men all over the city. In some ward, somewhere, there was always somebody looking to fuck. I chatted with a dad of three in Yokohama who’d just come out to himself but no one else. I chatted with a go-go boy from Okinawa who was working on getting his Australian visa. I chatted with hundreds of guys who were horny, sure, but mostly just lonely, like me. I reached out to them first.

But one guy reached out to me.

That night, I was walking laps through Shinjuku, doing my best to stay awake. After the usual dance of what we were looking for and our willingness to catch the train across town, this guy asked me something funny: If I could change anything about my life, what would it be?

Sounds heavy, I wrote.

It is, he wrote back. Should I start? I’d be someone else entirely.

I leaned against the window of a Muji, crossing my arms. A trio of British tourists darted across the road from a taxi as it ambled off.

Like who, I wrote.

Someone braver, he replied.

That would be nice. Maybe.

Maybe.

We messaged for another few weeks before I finally asked if we could meet. We still hadn’t seen each other’s faces. It was useful: I could imagine who this man was. How tall. His weight. How light or dark. The roughness of his hands. We decided to meet at a station, and when he approached me, I was still messaging him. It took me a moment to process that he was the person I’d been talking to. A beat passed. Neither of us moved. Then he walked toward me, grinning.

We were both shorter than we’d said. Both a little bit wider. But we still fucked in the dark in a breathless sort of way. Afterward, as we lay beside each other, he told me that I was his first.

First what, I said.

You know, he said.

Black guy, I said, snorting.

No, Taku said, laughing. Bottom. I’m usually the one being fucked.

Then he crossed his eyes, sticking out his tongue until I finally laughed.

a few weeks later, Taku told me about his girlfriend. We were idling at the park next to my apartment. It’s just a handful of benches and a playground under some trees, but it’s one of the larger patches of green in Shin-Ōkubo.

But she knows, he added.

So I’m just something on the side, I said.

No. I care about you. It’s just that—

I get it, I said, and I left him sitting right there, staring at his shoes.

But I texted him later. Asked when he wanted to meet again.

now we’re sitting in the same park. Kicking the dirt under a swing set. Sipping cans of beer from the vending machine glow behind us. A kitten circles at a distance, mewing as Taku tosses it pieces of fish jerky.

So, Taku says, do you regret being with him?

That’s a hell of a question. And why are you fixated on this?

Am I fixated?

You keep bringing him up.

I’m curious, Taku says. I’ve never been in that situation before.

You’ve never had an ex, I ask.

Taku tosses out more fish jerky, tearing chunks in two. The lights above us dim from time to time, but they never entirely go out.

No, he says, blinking. Emi’s the first person I’ve been in a relationship with. Which was out of necessity—we wanted to get our families off our backs. And with the engagement out of the way, we can both do our own things.

But you were the second, Taku adds. Everyone else was, you know.

He shakes his hand, allowing it to waver above his shoulder. We both kick the ground, swinging higher.

It’s all in the past for me, I say. We were young. Young people do dumb shit.

Young men do dumb shit, Taku says.

And what about us?

Thirties are not so young.

No, I say. I mean, when we’re finished, you’ll still be with Emi. Then you’ll finally have an ex.

Taku blinks at me. He takes a long sip of beer, downing half the can.

Hey, I say, you’re going to need to walk back.

Actually, he says, I thought I’d spend the night at your place.

Whoa. Haven’t done that in a while.

Emi’s staying with her folks. We’ll make it a holiday.

Then Taku extracts another handful of jerky, holding it out for the stray. The kitten wanders over, tentatively at first, stopping just short of the two of us. It sits, waiting for Taku to toss the treat, resting its chin on its paws.

when jay messages me again, it’s nearly three in the morning. Taku is snoring beside me. His nose is lit up by my screen.

Let’s grab a drink tomorrow, Jay writes. You can meet Chris.

You mean tonight, I write.

Whatever.

He’s OK with that?

Bubbles appear immediately.

Chris says it’s fine, Jay writes.

Christopher says it’s fine, I write, or you told him it’s fine?

Bubbles appear. They disappear. Then they appear again.

Say no if you don’t want to, Jay writes. Just thought it’d be nice.

