“If you have money, I can do things for you. I prefer to be do things with girls.”
Ayame held her breath. The girl was plump in a very pretty way, with vivid color in her cheeks. She had beautiful white arms, full and smooth like those of a woman in an Italian painting. In her sheer georgette blouse in a cha color and navy print skirt, she looked like an attractive office lady. The girl took Ayame’s left hand and slipped it in her blouse; Ayame could feel the smooth rise of the girl’s large nipple.
“I like this bone between your neck and shoulders. You’re very cute. Come see me. I’m here in the evenings. Today, I started early, because I have a meeting, but he’s a little late. I’m usually near the shrubs over there.” She giggled. “I love to put things in my mouth. Nee?” She wet her lips with her strawberry-colored tongue. “And I can bring you toys,” she said, before returning to her spot.
Stunned, Ayame nodded and walked home. Her left hand felt like it was burning, and with it, she stroked her collarbone, never having given it any thought.
For three months after, Ayame stuck to her old route to the sento and went straight from there to the market streets to do her shopping. She returned faithfully to her routines with Daisuke, and when she took her baths at the sento, she tried not to think of that girl. Ayame was not ignorant; even as a girl, she knew that others did many curious things. What puzzled her was that so late in her life, she wanted to know more but had no one to ask. Her husband never seemed to change: He was hardworking, polite, and rarely home. He was affectionate with Daisuke. When he had time off, he went to see his Korean friend Mozasu and his son, Solomon, or took his brother for walks in the park or to the sento to give her some time alone. Occasionally, the three of them went to the same yakiniku restaurant, where the owner gave them a private room in the back. Daisuke liked cooking his meals on the grill. After Daisuke fell asleep for the night, her evenings were quiet. She read recipe books and sewing magazines and crocheted lace.
Despite her strong efforts, it was no longer just at the sento. Ayame wondered about the girl all day—when she was baking a golden sponge cake or merely dusting the furniture. What confused her was that the girl in the green blouse had looked so wholesome and amused, nothing at all like what she’d seen in maudlin films about a fallen woman from a bad family. The girl was luscious like a costly melon sold in a department store.
It was a Saturday evening at the end of November, and Daisuke had fallen asleep earlier than usual. Haruki was at the office catching up on writing reports where it was quiet enough for him to work undisturbed. In the living room, Ayame was trying to read a book about English baking techniques, but she found her mind drifting. Closing the book, she decided to have another bath, though she’d had one earlier that day. Daisuke was snoring quietly when she left the house.
At the sento, she soaked in the hot bathwater, fearing that someone could see the desire in her face. She wondered if she could find the nerve to ask her husband to make love to her. When the tips of her fingers were horribly wrinkled, she dressed and combed her hair. Outside, the streetlamps shone brightly, and the black pavement glistened in the night. Ayame walked toward the cemetery.
Even in the cold, there were too many lovers to count. Couples watched others make love and masturbate each other. Naked bodies humped beneath large trees. Men lined up in a row while others on their knees bobbed their heads against them. Watching the men’s faces thrilled her. She wanted Haruki to take her into his arms and make violent love to her there. There was only a little light in the evening sky, only a small misshapen moon and the faintest spray of winter stars. Ayame walked through the arrangements of men and women. By an impressive oak, two men embraced in lovemaking, and the taller man, whose arms clasped the younger one, wore a gray suit much like the one she had made for her husband. Ayame looked closer and saw him, his eyes shut tightly as he held on to the young man in the white cotton undershirt who was gasping with excitement. She retreated to the other side of the foliage to hide herself. Ayame held her breath, and she watched her husband making love. It was. It was him.
When Haruki and the young man in the white shirt were done, they put on their clothes without talking and walked away from one another without a bow or a good-bye. She didn’t see Haruki giving the young man any money, but that could have happened earlier; she couldn’t be sure of how these things worked. Would it matter if the man had been paid? she wondered.
Ayame sat down on the roots of an old tree not far from a couple having breathless intercourse, and she stared at the pads of her fingers, which were smooth again. There was no choice but to wait until he was long gone, but if he reached the house before she did, she’d have to tell him that she was at the sento, which wasn’t true.