The room was warm and clean, the curtains drawn, the two table lamps alight-hers and the one by the empty chair opposite. On the sideboard behind him, two tall glasses, soda water, whiskey. Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket.
Shoyo Kageyama was waiting for his husband to come home from work.
Now and again he would glance up at the clock, but without anxiety, merely to please himself with the thought that each minute gone by made it nearer the time when he would come. There was a slow smiling air about him, and about everything he did. The drop of a head as he bent over his sewing was curiously tranquil. His skin had acquired a wonderful translucent quality, the mouth was soft, and the eyes, with their new placid look, seemed larger darker than before. When the clock said ten minutes to five, he began to listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, he heard the tires on the gravel outside, and the car door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock. He laid aside his sewing, stood up, and went forward to kiss him as he came in.
"Hey babe," he said.
"Hi sweetheart," he answered.
He took his coat and hung it in the closer. Then he walked over and made the drinks, a strongish one for him, a weak one for himself; and soon he was back again in his chair with the sewing, and Tobio in the other, opposite, holding the tall glass with both hands, rocking it so the ice cubes tinkled against the side.
For him, this was always a blissful time of day. He knew Tobio didn't want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and he, on his own side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying his husbands company after the long hours alone in the house. He loved to luxuriate in the presence of this man, and to feel-almost as a sunbather feels the sun- that warm male glow that came out of him when they were alone together. He loved him for the way he sat loosely in a chair, for the way he came in a door, or moved slowly across the room with long strides. He loved intent, far look in his eyes when they rested in his own, the funny shape of the mouth, and especially the way he remained silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself until the whiskey had taken some of it away.
"Tired babe?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm tired," and as he spoke, he did an unusual thing. He lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it, at least half of it left. He wasn't really watching him, but he knew what he had done because he heard the ice cubes falling back against the bottom of the empty glass when he lowered his arm. He paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair, then he got up and went slowly over to fetch himself another.
"I'll get it!" he cried, jumping up.
"Sit down," he said.
When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was dark amber with the quantity of whiskey in it.
"Baby, shall I get your house shoes?"
"No."
He watched him as he began to sip the dark yellow drink, and he could see little oily swirls in the liquid because it was so strong.
"I think it's a shame," he said, "that when a police officer gets to be as senior as you, they keep them walking on their feet all day long."
He didn't answer, so Shoyo bent his head again and went on with his sewing; bet each time he lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass.
"Baby," he said. "Would you like me to get you some chips or something? I haven't made any dinner because it's Thursday."
"No," he said.
