Takuma

One

Kagami had asked to meet me at this garden coffee house stuffed somewhere on Naka-Dori street one rainy afternoon. It had been miserable all day, but it started pouring by the time I left work for this rendezvous. So, I gave Daisuke my umbrella in exchange for his trench coat and walked outside.

The coffee house was close enough from my job to walk but far enough that I would still be soaked by the time I got there; Kagami did not know this. As far as she was concerned, I was a freelance photographer, videographer, and writer. Kagami had this stable desk job that paid poorly but it assured upward mobility. A part of her frowned upon the idealistic nature of my profession; the other half that consisted of her abandoned philosophy degree and artistic temperament praised me for being a martyr of my own revolution of the free-will. Both of her conclusions, however, suggests an impending doom and, frankly, a rather insulting underestimation had I actually been scraping by with such pursuits.

I had a consistent job that was true to every sense of the word 'occupation,' that promised upward mobility, and that was paying triple of Kagami's salary on a bad night. But Kagami did not know this, as far as she was concerned, I was below her pay grade and thus obligated to receive all of her patronizations as advice.

After 10 minutes of walking, I arrived at the Ten-no Garden Coffee House. Ten-no meant "celestial," which is what their tea leaves and coffee beans were supposed to taste like. The 'garden' part of the name was reimagined indoor, where green wallpaper and easy electrical wiring would be more cost efficient than modeling an authentic outdoor concept that would be deterred by rainy days like this one. Kagami was sitting by the counter near the cashier, instead of the ones installed against the window. She sat on the edge of her stool, wearing black cigarette pants, with one leg extended as if emulating this portrait of Audrey Hepburn. Her beauty was that of a Hepburn as well, rather than a Monroe.

"You're late," she says when I made my way over. Kagami did not look up from her tablet when I pretended to begin an answer.

"Why are you so wet?" she inquired.

Once again, I opened my mouth, but I knew she was not listening. Kagami never looked under the surface when it came to me. In her mind, the reasons behind why I do what I do can all be sufficiently explained by the nature of my being: I am wet simply because I did not think far ahead enough to bring an umbrella, not because I wanted the rain to dilute the smell of alcohol and the incense they had at the Host club.

Kagami really looked up at me after some silence and her eyes softened. When she asked me to sit down, I noticed a few male customers snapped up with a surprise but disappointed expression. As I've said, Kagami possessed a kind of beauty that speaks, that elucidates her class, intellect, and standard like a title. Men imagine their future with women like her, but not today, nor tomorrow, not for a moment but forever. Thus, it is often that they do not approach Kagami at all, because the future was an ever-receding benchmark and she was riding on its evading tides. Yet, it is this unknown element of the future, of Kagami, that is incessantly compelling, just uncertain enough to be both real and fantastical. As I took a seat next to her, I took pride in shattering whatever fantasy Gel-head in table 8 might be having.

Kagami took a sip of her coffee. "How's work?" she asked.

"Fine."

"Fine? No new projects?" She shifted her focus back to her tablet.

"My last one just wrapped up. I'm having an appointment to discuss a new project after this."

"For what?"

"What?"

"A new film? Another attempt at a photography installation? Which one is it?"

"Film-"

"And are you still writing for that weird blog?"

"Yes." There was no blog, but Kagami would never know because she would never be bothered to check the link that I sent her.

I worked as a male host at the Narcissus club, which is a more dignified way of saying organized male gigolo association. To be fair, our work did entail much more than brusque sexual transactions. Clients must reserve a table and request one or multiple specific hosts if they would like, through the reception. Hosts entertain their customers through talking and drinking with them, offering an amusing company to lonely women in general. We do not always end up sleeping with the customers as not all of them came for sex, and we get the commission on bottle service. Our popularity was publicly ranked based on the number of requesting clients, and which determined our salary. To avoid having to answer too many questions, we titled ourselves the modern geishas.

I found out, bitterly so, that I had quite the talent for this profession. I owe that to this compelling persona that I have created, Nine. Everyone there had a fake name and origin story. In solidarity, we never ask each other for the real thing. In the business of selling our private parts, we must create alternative identities to keep some other parts of ourselves private, separated to maintain professionalism, but mostly, to retain control over the sense of self.

Daisuke, my understudy at the Narcissus club, is supposed to be a country boy from Hokkaido. One day he took the train to Tokyo to get away from his abusive father, who would have beaten Daisuke to death for failing his college entrance exam. He would tell his clients that he was glad he made it to Tokyo, but he left his mother and little sister back home and he was determined to make enough money so that he can buy an apartment and bring them here for a better life.

Nine's story is about an aspiring filmmaker who could not endure the pain of witnessing the love of his life getting brutally murdered. So he took a semester off University in hope to recover mentally but catharsis was impossible to achieve with his usual life routine. So one day, Nine left and never looked back.

Lonely and broken women came to Narcissus to find something fulfilling. People like that, I have realized from very early on, which contributed to my success now, want to fix and be fixed by similarly drifted individuals. For a moment there, these women desperately want to pretend that they had a real connection with men like Daisuke and Nine, who are equally if not much more pathetic than they. It is that ephemeral solidarity between people, against the force of the cruel world, that is the more everlasting and most rewarding of all bonds.

Of course, for someone as dignified as Kagami, she would never imagine that her best friend would participate in such salacious superficiality. I do not know what I would do if she ever found out. Soon enough, our talk diverted back to everything that is wrong with my coy jobs.

"You should really tell them to get the website fixed. A troubleshoot like this could lose a lot if readership" Kagami said with her brow furrowed. She was staring at the fake website I gave her on the tablet's screen, before closing it and turned her full body towards me. Only her cup of coffee sat between us.

"How long do you think you can keep this going?" she asked.

"For as long as possible," I said.

"I'm worried about you, you know?"

"I know."

"You can't even articulate how work is going. That means either you have no clients, or you have lost the passion." Kagami raised her eyebrow. She thought she had got it.

"I mean. what is the point of being in the creative business when you have clients telling you what to do?" She continued.

"Kagami, I have told you this. The clients give me angles; I apply my creative interpretation."

Like the last time, Kagami was not convinced. But like the last times, she dropped it. I stood up to buy myself an iced americano.