Everything Goes On, Including Us

Kaho’s first ikebana gallery was in Shinjuku. Clouds had mostly stayed at bay, so she dared to set out and explore her potential options that Saturday morning. First, she stopped at a coffee shop. Scents of pastries and varying roasts greeted her as the overhead chalkboard alerted her to available options.

Reading was another experience that made Kaho feel separated from most of the world. In the absence of a refined inner voice, she would read the symbols written out, then convert them to the appropriate sign. Unseen hands moved within her mind, giving her the appropriate translation.

There was no audible reference for her to draw from that guided her thoughts to what the words sounded like. Coffee was not heard in her thoughts as “ko-hee”. Instead, she knew it as pursed lips for the first syllable, followed by the jaw dropping and pulling back slightly as the lips pulled wider and air escaped through narrowed teeth, or, for her, both hands raised, right hand fingers pinching an invisible spoon as they rotated clockwise, while the left hand held the handle of an invisible mug.

Most in society were accommodating enough for her to get by in basic engagements. Months in the mountains had softened her awareness slightly, making her nerves a little less on edge as she approached the counter and pointed to her inactive hearing aid. If nothing else, it was a good social signal.

The barista nodded with a gentle smile and handed Kaho a printed menu to reference. After selecting an Ethiopian blend and some cheese toast, Kaho paid, then made her way through the morning crowd to find a table.

Couples laughed. Friends chatted while scrolling on social media. Children kicked their feet while an exhausted mother tried to have a moment of tranquility. Cups slid across serving plates with the subtlest of scrapes. Aged spoons clinked on ceramic lips. Door bells chimed as greetings and goodbyes were exchanged.

Through it all, Kaho was silent and separate. Droning quiet was all that moved through her ears as she permitted herself to lift her head and observe the world around her. At least now she did not feel as much rage about it as she once had.

She allowed herself to take her time with the stop, sitting for nearly an hour. Only once the crowds began to pile in and form waiting lines did she decide that it was time to go. Walking along the narrow streets of Shinjuku was a nearly overwhelming assault on the senses, even when one was missing. Flashing lights screamed out proclamations of consumerist offerings. Scents of food stalls hiding in narrow alleys enticed wanderers to detour off the beaten path. Puddles of morning rainfall pooled along the pavement, reflecting the sky as they were splashed by passing cars.

The first ikebana gallery Kaho visited was purely that. To her slight disappointment, they did not offer any classes or social events. The pristine marble walls and minimalist decor were there solely to display recent arrangements by the master who resided above the space.

Each arrangement was structured, almost rigid, and efficient. It was a far cry from the form and freedom of their classes. Kaho assumed he belonged to the more traditional school. After spending a half-hour observing the displays, Kaho continued to her next stop. It wasn’t far away, and she had hope. The organizer had appeared on recommended lists as someone who offered classes to tourists, but was still very respected. Photos of their work showed a more relaxed approach to the craft. And, if nothing else, the fact that the instructors were used to working with foreigners gave Kaho a sense of comfort as well- language barriers might not be an issue, so deafness wouldn’t be as big of a hurdle.

With her phone in hand for directions, Kaho continued her trek. The map recommended cutting through the red light district. It wasn’t a place she’d ever frequented before, especially since her father had almost forbidden it. Since it was daytime, Kaho didn’t feel overly concerned about wandering through Kabukicho’s gilded streets. No club was open, so there wouldn’t be any grabbers or hustlers trying to lead her into shady venues.

Almost no one was there with her besides the occasional walker who, like Kaho, seemed to simply be cutting through to get to another destination. In a few hours, all manner of locals and visitors alike would descend on the district, while girls stood on the sidewalks with signs covering their chests and well-dressed men stood with their hands in their pockets. But for now, Kaho was mostly alone.

Billboards surrounded her as she walked. Images of women from hostess clubs leered at her from on high, while video loops of gorgeous men beckoned her to their layers. Every step brought a new image of beauty and desire. Some were seductive. Some were cute. Some were innocent. Some were overly made-up and posed. All of them were shining and still. Then something caught her eye.

It was a flash on a video to her left.

Kaho saw it in her peripheral vision, and it was enough to stop her mid-stride.

The building she was in front of was at least twenty stories tall, with signs and advertisements lining every upper floor. A large stone staircase led to a second-floor entrance where an elaborate logo hung overhead. Without the aid of lights and neon, it was hard to read, but upon examination, Kaho made out a word that was slightly foreign to her.

“Eden.”

Kaho was not a Christian, so her exposure to the word was limited. At best, she knew it was something akin to paradise.

Signs around the staircase showed images of more beautiful men. Above the entrance doors was the enormous screen that had caught her eye. It was playing a reel of the young hosts who worked at the establishment, along with footage of the club’s interior.

Shots of well-appointed booths and dramatic lighting told Kaho that this was a luxurious establishment. Text on the screens and posters heralded Eden as the most sought-after club in the city, with the most well-known men.

He appeared.

Kaho may have let out a slight gasp upon seeing the face of the person she’d thought would never cross her path again. Seeing his visage alone was enough to send a burst of adrenalized longing into her chest, but in this context, Kaho found herself even more perplexed.

It was him.

But it was different.

He was smiling.

She’d never seen him smile like that.

His hair was combed out of his eyes and styled to accent his harsh cheekbones.

Grey fabric was stitched in measured lines to accent his defined body.

Hands of adoring women pulled at him from all sides.

His gaze broke over the edge of the glass in his hand so that he was looking directly at the viewer.

Text appeared on the screen, announcing “He’s baaaaaack!!!”

“Tokyo’s knight has returned and is waiting for you!!!”

It felt so very fake, Kaho found herself unsure if it was actually him.

Something in his face couldn’t be hidden, no matter how many graphics and poses they threw on him. Slow motion visuals allowed his eyes to linger on the screen for a moment longer, and now Kaho was now certain it was.

One more line of text appeared to confirm it.

“Can you handle a night with Shuhei, the most famous host in Tokyo?”

A slight breeze drifted across Kaho’s chest, and she felt the hints of a chill as she looked up at the face that was so familiar and yet so unfamiliar in that moment. Something heavy and anxious built in her ribs as she suddenly became aware of The Surface for the first time in days.

“Shuhei? You're a host?” Kaho thought to herself.