Tokyo Puts on Fake Smiles

EIGHTEENTH ACT: What Does Iron Taste Like

Postulate of the Sinner's Ethics

Fender, Gibson, Epiphone, PRS, Ibanez; at 24 years old, I knew them all. My aunt taught me to play, gave me the opportunity to try and travel through different textures, nuances, charms, sounds.

I experimented with each one of them. I tried, by all possible means, to know every possibility the guitar had for me, when, in the disarray of a solo, my voice and its cry became one.

And something similar happened when I started working with Kazuhiro. I wanted to know every type of Kazuhiro; all his expressions, all his voices, all his screams, vulnerabilities, and strengths.

At 24 years old, not knowing what to do, my heart shrank for two people who traveled at the speed of light, and my riffs could not reach them.

But I smiled. I smiled, baring my fangs.

☻☻☻

The guitar Kazuhiro had given me was a beautiful Gibson Les Paul, bright red. A lustrous neck, shiny metal strings, and a woody aroma that reminded me of his cologne.

Yes, it was a beautiful guitar, and I really wanted to keep it, but I couldn't. I moved it away from my chest and held it in my hands, in front of me. What was that guitar? Who was I to have that guitar? If Makoto and I, someday, held hands, to whom would I owe that guitar?

I felt a prick in my heart, and let the guitar fall on the bed, stepping back.

I looked at myself in the mirror, hung on the wall of the desk. I gulped, again. The reflection it showed was sinister, a person without color in their eyes. A plastic smile, a mask. It was empty, the only thing visible on my face was the shadow of resentment.

I had let myself drown, but I always ended up emerging to the surface. I did it when I got angry with Makoto at the festival, I did it when I kissed Kazuhiro on the beach, and I was doing it at that moment.

☻☻☻

The next day, I woke up radiant. With a makeup bag in hand, I went into the bathroom, where I styled my hair into a half braid and made a simple neutral makeup—browns and soft pinks.

Ten minutes were enough to make myself look presentable, and satisfied with the result, I headed to the dining room where Kazuhiro was having his eggs and toast for breakfast.

"Good morning," he greeted me with a teasing tone. His smile had finally returned.

I poured myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and sat across from him at the dining table. I just looked at him, waiting for him to catch my drift.

"Do you want to know what happened with Nanako?" he asked.

I nodded, "But spare me the sexual details," I clarified, raising my hand.

He chuckled softly, "Do you really think we did anything?"

Confused, I raised one eyebrow and took a sip of my coffee.

"Nanako and I just talked," he leaned back in his chair with his cup in hand, "about her parents, Mystical Key, her life outside of Tokyo, her work. And in the end, we decided to keep in touch, that's all."

"I see..." I took another sip.

"Anyway," serious, Kazuhiro looked me straight in the eyes, "don't think I didn't notice you were down yesterday."