DEATH IN GALAXIES AND OTHER THINGS I LEARNED FROM TELEVISION

The asteroids fall over Ine Bay, north of Kyoto on a chill March night. The mother wolf looks up, watching the starglow fade before turning back to her cubs and nudging them into the thick forest.

Out here in a foreign land, I hold a stranger’s hand, our language barrier made trivial amid the quiet beauty. Others are here, wearing anime shirts and neckties, their business suits ripped off between work and the bar. A scuffle breaks out at the far corner lot; curses are exchanged. I look down at her, and she smiles with humor before turning back to the stars.

The lights bring smoke to her eyes.

Later, in a small noodle shop, we crack open beers and a bottle of Nikka whiskey is poured, a slow and long presentation by an elderly man.

How many nights has he witnessed love in this shop?

Its conception, its termination?

How many first dates?

How many last ones?

I look at my new friend as she brings the bowl to her lips, a single line of light lipstick transferred to the porcelain. She shows her embarrassment, the only time she hasn’t seemed perfect all evening, and quickly cleans the bowl.

We order mochi ice cream to complete the meal, but leave it untouched on the table. It melts as we make for the exit, mixing with the memories that live in Japan.

Outside, a slight drizzle, and I offer my coat. She slides next to me as we hurry along the narrow streets. Shops are closing, cats are finding shelter under old temple gates. I feel her left breast pressed into my skin, and I want to hold her closer.

But then we get to her train stop.

She looks at me once, leans up on her toes, and kisses me softly.

I open my eyes to see her smile and slip away.

Then the noise of the train comes crashing in. People exit, and she gets lost in the wind. The train doors close, the sounds of fury leaving with it. The platform slowly empties, and I sit looking at where I last saw her before the masses.

One night in Japan.

And I will never love like this again.