And so he met her knowing full well the conditions of their rendezvous, knowing full well that she had some sort of marital slash lover situation that, in spite slash because of said situation, necessitated her posting advertisements on the internet for discreet and caring “gentlemen” in the city proper. He answered one. They volleyed emails back and forth for several days, and then the day to finally meet arrived.
He knew she would be attractive, or at least attractive, for a white woman in Tokyo. Most look malnourished and angry. This one was pretty; he found when he found her at their Rendezvous Point—in front of the Bottega Veneta store at O station (she was one of those kinds of girls) at Y o’clock. She had on too much concealer to conceal whatever it was she was trying to conceal (her face, probably). She was thin—as in Japanese woman thin, not malnourished white woman in Japan thin (there is a difference). Her hair was dark. She wore high heels and a beige dress. No stockings. She was English. She smiled when she greeted him. He was pleased.
After preliminary formalities and how-dos they marched off to such and such place for coffee. They went Dutch. He was above the notion that a man must, under every circumstance, make certain to pay for a woman’s 300 yen coffee so that she is obliged to reward him with sexual intercourse at the end of the day. He was a “gentleman” besides.
They chatted about living in Japan, their younger days, the riots in London, fashion, how Japanese people still read books, and about white women in Japan. She seemed to be having a good time, and he was having a good time; he was a “gentleman” indeed.
They chatted until their coffees were gone and until the Japanese people who had been trying to pick out words from their conversations (such words may have been: football, shopping, orange, sex, coffee, delicious, Japan, Tokyo, shit, time, hot, Fukushima, four, yes, no, thank you, joke, Will Smith) were all gone as well. (Words perhaps not understood by eavesdropping Japanese: obsequious, schizophrenic, happenstance, vexing, the XX [which she had just discovered; he, on the other hand, was, like, totally over the XX and considered the band a band one likes simply for the pleasure of saying that he or she likes it], moribund, polyvalent, corpus, Waka Flaka)
She suggested a walk. He figured either A) she was having a great time or B) she really didn’t want to go back home.
So they walked. Or rather, they strolled—it was, in fact, the slowest he had ever strolled before. They strolled back to O station to board another train and head out of the city and toward K-ward—some place where she would not worry about being seen cavorting with a man who was not her Significant Other, no doubt. He was having a good time, but he grew afraid.
They got off at M station. He had never been there, and there were no other white people. She could probably relax here. She seemed to know a lot of white people, but he didn’t seem to know anybody, which was probably why she chose him over whomever else she may have otherwise chosen.
They chatted freely about whatever frivolous and unimportant subjects came to mind. They did not discuss the nature of their rendezvous. They meandered until night (it had been day). She suggested wine. He figured either A) she was having a great time or B) she really didn’t want to go back home. They sat in some hipster joint that played old RnB songs from the United States of America, RnB he could relate to. They sat at the booth at the window and ordered a bottle of wine. Wine brought about slightly more serious conversations—family, money. She even brought up her Significant Other in passing, telling him that he [the Significant Other] made her move to Morocco for three years, five years ago. I see, he [our hero] replied and then quickly changed the subject. He touched her leg; it was soft, inviting, and fearsome. She was fearsome. He grew afraid of her (she would not have been fearsome otherwise) and of the sorts of feelings he, a hopeless romantic, would develop for her by the end of the evening.
The hipster joint was closing. She suggested another walk. He figured either A) she was having a great time or B) she really didn’t want to go back home. They strolled about the empty streets and quiet shops until they reached M station. She said I need to go. She was drunk and stumbly. She grabbed his hand as a teenage girl might but quickly released it, also as a teenage girl might. She spoke of meeting on Sunday. He grew afraid more. But he naturally said, of course, let’s get together on Sunday or something similarly overly eager.
They boarded the train back to O station. They sat next to each other, bodies pressed together even though it was not crowded. At O Station they made ready to go their separate ways, or whatever. She thrust a hand toward him—wanting a shake or something. He grabbed her by the elbow of her outstretched arm and pulled her in for a mildly romantic embrace. She did the kiss-on-the-cheek thing with the embellished and onomatopoeic kissing noise girls make when they want to drain the moment of any significance a kiss might otherwise suggest.
He boarded his train, by which time she had already flooded his trendy smartphone with thank-you messages. It was fun, and let’s get together on Sundays.
He liked her, the girl with the Significant Other. The girl who wanted to get together only because he [the Significant Other] was not around enough for her. I would treat you right, he [our hero] told her in his mind, the her in his mind that was still pressed up against him, eyes glazed over in drunken glee or shame.
A man threw up in his train car. That did not bother him [our hero]. He [our hero] had descended into love. How unfortunate for him. She messaged him. Come out for the New Zealand-Japan rugby match tomorrow, she said. But if you do, say we met through your mutual friend, Jim Jones. Wanting to show her that he was not, in fact, in love after one stroll through the city, he declined. But I’d love to get together on Sunday if your offer still stands he replied. Silence. The next morning, a reply. She was now sober. Sunday might work. I’ll let you know tomorrow.
And that was the last he heard from her. He was still in love. But now he was dying, or so he thought, indeed rotting one minute at a time. Just an email, please, he pleaded to nobody in particular. Pathetic. Perhaps she had patched things up with her Significant Other; perhaps it was another “gentleman’s” turn for a stroll around M station and a bottle of wine at the window booth at whatever the hell that place was called.
With a creased smile and eyes, he [our hero] was telling all of this to empathetic ears at Starbucks—an apparent English lesson or something. If it turned out that the pudgy Japanese student with the nice watch, but not as nice as his, was actually her Significant Other, then this mildly embellished piece of work would have had a better ending.