By the time he took Kiriko’s earlobe in his mouth, Junji had begun to
feel both uneasy and irritated himself. Hadn’t she just been dragged along
by the fact of what they had done together that first time? Wasn’t that the
only reason she kept coming to meet him? And wasn’t it Junji who dragged
her along, forcibly? Did she have any choice in the matter? Even Junji
could feel that her body was more tightly closed to him than it had been at
first.
They had drawn Junji’s face together, then they had lain with their heels
aligned—had that been the last of the pleasure she felt with him? Had
Kiriko felt nothing since then but an increasing pain, an ever growing sense
of self-reproach?
Everything seemed to have happened almost as soon as they had met,
and so at first Junji had given no thought at all to Kiriko’s husband. But
after a time he began to be jealous, and with this jealousy he acquired a
sense of his own sinfulness.
“How old is your husband?” Junji asked. These were the first words he
said that had anything to do with Kiriko’s husband.
“Fifty-two. Why, does it matter?”
“I can’t imagine you living with someone fifty-two years old.”
“He commutes to Tokyo?”
“Yes, he commutes.”
“I might even have met him on the train—maybe in the station. I bet ru
meet him sometime,” Junji said.
Kiriko’s chest tightened suddenly.
“Why? Do you want to meet him?”
“I don’t know the first thing about you—about your mind or about how
you live. ... I don’t have the slightest bit of influence over you. I went to see
