A Lonely Resurrection

“hostess club,” where the women are paid only for conversation. The West accepts the notion that sex can be commoditized, but rebels at the idea that other forms of human interaction might be subject to purchase, as well. For hostesses are not prostitutes, though, like the geisha from whom they’re descended, they might strike up an after-hours relationship with the right customer, after a suitable courtship. Rather, patrons at such establishments pay for the simple pleasure of the girls’ company, and for their ability to smooth out the rough edges of business meetings, as well as for the hope that, eventually, something more might develop. If it were simple sex the hostesses’ clients were after, they could buy it for much less elsewhere.
    “What club?” I asked him.
    “A place called Damask Rose.”
    “Haven’t heard of it.”
    “They don’t advertise.”
    “Sounds upscale.”
    “It is. It’s a pretty refined place, in fact. In Nogizaka, on Gaienhigashi-dori. They probably wouldn’t let you in.”
    I laughed. I love when Harry shows some spirit. “Okay, so the boss takes you to Damask Rose. . .”
    “Yeah, and he had a lot to drink and was telling everyone that I’m a computer genius. One of the hostesses asked me some questions about how to configure a firewall because she just bought a new computer.”
    “Pretty?”
    The blush reappeared. “I guess. Her computer was a Macintosh, so I liked her right off the bat.”
    I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t know that kind of thing could form the basis for love at first sight.”
    “So I answered a few of her questions,” he said, ignoring me. “At the end of the night, she asked if I would give her my phone number, in case she had any more questions.”
    I laughed. “Thank God she didn’t just give you her number. She would have died of old age waiting for you to call.”
    He smiled, knowing this was probably true.
    “So she called you. . .” I said.
    “And I wound up going over to her apartment and configuring her whole system.”
    “Harry, you ‘configured her whole system’?” I asked, my eyes mock-wide.
    He looked down, but I saw the smile. “You know what I mean.”
    “You’re not going to. . . penetrate her security, are you?” I asked, unable to resist.
    “No, I wouldn’t do that to her. She’s nice.”
    Christ, he was so smitten he couldn’t even spot the sophomoric double entendre. “I’ll be damned,” I said again. “I’m happy for you, Harry.”
    He looked at me, saw that my expression was genuine. “Thanks,” he said.
    I raised my glass to my nose, took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and let it go. “So she’s got you keeping odd hours?” I asked.
    “Well, the club is open until three in the morning and she works every day. So, by the time she gets home. . .”
    “I get the picture,” I said. Though in fact, it was a little hard to imagine Harry with an attachment that didn’t have an Ethernet cable and a mouse. He was an introverted, socially stunted guy, with no contacts I knew of outside of his day job, which he kept at arm’s length in any event, and me. Conditions that had always made him useful.
    I tried to picture him with a high-end hostess, and couldn’t see it. It didn’t feel right.
    Don’t be a prick,
I thought.
Just because you can’t have someone in your life, don’t begrudge Harry.
    “What’s her name?” I asked.
    He smiled. “Yukiko.”
    Yukiko means “snow child.” “Pretty name.”
    He nodded, his expression slightly dopey. “I like it.”
    “How much does she know about you?” I asked, taking a sip of the Lagavulin. My tone was innocent, but I was concerned that, in the delirium of what I assumed was first love, Harry would be unnecessarily open with this girl.
    “Well, she knows about the consultant work, of course. But not about the. . . hobbies.”
    About his extreme proclivity for hacking, he meant. A hobby that could land him in prison if the authorities caught wind of it. In the ground, if someone else did.
    “Hard to keep that sort of thing secret,” I opined, testing.
    “I don’t see why it would have to come up,” he said, looking at me.
    A waitress appeared from behind a curtain and set Harry’s order on the bar in front of him. He thanked her, showing a deep appreciation for this newly wonderful class of being,
women who work in restaurants and bars,
and I smiled.
    I realized on some level that if Harry was going to start living