Then he adds: Might be a while before we see each other again.

I turn back to Taku. He’s flipped onto his side, arms wrapped around a pillow.

In a few hours, the city will wake itself up. The trains will rattle below us. But while Taku’s snoring, the apartment is an entirely different world—one where things make sense.

jay and i took only one trip. Even after three years together, we didn’t have the money. But his family was holding a reunion in Jamaica, right in the center of Kingston, and he asked if I wanted to come along.

We’d just finished fucking. There wasn’t much in our Austin apartment: a bed, a nightstand, some dinner chairs with no table to set them around.

Whoa, I said. Is that safe?

You think I’d bring it up if it wasn’t, Jay asked.

Right, I said. And if anyone asks who I am?

You’re my friend, Jay said. That’s it.

We blew our entire paychecks and flew into Kingston on a too-hot morning in June. Met some of his aunts at the airport. They picked at his hair, slapped at his back, laughing and gasping and yelling until they finally asked how I was, and who, and Jay replied that I was his buddy from college.

A question passed from face to face. The women were muted. But, eventually, they turned warm again, wondering about my family, and also what I’d eaten to have become so much larger than Jay.

The reunion was held in a hotel that looked like a mansion, with a gaudy white fence surrounding it under glittering fronds. Jay’s family filtered in throughout the week from Atlanta and Toronto and Brooklyn and Vancouver and Sydney and Miami and Los Angeles. In the evenings, we sat next to each other while his relatives danced and yelled into karaoke mics, slapping dominoes and sipping beer in the seats alongside us.

Of course the two of us shared a room, with two beds, parking our luggage on one and fucking on the other. One night, after we’d finished, the two of us lay beside each other, drawing circles on each other’s bellies. I’d never seen Jay smile wider.

Aren’t you glad you came, he said.

You came first, I said.

I’m serious.

Are you really fishing for compliments?

They don’t hurt.

Fine, then, I said. You were right.

Jay grinned. He ran a hand over my chest.

We should go for a walk, Jay said. To poke our heads out.

So the two of us stood, slipping into shorts and shirts. Jay wore a half-buttoned button-down. I wore a black tank top. We nodded at the frowning security guards by the hotel’s gate and walked, blending into the fabric of the evening. The scattered homes lining the hillside turned into patches of buildings and businesses. From time to time, Jay brushed against my arm, and I made a clear point of inching away from him. Didn’t need to meet his eyes for him to understand why.

Next to a woman selling watermelon juice, we ran into a trio of men in conversation. They were standing and drinking, laughing. Then, entirely out of nowhere, one hit another across the head with a bottle.

I didn’t register the crack. Didn’t even clock what I’d just seen. I felt Jay shift his body in front of mine. Two of the men walked away, still drinking and laughing; the third remained on the ground. Some blood trickled from his head.

Jay asked if he was all right, extending a hand. When the man didn’t answer, Jay asked again. That’s when the man sucked on his teeth and sat up. He spat at Jay’s feet.

Fucking batty boys, he said, holding his head.

Just that quickly, the evening air became suffocating. I couldn’t breathe from the humidity. Jay’s body turned, directing mine. We walked, quickly, back to where the hotel’s shadow loomed over the trees. Our pace slowed, gradually, until our shoulders bumped and our breaths turned shallow.

Soon we stopped entirely. Jay allowed me to hold him. And I did. But then we saw someone from the hotel call out to us. One of his uncles.

We separated. Jay yelled that we were fine. We took care not to touch again.

jay sends me the addresses of a few bars, but I suggest one in Ni-chōme instead. There I scale three sets of stairs, grabbing a seat in the corner while Taiwanese pop drones. The bartender nods at me.

When I check my phone to see if they’ve canceled or gotten lost, I see something from Taku instead.

He’s written: Another night at your place?

I write: Sure, but I’ll be late.

He writes: I’ll be up.

And I’m thinking about how to respond when I see Jay and Chris step inside.

My first thought when they arrive is that Chris is taller than I expected. They’re both dressed in jackets and jeans, looking complementary, and the body language of the bar’s other patrons tilts almost imperceptibly toward them. Once they’re seated, I start to order, but Chris cuts me off, gently, speaking a soft-handed Japanese.

