Strange Weather in Tokyo

by Hiromi Kawakami

Even if I had, I doubt it would have bothered her, perhaps it would just have contributed to the subtle accumulation of anger—the way a succession of smaller waves accumulate into one big wave—that rippled throughout everyday life in unexpected places. That’s just the way married life is,

I was never much good at cooking anyway, but even if I had been, I had no particular interest in packing lunches for him or going to his place to cook for him or inviting him over for home-cooked meals. I was always afraid that doing so would put me in a compromising position—trapped in the kitchen, so to speak.

Tsukiko, she murmured, being in love makes people uncertain. Don’t you know what that’s like?

But I didn’t cry. It’s always better to drink than to cry.

Grown-ups didn’t go around blurting out troublesome things to people. You couldn’t just blithely disclose something that would then make it impossible to greet them with a smile the next day.

“It grows because you plant it.” This was a phrase often repeated by my great-aunt when she was alive.

“That’s how love is,” she used to say. “If the love is true, then treat it the same way you would a plant—fertilize it, protect it from the elements—you must do absolutely everything you can. But if it isn’t true, then it’s best to just let it wither on the vine.”

there is no such thing as American sun or Japanese sun. There’s only one sun, of course.”