To Be Alone, Together

“Heeey, no honorifics. Good job,” Sayane smirked from her bang-shrouded face.

She couldn’t see it, but Masaru’s focus was on the cut on her lip. Somehow, his silence was understood.

“It’s exactly what you think. Guy hit me,” she said with nonchalant abandon.

The words and tone were just another shock from her for Masaru. She truly seemed indifferent, if not worn down.

“Are-are you okay? Are you s-safe?” he stammered as she locked her door.

“No, and no, but yes, if that makes sense,” she said as she slowly lowered her key ring to a carabiner clip that hung from her jeans’ belt loop.

Masaru struggled to find anything to say and Sayane’s eyes narrowed as she paused in thought.

“I’m fine Ishikawa-dono. I’ll never see him again, and he doesn’t know where I live ‘r how to reach me.”

There was a husky hollowness to her calm voice. The twang in her dialect was strained as though she was attempting to mask it to normalize into Kantō’s sound. Her lips were wide and drooped with a softness that almost didn’t match her gaunt, strong cheekbones. Red streaks in her hair were lined with faded purple. In the absence of makeup, her skin was as pale as ever, with small dots of wear and scarring visible. Still, she was strangely elegant to him. Looking at her felt like looking at the remnant bones of a bombed building that were somehow still standing in defiance.

Once her keys were latched back in place, Sayane’s free hand reached to her side to retrieve a hamper that Masaru had not noticed beforehand.

“Oh, are you doing laundry as well?” he asked.

“That what you’re up to?” she asked as she moved towards the stairwell.

Sweeps from her white cane led her forward as her hamper bobbed from its worn handles, almost dragging on the ground. Frayed edges of wide jeans scraped on the concrete with a soft scratching sound.

Masaru didn’t know if it would be weird or unpleasant for him to also go to the same laundromat as her, so he paused and let her walk ahead.

“You okay back there?” she asked as she reached the stairwell.

“Oh, uh, sorry. I- I am doing laundry as well. But if you would prefer I wait, that’s okay,” he answered.

She smirked a confused smile as her right eyebrow lifted in challenge.

“The hell would I want you to do that?” she asked as she tapped her way down the stairs with steady caution.

Yet again, he struggled with finding anything to say, but she didn’t seem to mind that he was also going to be there with her in the small room. Deciding it was still worth moving forward with his errand, Masaru grabbed his hamper and locked his door as he followed Sayane’s descending taps.

“You don’t prefer the elevator?” Masaru asked as he reached her.

One hand was clasping tightly around her white cane that was sliding along to identify each stair’s edge, as the other hand strained to hold on to the rail while simultaneously keeping her hamper from scraping the ground.

“That thing breaks more than it works. I’ve been trapped in there four times, and it's terrifying every time,” she said as she tilted her backwards slightly to point to the forlorn elevator that waited near the top of the stairs.

“Fair,” Masaru agreed, remembering his two unfortunate moments of being trapped in there himself.

“Would you like me to carry your hamper?” he asked.

“You’re sweet. I’m okay,” she replied.

Another step down. Another sweep to find the edge. Another preparatory grip on the handrail.

“I’m convinced this building was around before the American firebombing, and that goddamn elevator hasn’t been repaired or maintained since,” she said as she reached the turn of the connection point between their current stairwell and the next.

“I think it was built in the eighties,” Masaru replied without understanding her line.

“It was a joke, Ishikawa-kun,” Sayane sighed as she began the final descent.

“Oh, right. Apologies, Sayane-s-s-sensei,” Masaru replied, daring to attempt humor himself.

A snort from below told him he had moderately succeeded.

“I’ll allow that one,” she replied as her middle finger rose from her cane-holding hand.

Outside, the sky was still clear, so Masaru had hope that he’d be able to hang his clothes dry from the balcony for a few hours while he wound down for the day. Their neighborhood laundromat was only a block away, connected at its sides to a konbini and a cheap izakaya. Much of the izakaya’s food was always too overcooked and heavily fried for Masaru’s taste, so he had never frequented it.

Masaru set his trash bag in the burnables collection zone, spitefully sending his farewell to his bedbug-infested suit and shirt. Showering and ointments were helping ease the itching, so for a brief moment, he wasn’t thinking of sawing his skin away from its dermal connections.

