one is looking.” It was so strange. You, the blind one, seemed to know exactly what was going on around us.
“I love your book.”
That’s what you said to me. You meant a book that I edited, a biography of Michel Petrucciani. You told me that it was as though the letters you touched on the page were flooded with the unearthly melodies he played on the piano. I was so happy. But I had been pathologically obsessed with making the author rewrite that very passage, over and over again. It must have been tough on the author. Yet in return for all his hard work, he had been able to impress a woman as beautiful as you.
Making love with you was like a miracle to me. You had been worried about your own body, but you were really, truly beautiful. I was wild with excitement, and you were wild for me too.
“One’s bigger than the other.”
You said this to me sheepishly, while cupping your own breasts with your hands.
“Don’t worry, everyone’s are.”
“Really?”
“Really, take your hands away.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Ha ha, take them away.”
I was so excited, I couldn’t wait. I touched my lips to your breasts over and over again. Looking at your body, I thought to myself: What a gorgeous creature. What a gorgeous creature, right here before my very eyes. And someone this gorgeous wants to be with me. The body of the person you love is the most wonderful. And I was in love with you. From the bottom of my heart. So much that I didn’t care what happened to me.
It seems like people who can’t see are generally thought to be quiet and meek. But you were quite the opposite. You went everywhere. You told me you had been to Nepal, to Jamaica, to Singapore. When we went to Kyoto together and stood before the temples, you explained everything about them to me. The quality of the materials they were built with. Their shape and appearance. The expressions on the faces of the tourists who had come to see them. You even explained my own impressions to me. Listening and breathing it all in, you seemed to be comparing the knowledge you learned from books with everythingaround you, seeing it all recreated in the back of your mind. At the time, you wore a faint smile. I think it’s possible that the temples you imagined in your mind may have been more beautiful than the real things.
You went everywhere. To concerts to hear the jazz you loved, to author readings and amusement parks, on walks to nature parks and to restaurants you had discovered in magazines. In places that aren’t public institutions, there isn’t any yellow tactile paving on the walkways. There you were with your walking stick, and I was right beside you, when a car rushed recklessly past us. Worried about you, I followed you wherever you went. You seemed so amused by my concern. You even made me stop when I tried to insist on walking on the street side to protect you. You laughed and said, “I’m worried about you.”
One time we were having dinner at the apartment when there was a report on television about a murder. As you heard this on the news, you suddenly put down the chopsticks in your hand and touched my arm. Then you said, “I don’t know what I would do if you were murdered,” as if whispering to yourself.
“Here I am with you now, in this cozy apartment,” you went on softly. “But if this reality were shattered by an event like that, I don’t think I could go on.”
I had been staring vacantly at the television. A young man had been stabbed numerous times in a robbery homicide. Theamount stolen was only ¥12,000. The perpetrator had been arrested and was expressing his remorseful plea.
“If you were murdered, I would want revenge. Of course, that’s not right, and if anything, I’m against the death penalty. But … if someone I cared about were murdered, I don’t think I’d have a choice but to consider revenge first. I mean, it’s not really to say whether it’s right or wrong. To lose someone I loved would
“I love your book.”
That’s what you said to me. You meant a book that I edited, a biography of Michel Petrucciani. You told me that it was as though the letters you touched on the page were flooded with the unearthly melodies he played on the piano. I was so happy. But I had been pathologically obsessed with making the author rewrite that very passage, over and over again. It must have been tough on the author. Yet in return for all his hard work, he had been able to impress a woman as beautiful as you.
Making love with you was like a miracle to me. You had been worried about your own body, but you were really, truly beautiful. I was wild with excitement, and you were wild for me too.
“One’s bigger than the other.”
You said this to me sheepishly, while cupping your own breasts with your hands.
“Don’t worry, everyone’s are.”
“Really?”
“Really, take your hands away.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Ha ha, take them away.”
I was so excited, I couldn’t wait. I touched my lips to your breasts over and over again. Looking at your body, I thought to myself: What a gorgeous creature. What a gorgeous creature, right here before my very eyes. And someone this gorgeous wants to be with me. The body of the person you love is the most wonderful. And I was in love with you. From the bottom of my heart. So much that I didn’t care what happened to me.
It seems like people who can’t see are generally thought to be quiet and meek. But you were quite the opposite. You went everywhere. You told me you had been to Nepal, to Jamaica, to Singapore. When we went to Kyoto together and stood before the temples, you explained everything about them to me. The quality of the materials they were built with. Their shape and appearance. The expressions on the faces of the tourists who had come to see them. You even explained my own impressions to me. Listening and breathing it all in, you seemed to be comparing the knowledge you learned from books with everythingaround you, seeing it all recreated in the back of your mind. At the time, you wore a faint smile. I think it’s possible that the temples you imagined in your mind may have been more beautiful than the real things.
You went everywhere. To concerts to hear the jazz you loved, to author readings and amusement parks, on walks to nature parks and to restaurants you had discovered in magazines. In places that aren’t public institutions, there isn’t any yellow tactile paving on the walkways. There you were with your walking stick, and I was right beside you, when a car rushed recklessly past us. Worried about you, I followed you wherever you went. You seemed so amused by my concern. You even made me stop when I tried to insist on walking on the street side to protect you. You laughed and said, “I’m worried about you.”
One time we were having dinner at the apartment when there was a report on television about a murder. As you heard this on the news, you suddenly put down the chopsticks in your hand and touched my arm. Then you said, “I don’t know what I would do if you were murdered,” as if whispering to yourself.
“Here I am with you now, in this cozy apartment,” you went on softly. “But if this reality were shattered by an event like that, I don’t think I could go on.”
I had been staring vacantly at the television. A young man had been stabbed numerous times in a robbery homicide. Theamount stolen was only ¥12,000. The perpetrator had been arrested and was expressing his remorseful plea.
“If you were murdered, I would want revenge. Of course, that’s not right, and if anything, I’m against the death penalty. But … if someone I cared about were murdered, I don’t think I’d have a choice but to consider revenge first. I mean, it’s not really to say whether it’s right or wrong. To lose someone I loved would
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