The Book of Tokyo: A City In Short Fiction

by Michael Emmerich

I once asked Kyoko why she liked picnics so much. It was after we’d picnicked four or five times since that first day at the height of summer. ‘Because…’ Kyoko said. ‘Because, when I look at you outside, I can see you clearly. I can see the size of you, the shape of your hands, your voice, your presence.’

The feeling was similar to when I used to go to the beach as a child and lay down at the water’s edge. The way the water-softened sand lapped beneath my body. That sensation was pleasant and dreamy enough, but soon the sand gets into your swimsuit, which you know is going to be a pain later, but nevertheless you don’t give a damn, so you lie there at the water’s edge. You’re disgusted until you take the first dip, and then once that soft sand gets a hold of you, you want to linger there forever. That feeling.

When problems at home or relationships at work get strange, every morning you can take in the air through your nose, feel the sunlight rest on your eyelids, feel your bed with your fingers. Just being alive – it’s great. That I just continue to be alive is great. Morning is absolutely beautiful.

he realised that loving someone was not a matter of gradually getting to like them more and more, but that over time it became impossible to dislike them.