Entering the laundromat sent the scent of lavender and cleaner into Masaru’s nose. He found himself wondering if Sayane noticed things like sound and smell more, in the absence of being able to see. He held the door for her and she tapped forward to a quiet machine.

Its door was opened and Sayane extended her hand into its cavern for inquisition. Her palm met a pile of damp clothes.

“Oop, sorry,” she said as she closed the door and moved to another silent washer.

She repeated the same process, only this time, the machine was in fact empty. When she knew this was hers, she unzipped the waist pouch that was beside her carabiner.

Masaru moved past her to another quiet washer and scanned the glass front of the door to confirm it was available. Seeing it was, he set his hamper down and began to load his clothes.

Beside him, Sayane was looking ahead in thought, mouthing out her count as she removed individual yen from separate small bags within her pouch. Masaru noticed that each bag was a different size. One had duct tape around it. One was plastic. The other was fake leather. He realized each was different for its coin type.

A coin slipped from her hand and fell to the ground with a clink before rolling away.

“Shit,” she sighed in annoyance.

“I will get it,” Masaru replied.

For once, her facade shifted ever so slightly, and she seemed genuinely surprised, even grateful.

“...Thank you,” she said.

Masaru found the coin beneath a nearby chair and returned it to her waiting palm. She was still looking straight ahead.

“Being blind usually means that if you drop a coin when you’re alone, it’s gone for good.”

“...I am happy to have helped. It’s a one hundred,” was all he could respond.

As he went to set the coin in her hand, she moved very subtly to reach for him, unaware exactly where he was. Doing so caused the edge of her thumb to come into contact with his ring finger. Tension relaxed, and the coin fell from his touch into hers.

“Thank you,” she said as she placed the coin into the slot.

Masaru simply hummed a grunt of acknowledgement as his thumb absentmindedly flicked at the part of his ring finger’s nail that had just touched her.

Dust sat along the tops of the machines, telling stories of carefree cleaning from aged hands that could no longer reach the higher edges. The room always had a faint smell of mildew, but it was subtle enough to not be overly concerning. Korean drama audio played from muffled speakers in a room just out of sight. No one ever came out to engage with customers. In that moment, Masaru and Sayane were essentially alone.

Sayane finished loading her clothes and added the detergent as Masaru slowly checked his items to be properly separated.

“I’m gonna grab some dinner at the konbini. Want anything?” Sayane asked.

It struck Masaru that this would be his new routine: Dinner at ten in the morning. Konbini food didn’t sound like the healthy nourishment his body was craving after days of not eating, but his hunger was becoming so painfully severe that he decided it was better to simply eat anything he could.

“Yes, please. Just, ...some chicken karaage, I guess,” he said as he unzipped his coin purse.

Sayane heard him and gave a deflective head shake.

“Keep the money. On me.”

She turned and tapped her way to the door, leaving Masaru by himself. He found himself watching her again. Her shoulders were rolled forward as though locked in a perpetual flinch.

His eye started to drift, and the darkness began to flirt with the edges of his vision. Fearing a migraine was on the way, Masaru resigned himself to sit in the hard plastic chair nearby and slowly rub his temple.

A minute later, Sayane returned with a bag of food and a small bottle of whiskey. She handed him his meal without a word, then sat in the chair across from him.

The bags under her eyes were almost purple. Numerous pill bottles were removed from her purse as she tensed and let out a strained groan as she shifted her weight in the chair.

“These goddamn chairs are very uncomfortable,” she sighed as she absentmindedly reached between her legs before stopping herself.

“Apologies,” she said as she looked in Masaru’s general direction.

“It’s okay. Are you okay?” Masaru asked.

Bitterness pulled her mouth into a sneer that slowly became a smirk. She shook her head.

Neither spoke again, instead accepting that enough personal engagement had passed for the moment. Food was consumed. Masaru's delirious body graciously received every piece of processed, deep-fried meat. At least a dozen pills were swallowed by Sayane. Then the entire bottle of whiskey was drunk in three full gulps. Then another was opened. Masaru almost wanted to say something else but knew it wasn’t his place. Misery manifested itself in so many ways, it was natural that escape from such would be different for others.

