head. “Well, you’ve got a deep tan, you’re solidly built, your arms have a good bit of muscle. Maybe you do a lot of outdoor sports. I don’t think you’re an outdoor laborer. You don’t have that vibe.”
Kirie lifted her sleeves, rested her bare arms on the counter, and turned them over, inspecting them. “You seem to be getting there.”
“But I still can’t give you the right answer.”
“It’s important to keep a few little secrets,” Kirie said. “I don’t want to deprive you of your professional pleasure—observing and imagining…I will give you one hint, though. It’s the same for me as for you.”
“The same how?”
“I mean, my profession is exactly what I always wanted to do, ever since I was a little girl. Like you. Getting to where I am, though, was not an easy trip.”
“Good,” Junpei said. “That’s important. Your work should be an act of love, not a marriage of convenience.”
“An act of love,” Kirie said. The words seemed to have made an impression on her. “That’s a wonderful metaphor.”
“Meanwhile, do you think I might have heard your name somewhere?” Junpei asked.
“Probably not,” she answered, shaking her head. “I’m not that well known.”
“Oh, well, everybody has to start somewhere.”
“Exactly,” Kirie said with a smile. Then she turned serious. “My case is different from yours in one way. I’m expected to attain perfection right from the start. No mistakes allowed. Perfection or nothing. No in-between. No second chances.”
“I suppose that’s another hint.”
“Probably.”
A waiter circulating with a tray of champagne approached them. She took two glasses from him and handed one to Junpei.
“Cheers,” she said.
“To our respective areas of expertise,” Junpei said.
They clinked glasses with a light, secretive sound.
“By the way,” she said, “are you married?”
Junpei shook his head.
“Neither am I,” Kirie said.
She spent that night in Junpei’s room. They drank wine—a gift from the restaurant—had sex, and went to sleep. When Junpei woke at ten o’clock the next morning, she was gone, leaving only an indentation like a missing memory in the pillow next to his, and a note: “I have to go to work. Get in touch with me if you like.” She included her cell phone number.
He called her, and they had dinner at a restaurant the following Saturday. They drank a little wine, had sex in Junpei’s room, and went to sleep. Again the next morning, she was gone. It was Sunday, but she left another simple note: “I have to work, am disappearing.” Junpei still had no idea what kind of work Kirie did, but it certainly started early in the morning. And—on occasion at least—she worked on Sundays.
The two were never at a loss for things to talk about. She had a sharp mind and was knowledgeable on a broad range of topics. She enjoyed reading, but generally favored books other than fiction—biography, history, psychology, and popular science—and she retained an amazing amount of information. One time, Junpei was astounded at her detailed knowledge of the history of prefabricated housing.
“Prefabricated housing? Your work must have something to do with construction or architecture.”
“No,” she said. “I just tend to be attracted to highly practical topics. That’s all.”
She did, however, read the two story collections that Junpei had published, and found them “wonderful—far more enjoyable than I had imagined. To tell you the truth, I was worried. What would I do if I read your work and didn’t like it? What could I say? But there was nothing to worry about. I enjoyed them thoroughly.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Junpei, relieved. He had had the same worry when, at her request, he gave her the books.
“I’m not just saying this to make you feel good,” Kirie said, “but you’ve got something special—that special something it takes to become an outstanding writer. Your stories have a quiet mood, but several of them are quite lively, and the style is beautiful, but mainly your writing is so balanced. For me, that is always the most important thing—in music, in fiction, in painting. Whenever I encounter a work or a performance that lacks that balance—which is to say, whenever I encounter a poor, unfinished work—it makes me sick. Like motion sickness. That’s probably why I don’t go to concerts and hardly read any fiction.”
“Because you don’t want to encounter unbalanced things?”
“Exactly.”
“And in order to avoid that risk, you don’t read novels and you don’t go to concerts?”
“That’s right.”
“Sounds a little far out to me.”
“I’m a Libra. I just can’t stand it when things are out of balance. No,