A Lonely Resurrection

leaned forward, one hand on the bed, the other on my chest, and pushed me down onto my back. She knelt astride me, one hand still on my chest, and reached down for me with the other. She squeezed for a second, hard enough to make it hurt. Then, looking at me with her dark eyes but still saying nothing, she guided me in.
    We moved slowly at first, tentatively, like two people unsure of each other’s motives. My hands roamed the landscape of her body, now moving on, now lingering somewhere in response to the pace of her breathing or the pitch of her voice. She put her hands on my shoulders, pinning me with her weight, and began to ride me harder. I watched her face, silhouetted by the reflected light of the windows, and felt some intangible thing like heat or current surging between our bodies. I brought my feet up to the bed and with the slightly altered angle of our bodies moved more deeply inside her. Her breathing shortened and quickened. I tried to hold back, not wanting to let go before she did, but she moved faster, more urgently, and I started to go over the edge. A sound, part growl, part whimper, came from her throat, and she leaned forward so her face was almost touching mine and she looked in my eyes and as I felt her coming and as I came, too, she whispered, “I hate you,” and I saw that she was crying.
    Afterward, she straightened, but kept her hands on my shoulders. She dipped her head forward so shadows obscured her face. She made no sound but her body shuddered and I felt her tears falling onto my chest and neck.
    I didn’t know what to say, or even whether to touch her, and we remained that way for a long time. Then she eased off me and walked silently to the bathroom. I sat up and waited. After a few minutes she came out, wearing one of the hotel’s white terrycloth robes. She looked at me but didn’t say anything.
    “You want me to go?” I asked.
    She closed her eyes and nodded.
    “Okay.” I got up and started pulling on my clothes. When I was done I faced her.
    “I know you’re doing well in New York,” I said.
“Ganbatte.”
Keep it up.
    She looked at me. “What are you going to do?”
    I shrugged. “You know how it is with us creatures of the night. Gotta find a rock to crawl under before the sun comes up.”
    She forced a smile. “After that.”
    I nodded, thinking. “I’m not sure.”
    There was a pause.
    “You should work with your friend,” she said. “It’s the only thing for you.”
    “Funny, he’s always saying that, too. Good thing I don’t believe in conspiracies.”
    The smile reappeared, a little less forced this time. “His motives are probably selfish. Mine aren’t.”
    I looked at her. “I’m not sure whether I can trust your motives, after what you just said to me.”
    She looked down. “I’m sorry.”
    “No, it’s okay. You were being honest. Though I don’t think anyone has ever been honest with me in quite that way. At least not at that moment.”
    Another smile. It was sad, but at least it looked genuine. “I’m being honest now.”
    I needed to get it over with. I moved in close, close enough to smell her hair and feel the warmth of her skin. I paused there for a moment, my eyes closed. Took a deep breath. Slowly let it out.
    I used English to avoid the unambiguous finality of
sayonara.
“Goodbye, Midori,” I said.
    I walked to the door and, habitual as always, checked through the peephole. The corridor was empty. I moved into it without looking back.
    The hallway was hard. The elevator was a little easier. By the time I got to the street I knew the worst was over.
    A voice spoke up inside me, quiet but insistent.
So is the best,
it said.

CHAPTER 21
    I made my way through the backstreets of Shinjuku, heading east, deciding where I wanted to stay for the night and what I would do when I awoke the following morning. I tried not to think about anything else.
    It was late, but there were small clusters of people about, moving like dim constellations in the surrounding emptiness of space: vagrants and beggars; hustlers and pimps; the disheartened, the disenfranchised, the dispossessed.
    I hurt, and couldn’t think of a way to make the pain go away.
    My pager buzzed.
    Of course I thought,
Midori.
    But I knew it wasn’t her. She didn’t have the number. Even if she did, she wasn’t going to use it.
    I looked at the display, but didn’t recognize the caller.
    I found a payphone and dialed the number. It rang once, then a woman answered in