Ah, I say, sorry.

Don’t be, Chris says. I studied a little bit in high school.

He’s a smart one, Jay says, setting a hand on Chris’s thigh.

Chris and I flinch.

The first thirty minutes pass in this way: I learn that they actually did meet each other through friends. That Chris teaches film at a university in Austin. That he grew up in Oakland and then Oklahoma. I ask him how that was, and he makes a devil’s horns sign with his fingers.

Imagine the worst thing, Chris says, smiling. Then double it.

After another round of drinks, his body inches closer to Jay’s. More patrons file in, and a handful glance our way. I wonder, duly, if the bar’s ever seen three Black men at the exact same time.

But then I look up, and Jay and Chris are staring.

Shit, I say, sorry. What?

I asked if you were seeing anyone, Jay says.

And I said you don’t have to answer that, Chris says. It’s rude.

We’ve got history, Jay says.

That has nothing to do with it, Chris says.

It’s fine, I say.

I take a sip of my drink. They’re both silent, leaning forward.

Yeah, I say. I am.

Jay only blinks back at me.

Chris smiles and says, Good for you.

A local guy, I say. It’s been a few years now.

Do you live together, Chris asks.

Yeah, I say.

Bullshit, Jay says.

The two of us turn to him. The look on his face is harder than it should be. Enough that the bartender lingers a beat.

Ah, Jay says. Sorry. Too much to drink. We already had a few beers beforehand.

You had a few beers beforehand, Chris says. You should go wash your face.

Aye-aye, Jay says, standing from his stool, then ambling toward the bathroom.

Which leaves Chris and me alone. I take the chance to really look at his face.

Oh, I say. Congratulations.

Chris smiles like he can’t read my intentions. But then his cheeks slacken.

You know what, he says, you’re one of the first people to tell me that.

I can’t actually believe that.

Jay’s heard it. But not me. His friends, you know?

Chris takes another sip of his drink, then uncrosses his legs, leaning into the bar.

Jay’s really a nice guy, I say.

No need to convince me, Chris says, grinning.

I’m not. Just happy for you.

Yeah, Chris says.

He opens his mouth to say something else. Then he closes it.

What, I say.

Nothing, he says. It’s not my place.

Better ask, I say. You won’t have the chance again.

Chris gives me a long look. The track changes to a glittery Cantopop. A few guys behind us let out a whoop, and one of them strips off his shirt, swinging it over his head.

Why didn’t the two of you work out, Chris asks.

He seems genuinely curious. I weigh my answer for one second, then a few more.

It was my fault, I say.

Really, Chris says.

Really, I say. Jay had nothing to do with it.

And what did you do?

Didn’t trust him. Or myself.

A light in Chris’s eyes disappears. It’s only after it’s gone that I notice it was there at all.

I don’t know if he trusts me either, Chris says. But it’s us against the world.

He sips his drink. Then we hear Jay’s voice. He’s singing karaoke. Whitney Houston. Two guys hold on to his shoulders, pointing him through the words on the screen. When Jay waves our way, roaring into the mic, we both wave back through the crowd.

somehow, i catch the last train to Ōkubo Station. I’m halfway back to the apartment when I spot Taku.

He’s kneeling in running shorts and one of my hoodies, tapping at his phone. I watch for a moment as he looks toward the train rattling above us. When he turns my way, warmth passes over his face. A guitar jingle plays from the speakers lining the stoplight.

How was your throuple, Taku asks.

A failure, I say. They weren’t very generous.

Hate when that happens, Taku says, chuckling.

Eventually, we turn off the main road, hooking a left toward the kebab vendor who’s posted outside my apartment. Every evening, a line of Turkish workers are beside it, alongside pockets of Koreans and Chinese and Afghans and occasional Japanese. Once it’s our turn, Taku laughs with the vendor. We walk our sandwiches to a pair of benches at our usual park.

Large clusters of blossoms, only a few weeks away from decay, flank our seat, which overlooks a senior care center.

Emi called, Taku says.

Ah, I say. She finally broke it off.

No, Taku says. She thought things over. And she wants to go ahead with the wedding.

Oh, I say.

Yeah. Her parents have been getting suspicious. She thinks it’ll be easiest to just get it over with.

