To Meet You In The Dark

Rain pattered on the aged windowpanes with ceaseless taps that were equal parts relaxing and frustratingly distracting. Humidity had arrived and begun its monthslong onslaught as it blanketed the metro in an inescapable sheet of clinging frustration. Fans spun with steady hums as mold treatments set into kitchen and bathroom surfaces. As the chemicals dried, Masaru resigned himself to standing outside on his tiny balcony as misery and terror battled for superiority in his mind.

His superior had all but announced his time at Andrakin was over. To be cast out like this was to be put in a position where loneliness and waywardness settled in so severely that one simply resigned. They wouldn’t have to fire him because he would merely break in time and leave on his own. But for now, he was going to be forgotten and ignored.

The motel was all that awaited him now.

A small saving grace was that the commute would be better since the motel was closer to home than Andrakin’s office. That was about the only positive Masaru could think of as he tapped the weathered card against the back of his other hand while his heel rose and fell with a matching cadence.

Love motels were not all bad. Most were respectable. Many served their purpose nobly within a society made of multi-generational housing and packed schedules. They stood in silence along the corners of districts, waiting for young workers and tired parents to visit their cloistered, hidden rooms for a few minutes or hours of respite from everyone else. Drunken dates would stumble in for a fun bit of engagement as they sobered and prepared to return home. Tourists enjoyed the novelty with innocent curiosity. You could rest for an hour or a few, or you could stay a night.

Of course, there were also the affairs that moved from office desks to rented beds, the escorts who lured clients into temporary escapes chosen by kiosks, and the extortionists who used those rooms to ruin the lives of anyone stupid enough to enter their domain.

Judging from the card’s terrible font, the internet reviews, and available imagery, Masaru knew that Warm Embraces fell in the latter category. If anything, it was likely worse.

Establishments like this only existed to be money laundering vessels, escaping demolitions for better use via corruption and eyes that looked the other way when it was time for inspections. Only the seediest of visitors would dare set foot in a place like this, and those would now be the people Masaru had to engage with- if anyone at all.

Drops splashed from the balcony railing and onto his hand as he stared out at the sea of glistening rooftops. Faraway towers were hidden beneath the haze of summer precipitation. By now the sun was setting, but the radiance of dusk was lost. Only ash and indigo made it through the darkness, covering all the metro in a cold, isolating solemnity.

Another drop touched his hand, and he returned the card to his tattered wallet. His headache had stopped, but the events of the day had left him shaken and exhausted.

As memories of the blood and hair streaking on the window began to replay in his mind, the door of the neighboring balcony opened. Masaru’s eyes stayed ahead, knowing who was about to appear. 

Faint hints of a radio playing within the space floated out and mixed in with the rainfall’s chorus as the door opened fully. 

A pale, measured hand reached out in a familiar, normal motion until it found the shallow balcony’s railing.

Fingers came to rest on the iron bracing before retreating and shaking slightly to fling the moisture from their tips. Cheap, fading, and uneven tattoos lined undernourished, purple-veined skin before vanishing beneath an oversized shirt. One hand lowered a single cigarette from exhausted lips as the other hand retrieved a portable knob lighter. It was the kind that used to be in every vehicle in the old days, back when armrests had ashtrays. This version was retractable and safe.

It activated with a click, and the cigarette edge met the heat with a motion that said this had been done thousands of times. After a second, the smallest crisp of sound said that the paper and tobacco were burning. With that, the lighter closed, and the cigarette returned to its weary lips.

Dyed red bangs hung over much of her face, almost hiding the tattoo that ran along her left cheekbone. On occasion, Masaru would absentmindedly start to glance at it before catching himself and stopping. That day, his thoughts were too distracted to look over at her.

The rain began to pick up, with westerly winds pushing the sheets across the alleys and sending more stray drops into Masaru’s domain. But he didn’t move. His treatments still needed to dry, and he found himself only wanting to stare at the rooftops of all those he’d never speak to. Plus, he was already damp; what was another drop?

Tomorrow would be his first commute. He had no onboarding scheduled. He didn’t know if he’d have a permanent co-worker. All he’d been told was that someone would be there to let him in that afternoon so that he could work the night shift.

