my back—they looked blocky in kimono. I envied those taut cylindrical girls at the bathhouse who wore their robes so effortlessly, envied Inko her loud, flat ease in the world: she wasn’t pretty—neither was a crow—but she was as buoyant and raucous, as matter-of-factly unaware of her body. I envied Mizushi the beauty that gilded her ambition with charm. I didn’t envy Koito, though all the teeth felt loose in my head when I looked at her: how can you envy an ideal?
