Hierarchy of Desires 4 & 5
I found these vignettes sitting around my laptop, languishing in the limbo known as my story folder. Perhaps its time to post them? Although not a lot of people seem interested... oh well. Some pet projects will never be popular. Keep on truckin', I guess.
title: Hagu and the Male Gaze and The Illusion of Hunger
vignettes 4 &5 of Hierarchy of Desires
manga series: Honey and Clover
genre: introspection
POV: Hagu and Takemoto
Spoilers?: Chapter 43 (volume 7).
Summary: Hagu contemplates feminism; Takemoto contemplates his stomach.
Hierarchy of Desires 1-3 here and here
Hagu and the Male Gaze
It occurred to Hagu that she knew instinctively why she would not work out with Morita. Early on, it had to do with the way he saw her.
The agony of sitting still, motionless like a Venus de Milo on a pedestal, waiting for him to take whatever photo of her… Koropokkur might be the nickname that stuck, but real Koropokkurs had the right to move when they felt like it.
Her hands, tightening on that overly large leaf, might as well have been cut off. She might as well be made of marble for all that he wanted from her.
Takemoto was just the same, but in reverse. He watched her work, his breathing coming out in small gasps, not letting his existence disturb whatever brilliance he saw in her. She wasn’t happy to be viewed through the rose-colored lens known as genius, because it only made her self-conscious. Nothing broke her concentration more than the need to ponder if her work would be received and misunderstood with fulsome praise.
And that’s why she loved Shu-chan best. He just didn’t look. He listened. And he made all things possible.
The Illusion of Hunger
The moment those nasty words flew out of Rokutaro’s mouth, Takemoto’s heart sank to his stomach. Suddenly, he remembered what he had been trying to forget:
The sound of his empty refrigerator, the ceaseless, frenetic humming that sent him running away.
In that instant, Takemoto remembered snatches of the past months and years, as if his life was told through a series of meals that was now flashing before his eyes--
Mayama buying him another piece of tempura, to make up for the feelings of sophomoric inadequacies that griped him--
The contented slurping sounds Hagu made, hunched over a chocolate custard as they sat in the university cafeteria--
The salty, protein-rich meals in Lohmeyer-sempai’s room, and Morita’s half-hearted bribe of curry croquettes --
The sputtering of battered fried food, freshly fished out of fryers all over the shrine festival grounds --
The delectable scent of tongue grilled to perfection by Hanamoto-sensei vis-a-vis the bland, watery vegetables served at the local hospital --
The burden and heft of three kilos of raw beef, weighing down his heart just as Morita weighed down his back --
and tea, always cool barley tea in a thermos, quenching his thirst on summer nights spent out-of-doors with his father as they watched fireflies and the sparse cityscape.
Those were good times.
Takemoto was never a greedy eater, although his appetite was always better when there was someone there who’d fight over the last piece of tendon with him.
Hunger was supposed to drive him, fuel his ambition and give him a reason to want more out of life.
But that was the whole problem, wasn’t it? Takemoto thought ruefully. When he was on his own, he was never hungry enough to want to eat. And he had spent so much time of his senior year being isolated, running from job interviews to working on his final project, that he never noticed how many meals he missed.
His ulcer was not a sign of neglect, it was his insides crying out for some company.
The empty refrigerator in his mind didn’t want to be filled with condiments and foodstuffs, all the things that money and success could buy. It wanted, desperately, for someone to open that door and peer inside.
It was then Takemoto knew whose hand he needed to grasp, if he wanted to fill the emptiness.
He didn’t need Hagu to return his love. If she only made him a special sandwich -- for once, something that was only for him -- Takemoto knew his heart would be full forever.
title: Hagu and the Male Gaze and The Illusion of Hunger
vignettes 4 &5 of Hierarchy of Desires
manga series: Honey and Clover
genre: introspection
POV: Hagu and Takemoto
Spoilers?: Chapter 43 (volume 7).
Summary: Hagu contemplates feminism; Takemoto contemplates his stomach.
Hierarchy of Desires 1-3 here and here
Hagu and the Male Gaze
It occurred to Hagu that she knew instinctively why she would not work out with Morita. Early on, it had to do with the way he saw her.
The agony of sitting still, motionless like a Venus de Milo on a pedestal, waiting for him to take whatever photo of her… Koropokkur might be the nickname that stuck, but real Koropokkurs had the right to move when they felt like it.
Her hands, tightening on that overly large leaf, might as well have been cut off. She might as well be made of marble for all that he wanted from her.
Takemoto was just the same, but in reverse. He watched her work, his breathing coming out in small gasps, not letting his existence disturb whatever brilliance he saw in her. She wasn’t happy to be viewed through the rose-colored lens known as genius, because it only made her self-conscious. Nothing broke her concentration more than the need to ponder if her work would be received and misunderstood with fulsome praise.
And that’s why she loved Shu-chan best. He just didn’t look. He listened. And he made all things possible.
The Illusion of Hunger
The moment those nasty words flew out of Rokutaro’s mouth, Takemoto’s heart sank to his stomach. Suddenly, he remembered what he had been trying to forget:
The sound of his empty refrigerator, the ceaseless, frenetic humming that sent him running away.
In that instant, Takemoto remembered snatches of the past months and years, as if his life was told through a series of meals that was now flashing before his eyes--
Mayama buying him another piece of tempura, to make up for the feelings of sophomoric inadequacies that griped him--
The contented slurping sounds Hagu made, hunched over a chocolate custard as they sat in the university cafeteria--
The salty, protein-rich meals in Lohmeyer-sempai’s room, and Morita’s half-hearted bribe of curry croquettes --
The sputtering of battered fried food, freshly fished out of fryers all over the shrine festival grounds --
The delectable scent of tongue grilled to perfection by Hanamoto-sensei vis-a-vis the bland, watery vegetables served at the local hospital --
The burden and heft of three kilos of raw beef, weighing down his heart just as Morita weighed down his back --
and tea, always cool barley tea in a thermos, quenching his thirst on summer nights spent out-of-doors with his father as they watched fireflies and the sparse cityscape.
Those were good times.
Takemoto was never a greedy eater, although his appetite was always better when there was someone there who’d fight over the last piece of tendon with him.
Hunger was supposed to drive him, fuel his ambition and give him a reason to want more out of life.
But that was the whole problem, wasn’t it? Takemoto thought ruefully. When he was on his own, he was never hungry enough to want to eat. And he had spent so much time of his senior year being isolated, running from job interviews to working on his final project, that he never noticed how many meals he missed.
His ulcer was not a sign of neglect, it was his insides crying out for some company.
The empty refrigerator in his mind didn’t want to be filled with condiments and foodstuffs, all the things that money and success could buy. It wanted, desperately, for someone to open that door and peer inside.
It was then Takemoto knew whose hand he needed to grasp, if he wanted to fill the emptiness.
He didn’t need Hagu to return his love. If she only made him a special sandwich -- for once, something that was only for him -- Takemoto knew his heart would be full forever.