The two of us chew. A pair of Vietnamese women laugh as they walk behind us toward the path snaking alongside the train station.

So when’s the wedding, I say.

Wait a minute, Taku says. How do you even feel about that?

Doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t piss you off?

You’re getting married, I say.

I never said I wanted to, Taku says.

Well, I say, you should do it. You two have been together long enough.

Nothing would change, Taku says, you know?

How could it not, I say.

It just won’t. Emi doesn’t want things to either. It’s just, you know, for society.

For society.

The two of us turn quiet. The trains have stopped running. All we can hear is the Arabic lulling from the kebab stand. The park’s kitten pokes its head out from the patch of grass. It eyes us, slowly. Then it approaches the swings, sitting with emphasis.

Taku extends his hand, offering it a piece of beef. When the kitten doesn’t react, he tosses the meat toward its paws.

Maybe we should adopt her, Taku says.

What, I say.

She’ll be like our kid. A symbol of our love.

You can’t even keep a cat.

No, Taku says, but you can.

He looks entirely serious. My shorts are too short on him, high enough for me to see his boxers. It’s enough for me to grin, despite myself.

Get the fuck out of here, I say. He’s fine on his own.

Wait, Taku says, he’s a boy?

I nod. Then Taku drops from the bench, kneeling, inspecting. I look down at the two of them in the flickering streetlamp.

the next day, Taku doesn’t text. I don’t feel compelled to reach out. I haven’t heard from Jay either. This should be his last day in the city. With nothing to do, I amble around Shinjuku Station, passing florists and bakers and shoe shiners and businessmen and homemakers and clubbers and ravers before I decide to head for the sauna in Ni-chōme.

Every bathhouse in this world is the same: First I deposit my shoes, giving my name to the cashier as he hands me a key. Then I undress and waddle with a towel toward the pool, a shallow tub large enough for eight or nine guys. It’s a quiet night. I recognize a handful of regulars. A few nod my way as I wash myself off, but most keep to themselves. I’ve only just settled into the warm water when one guy sidles up beside me.

He’s a bit older. Forties, maybe. He says that he likes my hair.

Yours is cute too, I say, then look away.

The man smiles for another moment. When I don’t react to his hand on my knee, he frowns, standing from the water. I graze beside three other men, watching the steam rise above us, filtering into the darkness of the open window.

When Jay steps inside, it’s like the air’s been sucked out of the room.

I watch him rinse himself off, seated on a tiny stool. He’s more muscular than I remember. Almost cartoonishly so. I watch other men glance his way, fidgeting, but he ignores them and doesn’t see me either, not even as he steps past me and through a door.

I sit for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then I stand, following him inside.

I pass dim rooms. In one, a blindfolded man hangs prone in a sling. In another, four guys suck each other off. They glance my way, then ignore me entirely.

And in the third room, I spot Jay.

He’s standing against the wall. Two men squat alongside him. They’re tonguing at his thighs, and his groin, and his dick. He clasps the tops of their heads with his eyes closed and his neck bent. I can’t tell if he’s sunken into the moment or entirely bored.

I watch them for another moment, but when I accidentally let the door shut behind me, Jay opens his eyes.

I wonder, for a moment, if he can see me through the steam. Which is when he mouths my name.

I turn around, stepping back through the maze. Past the pools. Down the stairs. Already reaching for the locker key around my wrist.

i stand, smoking, around the corner from the sauna. The bargoers have started to wane. The block’s neon signage still looms over all of us. Tina Turner streams from one of the open windows behind me. When a gaggle of locals passes by, they nod, and I nod back—which is when Jay sets a hand on my shoulder.

You left in a hurry, he says.

You seemed busy, I say.

That was nothing, he says.

Okay, I say, and then start to walk.

Jay makes a face, but he follows me as I step down the block. We pass a pair of off-duty drag queens smoking beside a host club. We pass a pair of tourists ogling the windows of a sex shop. We pass bar after bar filled with office workers huddled around mugs and glasses before we dip into the narrow entrance of one building. We scale its stairs and enter a room where a red-haired cub behind the bar nods our way. I raise two fingers for drinks.

