30 soups for Tomomi Ogawa

Chapter Six: For whom the bell tolls Pt. II

"Only five more steps... please, Kazuo. Five more." Tomomi whispered, not really expecting that the man, who was barely standing, would even understand her words. "Please, move your feet. Just... please." To her relief, Kazou grabbed the wooden railing and lifted his weight slightly to the side, the movement was slow and clumsy but finally, the brunette didn't have to support her fiance.

Unfortunately for both of them, he missed it, slipped and, if it wasn't for his girlfriend's quick actions, the man would fall. She grabbed him by his arm and nearly lost her balance while having to back up that limp body.

About half an hour ago Kazuo came back from yet another obligatory night out with his co-workers. Herds of men in black ties and white-collar shirts were migrating from the highest levels of the glass skyscrapers to the nearest bars where they could down a glass or two of warm sake. Or five. Or a bottle. Tonight it had to be more than that because when Kazuo's colleagues dropped him off at the front door of their building, he wasn't able to stand straight, not mentioning the walking.

It took Tomomi forever to bring him up from that concrete pavement and make him climb the stairs without causing the scene. When they finally reached home, she took his black shoes off and helped him get to bed. He was out like the light in less than two seconds, the only thing that could wake that man up was dynamite and it probably had to be shoved up his butt to make him notice it.

"Aaaaand that will be my Friday. Thank you very much." Tomomi thought bitterly as she sat down on the sofa. She tilted her head back and the wave of the hazelnut hair hit the backrest of the furniture, for a split second the woman wanted to check what was going on social media, just to see what her friends were up to but decided against it. Mostly because Tomomi knew the answer: they were having fun while she was having a pity fest.

The musician let her mind drift and the first thought that popped into her head was the odd question if she could recognize Kazuo in the surge of that black suits and high ambitions that smelled like coffee, warm photocopying machine, and elevators. When she would see that crowd, crossing the street or taking the subway train, would she be able to identify his face among many others? Where was that birthmark of his: on the right or on the left cheek? Tomomi tried to recall the shape of that mole, how it felt under her fingertips when she brushed against the dark spot but the only image that played under her closed eyelids was the picture of her mother helping father to get home. Just like she did with Kazuo a few minutes ago. Step by step - little Tomo hated it back then. Her dad was like a mountain, almost as big and heavy, hard to approach, always far, far on the horizon. Silver and blue. And just like it always was with the mountains - she wanted to conquer it, to be the person who will deserve to climb it and feel the warmth of sun rays glowing at the top. The bassist didn't know back then that she would never earn the fatherly love she yearned for because all that was left on the peak of that hill were rough cliffs covered with snow and cold gusts of wind. Nothing more.

She shut her eyelids even more, to prevent any light from seeping into her brain, tighten them to the point it was almost painful and once more tried to evoke the memory of that damned birthmark. Was it really on the cheek? Was it even on his cheek? God. Were these questions the kind of dilemmas that all feature spouses went through?

The thoughts flooded her mind with a ferocity only midnight hour could cause. If only she could settle for what she was about to have: an ordinary family, normal dinners, woolen socks, days and nights almost painfully predictable. Sometimes, with surprising strength, she wished she could be like that - like anybody else, feel like them, be like them, see like them. Normal, normal, normal, normal...one, norm-alone nor...ma...lone...norm - she repeated syllables in her mind thirty times. Forty, fifty-nine times and soon they have melted into to one long sound, like a howl, like a song from underwater where everything was muted and slower. What Tomomi really wanted wasn't a family or a man whose physiognomy reminded her of the gravel.