Pick.

His sleep schedule was going to be ruined.

pickatthehealing

He hated having routines ruined.

pickandbleed

He hated all of this.

“You’re tapping your leg a lot more than usual,” she said from nearby.

Masaru’s mind cleared when she spoke. They’d lived beside one another for over a year now and had only ever said a handful of words to one another. True, they’d shared well over one hundred balcony sessions in silence, but he barely even knew what she sounded like.

“S-sorry,” he stammered.

Smoke drifted from her mouth and out into the downpour.

“Wasn’t an accusation of annoyance. More just’n observation,” she said as her eyes stayed looking ahead.

Her voice was husky, weathered, and distant, yet it felt calm. Masaru noticed a dialect that wasn't Kanto.

“Sor-” Masaru started to apologize again, but stopped.

“...A lot on my mind,” he adjusted.

Hair hung on her eyelashes as she blinked. She rarely wore makeup in the times he had seen her. He figured he understood well enough why she didn’t.

“Good shit? Or bad shit?” she asked.

She still didn’t face him, but he did feel like she was focusing her hearing on him. There was a tenseness to her listening as she waited for his answer. He almost didn’t know what to say, but he found himself not being up to deflecting or lying. He was too tired to be fully Japanese in that moment. So truth slipped out.

“Bad shit. My day started with an old… trauma… returning. Then I had a jumper. I saw the blood and bits of them. Then I had my yearly review, and I am now being relocated from my office to work at a forgotten, dirty love motel…”

She blew the remnant bits of smoke through her nose as her expression stayed blank.

“Yeah, that sounds like a bad shit day. Sorry to hear that.”

He had no idea if she wanted to say anything else. This was the most they’d ever spoken by far. He wasn’t sure he’d ever even looked at her face-to-face or learned her family name. Still, he wanted to be polite.

“What- what about you?” he asked.

Her cigarette reached its end, and her hand patted along a small side table until it found the moist ashtray. As she crushed the remainder into submission, she shifted her jaw left to right, allowing the last drags of smoke to exit without a full exhale. Small grey puffs and streaks floated from her lips and out into the gathering abyss. Most of the sun’s remaining glimmers of light were gone, and now the deep blackish blue night was covering everything. Small orbs of yellow blurred through the rain as windows and streetlamps shone out their halogen greetings.

“Day’s not started yet for me. I… work nights. Rain’s gonna suck, but I'll survive.”

With that, she inhaled and stretched her arms up with a deep sigh.

“Name’s Sayane, by the way.”

Masaru flinched at her frankness. He had certainly never spoken with her enough to already know her first name.

“I- I’m Ishikawa Masaru. It’s nice to meet you, Sayane- Sayane-san.”

Her eyes blinked with pained exhaustion.

“You don’t have to waste honorifics on me, I don’t give a damn. I’m only half-Japanese, which I was told my whole life means I’m not Japanese. So I use that as a credit to never have to adhere to bullshit formalities. But s’nice to ‘meet’ you, too, Ishikawa-san.”

She dipped her head slightly as she faced him. Without realizing it, Masaru stood to bow to her. It was a habit, and he didn’t think she’d mind, even if she couldn’t see it. When he rose from the bow, he finally saw her face-to-face for the briefest millisecond before she turned.

She was tiny and seemed quite unhealthy. He’d seen milk with more color. Beneath the curtain of faded bangs, two heavy, unwell bags lined her unblinking eyes with purple emptiness. Her wide lips tensed and raised ever so slightly into an uneven smirk as she blinked. When her eyes opened, they were looking past him, at nothing at all.

Both irises were partially rolled up in release, only partially revealing their cloudy, white coloring. Another blink hid them as she looked away, and the moment ended.

With that, she left him alone on the balcony once again. The door closed behind her, and Masaru paused to reflect on what had just happened.

“Good…bye?” Masaru asked at the sealed door.

He decided it was time to go inside as well. Coffee would be needed so that he could stay up long enough to begin adjusting his sleep schedule. As he re-entered his humble home, he braced for a new reality that would begin the next day. He hoped it would be better than he was currently fearing.