We sip in silence at the counter. Anri plays overhead. The bartender flirts with another customer beside us; they laugh under their breaths.

So, I say, you’re really okay?

Way to start slow, Jay says.

It’s like you said, I say, we’re familiar.

Jay looks down into his drink. Then he sets his head into his hands.

I’m fine, he says. It’s fine. And Chris is perfect.

He seems lovely, I say.

He is.

Then there’s nothing to worry about, I say.

The bartender swats the arm of the customer beside us. They both yelp, waving our way in apology.

Where is he right now, I say.

Sleeping, Jay says. We had an argument.

My eyes widen. Jay scoffs, sipping his drink.

Nothing to do with you, he says.

Are you sure, I ask.

Don’t give yourself too much credit.

Fine.

But you fucked me up back then, Jay says, you know? I don’t even know how many guys I’ve been with since then. It took me a while to put myself back together. But now I’m scared that I’ll do the same thing to Chris that you did to me.

Jay’s hands are shaking. I don’t know whether I should reach out and touch him. The speakers above us settle into a slinky R&B, and the other gays in the bar start to dance, cooing against one another.

OK, I say.

What? Jay says.

I said, OK. I hear you. But I don’t know if you’re giving Chris enough credit.

Jay sits straighter.

You don’t even fucking know him, he says.

Sure, I say. But what I saw says that he can take care of himself. You’re assuming he doesn’t know what he’s getting into with you, but what if he does? What if he wants all of you?

I can’t imagine that, Jay says.

Have you asked him?

Jay looks up at me, finally. His eyes are red. And, despite myself, I set a hand on his knee.

I raise my other hand for the tab. I pay while Jay cries. I rub his hand while his shoulders bounce. And when the bartender mouths a question, asking if I’m all right, all I can do is shrug.

The trains have long since stopped, so I walk Jay to his hotel. It’s a few blocks from Shinjuku-sanchōme Station. Only a handful of stragglers are still on the road. We move in a loose herd. Jay doesn’t speak, and I don’t speak. The city’s silence envelopes us. But once we’ve reached his building, Jay raises a hand.

This is fine here, he says. I’ll need a minute to put myself together.

I’ll let you do that, I say.

Then I sigh, adding: You’ll be fine.

Jay turns my way. His shoulders drop, just a bit.

You really think so, he says.

I look at him. He really has gotten older.

I’d bet money on it, I say.

But not too much, Jay says.

No, I say. Never.

He grins. Then he extends his hand. I take it, bringing him closer, embracing him, for just a moment. And then, before he can see my face, I turn around and am gone.

a few weeks after our breakup, I’d appeared at Jay’s door. It had been our door until the month prior. I’d forgotten something: a camera, some film, a couple of chargers. Or at least that’s what I’d told him.

He stood there wiping sleep from his face. When he reached toward me, I didn’t say anything. First he set a hand against me and then down my sweats, dropping them, pushing me toward the doorframe, sticking some of himself inside me. I pressed myself against him, tensing when I felt him draw closer, allowing him to move at his own pace. And then, abruptly, he stopped.

He pulled himself out of me. Stared for a moment. And he slammed the door, locking it behind him.

a few blocks from my apartment, I text Taku, asking if he’s all right.

OK desu, he writes. And you?

OK desu, I write.

I’m at your place, he writes.

I thought Emi was back tonight?

She is.

Right, I text.

I walk past the cluster of Indian shops. I walk past the Turkish sandwich stalls, which have since closed. A jingle plays over the neighborhood speakers late in the evening on Shin-Ōkubo’s main drag, and I walk until it starts to dwindle, toward the kebab vendor, who waves my way.

Did it work out the way you wanted it to, Taku texts.

Something like that. Should I pick any food up?

No. Just bring yourself tonight.

And after tonight?

Some bubbles appear, then disappear. I stare for a bit, until I tuck my phone in my pocket, which is when it buzzes, once and then again. The streetlights start flickering above our park, and that’s when I spot the kitten.

I have nothing to offer him. No meat, no treats. But I extend my hand, opening and closing it.

Eventually, he wanders over. Nuzzles against my palm. He’s quiet when I pick him up, cradling him, and he purrs just slightly as I walk back to my place.