She met and fell in love with him over a year ago, and then almost exactly a year ago, she lost him to the other woman, his wife, whom he had left behind during his deployment to Japan. They were separated because of his career, not estranged as she had been led to believe.
Jennifer Withers was his wife and the other woman; however, she was really the first woman, and Ame, his so-called exotic Asian lover, was his so-called only woman who was actually just an aside, like a sideways conversation between a needy child and a busybody mother who fakes maternal concern when it is convenient or when her conversation with other lonely soccer moms tapers off. No true love or concern existed between the two, at least none that was mutually reciprocated. She was just what he needed in the moment, a soft body to warm the cold and lonely Misawa winter, and he was what she thought she needed forever, but now, a year later, she sees that reality is a dichotomy between her needs and wants.
Now, thoughts dance throughout her mind like random dust particles tossed by indiscernible breezes, illuminated by rays of light like memories breaking through a window shade of the mind. She blames herself for her loss, as if it was her web of lies that resulted in betrayal and as if her sincere touches and soft whispers deceived him; however, she wrongly blames herself. No, she was the victim, not the victimizer; moreover, she was not the first, for selfish love is a violent rapist who sleeks about in dark corners of the past, lying in wait for women—and men—who for poor luck or the cruelty of fate have fallen for hurtful love and been left with aching desperation for the hope of something better.
Captain Withers, a United States Air Force pilot, was the purveyor of that selfish love. He knew only what he wanted, living under a dark and blinding cloud of oblivion, too absorbed in self to realize that women follow Newtonian laws: they are always hurt in pairs. When a man betrays one woman’s love for another, both women find themselves living in hatred—usually self-hatred. In the case of Wither’s wife, her hurt was a minuscule tear in her heart, one that she did not readily realize; rather, upon his return, she likely had this gut feeling or romantic intuition that something was wrong, that some sacred trust was betrayed. More than likely, she convinced herself that she was being untrusting and jealous, beating herself up for not being the loving and loyal wife that she believed mirrored the image that her husband reflected. Had she understood that mirrors could be made to alter reflections—the mirrors in a gym casting far different reflections than those in a women's department store dressing room—she would have trusted her instinct and at least challenged him. However, love too often blinds to the truth, and instead of seeking the truth the way a detective does, she trusted his silent conspiracy and rejected her suspicions.
In that way, Ame was just like her. She ignored the warning signs and voices, choosing to believe in a love that was unbelievable. She asks herself, “Why didn’t I see it?”
Her television drones on in the living room, and an overanxious fan screams her delight at seeing her idol perform on stage.
“I should have suspected somethi—.”
The sandpapery feel of her comforter against her calloused feet reminds her that she has a mani-pedi appointment, a long overdue session with a pseudo-practitioner of aesthetic podiatry. She rolls over onto her bare stomach, snatching her planner from her plastic-crate bedside table.
“Dammit.” She turns her wrist, barely looking at her watch. “Thirty minutes.”
Her room is a squatter’s abode, a mismatched collection of pieces of rackety crate plastic underscoring the cheapness of the rest of her pieces. In fact, if the wealthy landlords in her city have pieces of furniture that are priceless, then her bedroom is filled with a museum’s worth of pricefull pieces.
With her breasts exposed and nipples erect from the sudden stimulation of her bed sheets, she clumsily stumbles from her bed—those same rough and dry feet sticking to the fuzzy underside of her comforter—and lands on her petite tuft of ass.
“Ouch. Dammit.”
So childlike, she searches her ass for a bruise and having found none, she stands, quickly rubs the spot where she fell, and runs to her bathroom.
She had been up and about earlier, but old memories that she would rather have forgotten pulled her back into bed. They were the result of a song she heard on the television, one that she had actually never heard before but yet reminded her of a song that she could not quite remember. Her clothes were still hanging up in the bathroom where she had removed them earlier, still damp with cool condensation from her shower.
She does not particularly want to sit through a two-hour appointment in an uncomfortable, under-stuffed, fake leather chair, but the place is a familiar part of her childhood. She never could stand the chemical smell of her mother’s salon, but since she is one to avoid all risks but those that follow love, she chose the familiar and smelly over other more aromatically pleasing possibilities.
Out of a long-ago established habit, one originating somewhere in her teen years, she examines her hair, running her hands through it to feel the texture and smelling it to gauge the need to shampoo it. “Ugh. Smells like old beach blankets.”
It is a useless test because she knows she does not have the time to wash and then blow-dry her hair. Instead, she dresses reluctantly, her mischievous hair playfully tickling her ears and prancing in and out of her view.
Always one for personification, she rebukes it, “Stop that.” Still, she giggles as she realizes that she’s scolding her hair.
“Next I’ll be talking to myself.”
The realization that she had been talking to herself all along comes like a pillow to the face, and she laughs at herself, happy with happiness, anything that helps her forget the memories that had crept back into her life.
A quick glance in the mirror is all she needs to content herself with her appearance, and she is out of the claustrophobic toilet and racing against her nonchalance to the door so that she can make it to her appointment on time.
Somewhere, there is a smile trying to find its footing on her face this day, trapped behind a frown that yesterday established. And somewhere—this is what she tells herself—there is a love waiting to be discovered and a passion waiting to be shared tomorrow.
She pushes through the door, opening her dark apartment to the natural lights and smells of Misawa City, and then it closes, leaving all but shadows to abide the day alone on her floor and between her walls. The world is where she is, and for now, she can focus on roads and people and clouds, leaving tears and rejection where they belong: far behind.