Tokyo Puts on Fake Smiles

FOURTEENTH ACT: Imaginary Railway Tracks

Hypothesis of the Silent Chant

Alone, somewhat scared, I used to watch the clock on the living room shelf, sitting at the table, waiting for someone to arrive. But no one came.

But in those days when I still wore the school uniform with the skirt a little shorter than usual, Makoto would arrive. Because Makoto arrived, he always arrived, and I no longer had to endure the stabs marked by the second hand's cadence. Together, alone, we would have dinner with Aunt Sumire's leftovers, and by nightfall we would argue because I refused to study so I could keep playing the guitar.

But the day came when I waited for someone again. With the table overflowing with food and a cake half-melted. At least he wouldn't forbid me from playing the guitar.

Being with Kazuhiro was like biting into a sweet apple, but out of season, with a bitter aftertaste.

Being with Makoto was like dragging myself along the railway tracks at a station, waiting for a train to pass over me.

His body only wanted my fingers, and his heart screamed toward a closed door that one day I too would pass through.

What was I supposed to do? Pretend I was asleep, wait for the green light. 

☻☻☻

Two years ago, on the day I decided to confess to Makoto, after two weeks of his return to Tokyo, I thought I'd calm my nerves by getting on stage and playing with my friends after my shift at the Music Island. I played with them songs from bands we liked, my own songs, and a single song from the best rock band we knew: Takotsubo.

During our short two-minute break, Miyoko asked me what to play next, and I chose First Time. It was wild, its texture was rough, oscillating between gentle and aggressive. Those shifts in intensity between the pre-chorus and the chorus reminded me of the sensation of biting into a cherry just before its juice dissolved and spread across the lips. It was the perfect song for the perfect kiss with the perfect boy.

But after that night, I never heard it again. I neither sang it nor played it. It was overshadowed by the memory of Makoto. That song foretold the storm; it was the prelude to the nightmare.

And after two years, it had returned to me. Its rhythm, its melody, its color, and the path of the guitar neck had touched me once more.

Still, I looked at my hands.

"How is this possible? I used to play it all the time," I thought. The corners of my mouth lifted into a smile. Nostalgia embraced me.

I thought of how many nights, after closing the bar, I had played that song with my old guitar. I sang it on my way home, after school, and with Minato, Reina, and Miyoko during breaks, up on the rooftop. It was still alive, still pulsing. Nostalgia was alive.

I took one last breath of fresh air and directed my eyes, wandering, toward the moon.

"I should stop overthinking everything." After all, it was just a kiss and just a rejection. It was only an engagement, and definitely, it would only be a year.

I gave myself two pats on the cheeks, and with my hand high, extending my ring finger, pinkie, and thumb, I shouted, "Only a year!" before running toward the door.

From outside, I could hear my friends playing along with Manami's off-key shouting.

☻☻☻