His skin was calm for the moment.

Machines churned and shook as tubs and drums cycled soap and water through the bits of fabric within their hold. Two oscillating fans moved out of sync from one another as they pushed air to and fro.

For the briefest moment, Masaru’s heart rate felt like it was calming. Anxiety’s stranglehold on his nervous system began to soften as the steady sloshes of water lulled him into relaxation. Sayane let her head lean back against the wall and closed her eyes to rest.

Then the power failed and everything shut down.

Hums faded as machines died and fans ceased.

Sayane sat up with a winded grunt.

“Power out?” Sayane asked.

“Yes,” Masaru replied.

“...That’s not good. Ishikawa-chan, I… I’m afraid of the dark…” Sayane muttered in a girly tone.

Masaru didn’t know what to say, until he saw her smiling.

“It’s a blind joke. You can laugh because I made it…”

He chuckled as he exhaled.

“Maybe it will turn back on quickly?” Masaru asked as he looked around for hints of a worker.

No one was moving. They may have actually been alone. Seconds passed. Nothing changed.

Then a minute passed.

Then another.

Ten minutes passed, and nothing changed.

Sayane’s nose creased in annoyance as she pulled her eyes shut.

“Son of a bitch,” she exhaled as she rubbed her face, then pulled her hand down across her cheek.

Her eyes darted around their sockets as she measured her options.

“Do you need to go soon?” Masaru asked.

She inhaled and tilted her head slightly to the side as though hiding something.

“I… I usually work nights, but I have something coming up soon that I need to leave for.”

There were certainly details that she was withholding, but Masaru didn’t mind. Again, it wasn’t his place.

“I-I-I can gather your clothes and hold them for you. If you need me to hang some, I can hang them on my balcony or in my bathroom.”

Fretful fingers strummed along pale cheekbones as the outer edge of her tattered right shoe tapped on the tile. After a second of debating, she conceded defeat.

“I’m so sorry, really. I didn’t want to have to do this to you on your time off,” she muttered.

In that moment, she seemed genuinely embarrassed, though Masaru wasn’t sure why.

“It’s no problem. I do not mind,” he said.

Sayane stood and shook her head in frustration.

“You’re very kind. I’m really sorry. I’ll be back in like two hours or so. Will you still be up?” she asked.

Masaru nodded, then remembered to audibly speak.

“Yes. If not, just tap on my door. I’ll wake.”

She forced a smile.

“Well, just as a heads up. I know how many bras and pairs of panties I have in there, so don’t try to take any.”

Masaru blushed in shock.

“I’d… S-Sayane… I wouldn’t,” he stammered.

She chuckled to herself.

“Well, I can’t stop you from sniffing them. But I guess that’s okay. Just don’t be weird about it if you do. Though, I guess you’d likely rather have done that BEFORE I washed them, if you were into that.”

“Sayane!” he squeaked.

She snorted a quiet sniff as she shook her head once more. He was slightly mortified. He had not even considered intimate items when he’d made his offer.

“I’m joking with you, Ishikawa-san. You don’t seem like that kind of guy.”

With that, she patted her way to the door. As it parted, a breeze blew in and pushed her bangs from her eyes.

“You really don’t mind?” she asked as she removed a cigarette from her waist pouch.

Sunlight nestled itself on her sickly, malnourished skin. Paper rested on lips. The gash was still swollen along its edges. Scents of warm asphalt and sunbaked concrete hung in the moisture-riddled air. Some ill-defined hurt seemed stitched to her bones.

“I don’t, really,” Masaru replied.

She shook her head.

“You’re too kind. I’ll be by later. Hang whatever you want from your balcony, and I guess just hang the intimates in your shower. Thank you.”

Her tone was sincere, and she wasn’t forcing herself to smile anymore. Masaru didn’t know why he’d offered to help, or why he’d even been so comfortable spending time with another. As she cautiously made her way across the street and back towards their apartment complex, Masaru found himself reflecting on the surrealness of going from absolute isolation to whatever this strange moment and strange feeling was.

He hoped the power would be restored soon, but even if it wasn't, he was sincerely grateful that as he sat alone in that chair, in the heat of the summer, he was not feeling miserable for at least a moment.