Sayane and Masaru Pt II: Muffled JPop Music and A Familiar Salaryman

Warm water ran down her pale legs, pulling days of dirt and shame from her skin. Streams of brown and red flowed in tiny currents from her feet and down to the drain as Sayane did everything she could to not vomit. A thousand emotions were slamming against one another, threatening to break her psyche right then and there. But somehow, relief was the main sensation. It wasn’t quite peace. It wasn’t happiness. Yet it was still welcome as it enfolded her and let her ease into acceptance that she’d at least have one more night.

To her relief, his shower was the same mass-produced modular setup as hers, so she knew the exact height of where his shampoo and soap would be. He’d given her a fresh washrag, which she had yet to release from her nervous grip.

When she spurted a dollop of the first bottle she’d touched, she realized it was body wash because it smelled like he did when she’d been near him. It was potent and synthetic, but it was pleasantly musky.

His water pressure was better than hers.

Soap lathered in cloth and skin was scrubbed as Sayane felt her bones becoming heavier.

Exhaustion was beginning its permeating onslaught, moving through her body like fog rolling through ports on cool evenings. She was losing strength as quickly as she was losing grime, but she wanted to stay awake a little longer.

He had food simmering for them. She could smell it drifting into the bathroom through the small crack at the base of the door. It was quiet, telling her he’d left to go to her apartment. She wondered what he’d think when he entered.

Masaru hadn’t lingered in the entrance very long. When he’d opened her door, he was somewhat surprised to see it quite clean, albeit unpleasantly empty. In truth, he’d made an assumption that it might be unkempt and neglected, but instead, he found a simple living space full of carefully categorized and organized containers.

Spices and seasonings were set in racks that descended in height, with the most flavorful being in the smallest jars. A few plates were in the cabinet shelf on the left. A few glasses were in the cabinet shelf on the right.

Two dozen pill bottles of varying prescriptions were set in groups. No decor lined the walls, save for a broom and dustpan. There was no television, only a simple portable speaker on a small coffee table.

Masaru entered her bedroom and saw her futon still rolled up against the wall. There was a lingering curiosity if he should try to bring that over for her, but he feared it might upset her, so he trusted that she’d be happy enough sleeping on his.

The bathroom was just as organized, so it was easy to swiftly find the handful of items she’d requested. Once he had her toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant all packed and sealed in a bag, he turned and quickly made his way out of her home. As he pulled the key from the lock, a fleeting flash of relief struck him as he reflected on his plea to her door just the other day.

She heard him re-enter.

He heard muffled music playing from the bathroom. It must have been coming from her phone.

A young woman’s yearning voice harmonized with digital strings as a soft melody played alongside somber piano and acoustic guitar notes. Masaru didn’t mind the sound. Sayane began to hum to herself, and he could just barely hear the roughened edges of her slightly out-of-tune words.

It happened without him meaning to or even thinking about it.

He smiled.

The sensation was so foreign to Masaru that he wasn’t even sure what was happening at first. So many years of spasming facial twitches and traumatized frowns had left the feedback of his nerves only familiar with downward pulls, But now the edges of his lips had pulled upward for three seconds, and Masaru stopped his cooking to memorize the feeling of how his muscles were positioned and how his chest was warmer than the rest of him.

That would be enough.

The glitching fades of his extremities told him it would have to be.

Back in the bathroom, the shower had stopped, and Sayane was feeling the steam enveloping her skin as she felt a new set of unfamiliar emotions move through her. She’d been naked in hundreds of unknown places and in front of hundreds of unknown faces, yet in that particular moment, she felt truly vulnerable.

Sayane turned the volume down on her music. Chicken’s fragrance greeted her as her ears picked up the hints of his feet shuffling around in the kitchen as pans clacked against one another.

It happened without her meaning to or even thinking about it.

She smiled.

She’d smiled plenty for the sake of her job. Even if the clients knew they were paying her for her body, she’d learned it made things easier to at least pretend to be jovial and charming. But those smiles were an act and nothing more. It had been ages since she’d actually felt that shift in her right cheek as her lip smirked upwards like it once did many lifetimes ago, before every fucking thing went wrong.

She stood there and allowed herself the small moment before reaching for her towel.

That would be enough.

The agonizing pain radiating through her entire body told her it would have to be.

Moments later, she was dried, clothed, and cautiously making her way into the living room.

“Do you want to lay down and eat in bed? I c-can bring the food in there for you if you want,” Masaru asked.

Sayane debated, wanting to be polite and observe formalities and politeness, but it hurt to sit. Too much damage had been done to the sacred realms between her legs, and the idea of sitting on any surface was far less appealing than simply resigning herself to lying on the floor.

“I’ll lie down, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. I’ll bring you a bowl. Oyakodon.”

Sayane smiled again and then turned to re-enter the bedroom.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course,” he replied as he clicked the burner off.

Nothing felt awkward. Masaru was pleasantly surprised that either of them could speak, but in those moments between moments, their engagements almost felt natural.

Bowls were prepared, and a glass of water was poured. Masaru entered and set the dish down beside Sayane, whose eyes were still open as she listened and smelled the experience.

“Why are you being kind to me?” she asked.

“Why not?” he asked.

Sayane shook her head, slightly perplexed.

“You’re sweet. I told you that before.”

Masaru smiled.

“So are you. At least to me, you are.”

Sayane exhaled, exhausted.

“To you.”

They ate in silence.

He put the dishes away and tidied up while she slowly dozed off. Sleep overtook her as her fingers picked at the edges of her t-shirt collar.

Not long after, Masaru was lying down on another futon in the living room. Adrenaline and joy faded, and reality returned as he turned the lights off. Throbbing pains pulsed through his eye and along the edges of half of his face. Numb, cold emptiness was biting at his hands, feet, and lower legs.

Something was wrong, and it wasn’t going away.

But no matter what, in that moment, he didn’t feel despondent and alone. Warmth lingered in his lips.

Then the door shook as pounding slams nearly cracked the frame. Sayane screamed out in terror from the other room as Masaru bolted upright.