A Memory
On our last day in Tokyo, I tagged along with him and his co-workers as they strolled through Nakameguro. It was a Sunday. We'd spent the morning in Daikanyama as a big group, browsing bookstores and high end boutiques after a leisurely American-style brunch. I toyed with the idea of buying an overly expensive cardigan or designer wallet. We sat down for coffee and snacks in a basement café that served curry and other wholesome, unpretentious fare. By mid-afternoon all of the significant others had gone off on their own adventures except for me. The five of us were hungry again. We felt great satisfaction in stumbling upon a small Japanese-run restaurant specializing in Italian pasta.
It was a lazy day, and we drank a carafe of white wine with our meal. I was distracted by a subtle awareness that something was amiss, but I couldn't quite tell what it was yet. Or maybe I didn't necessarily want to put words to it. Toward the end of our late lunch, I looked at him across the table, chatting casually with his colleagues, drinking wine, eating pasta. Even though he was four years older than me, I always saw something boyish in his comportment. I found this charming until the point I realized that, for him, this quality equated with immaturity, indulgence, and irresponsibility - traits hewing closer to childishness, in stark contrast to the temperance, discipline, and trust that make a man. That day at lunch in Nakameguro, I suddenly saw that boyish insouciance melt from his façade during a careless moment, a more solid contour taking its place, a countenance that revealed a sad and worn man approaching middle age.
I think maybe he saw that I saw this, and resented me for it.
Later in the afternoon, I went outside to read a book for my class and smoke a cigarette while they were ferreting around another exorbitant houseware store. Hearing footsteps, I looked up. The glare he offered me as he walked out and away was naked and unadorned. There was anger and spite in his eyes. I'd done nothing, said nothing. As in my previous relationship, I think it was because he couldn't handle this awareness of himself, refracted through my gaze, even if I remained silent. The next morning we flew to Korea. I felt a small panic on the way to the airport. This was over, I felt. This was already over. How hateful and how sad.
It was a lazy day, and we drank a carafe of white wine with our meal. I was distracted by a subtle awareness that something was amiss, but I couldn't quite tell what it was yet. Or maybe I didn't necessarily want to put words to it. Toward the end of our late lunch, I looked at him across the table, chatting casually with his colleagues, drinking wine, eating pasta. Even though he was four years older than me, I always saw something boyish in his comportment. I found this charming until the point I realized that, for him, this quality equated with immaturity, indulgence, and irresponsibility - traits hewing closer to childishness, in stark contrast to the temperance, discipline, and trust that make a man. That day at lunch in Nakameguro, I suddenly saw that boyish insouciance melt from his façade during a careless moment, a more solid contour taking its place, a countenance that revealed a sad and worn man approaching middle age.
I think maybe he saw that I saw this, and resented me for it.
Later in the afternoon, I went outside to read a book for my class and smoke a cigarette while they were ferreting around another exorbitant houseware store. Hearing footsteps, I looked up. The glare he offered me as he walked out and away was naked and unadorned. There was anger and spite in his eyes. I'd done nothing, said nothing. As in my previous relationship, I think it was because he couldn't handle this awareness of himself, refracted through my gaze, even if I remained silent. The next morning we flew to Korea. I felt a small panic on the way to the airport. This was over, I felt. This was already over. How hateful and how sad.