The Book of Tokyo: A City In Short Fiction

by Michael Emmerich

And so, in contrast to stories of an earlier age, which had the air of settled belonging typical of a long-term resident in an old apartment building, these stories seem comfortable with a life of roaming. There is a kind of freedom in them, a willingness to pause, to wander, to take an unexpected turn, that derives, at least in part, from the very fact that the market doesn’t care as much for short stories as it used to. Exciting things happen in less popular forms.

A lot of passengers get off at Shinjuku, leaving the carriage mostly empty. I sit at the end of a centre-facing bench seat, take the almost weightless paper bag I’ve been holding in my hand, and place it gently on my lap. I lean forward and breathe in deeply through my nose. Although it’s impossible, I’m certain I catch a hint of the sweet smell of flowers. I often come across things I think men would never understand. Indeed, I’m almost positive no man could ever understand most of the things I feel. Not just the good things that happen after shopping, but also my insistence that one should work back from dessert when selecting among the options for a full-course meal, or the enormous difference between a gift box with a ribbon and one without, or the fragrant smell of a brand new book, or the existence of a colour that is definitely not cream and could only possibly be described as eggshell. Thinking how a man would never be able to understand such things reminds me that I would never be able to live with one. It’s a refreshing thought.

I don’t know that you would call it love, but the time I spent with Moto always felt fluffy somehow. The asphalt and the hanging straps on the trains and the doors and the tables – everything I came into contact with seemed soft and diaphanous.

If my heart was able to be free, I was fine, no matter what cubicle I was put into.

You need other people, to give your own life a sense of purpose. No, that’s not it. People just want to be close.