5` A Warm Door

The automatic doors slid open -- warmly, almost congenially. I imagined an endearing, smiling porter devoting his undivided attention to the single task of opening a manual hotel door. A personal welcome exclusively for me. But there was no denying it, the glass was untouched (it did not even possess a handle) and the porter was nothing more than a well-hidden sensor.

I fumbled into the lobby and noticed her jet-black hair resting on a bare and frail shoulder, elegant as always. She was motionless, sitting on an obviously uncomfortable seat that could hardly have been created for that purpose. A gentle snore teased me, approaching and receding effortlessly. The playful sound resounded in my ear, then faded into silence, and then suddenly appeared again. A funny, capricious game.

I smiled at the thought of seeing her like this for the first time in what seemed like ages. An anxious meeting quelled by her fatigue. But what should I do? Surely I couldn't wake her in any mediocre way.

So I took a seat opposite her and let my mind wander, joining the gentle snoring's mid-afternoon stroll and, hand in hand, we searched for a solution to my predicament. As we walked, leaves spiraled delicately before us, eventually landing like tired laborers on moist pavement. A meager sun, made even less potent by the branches that hovered overhead, massaged us. We walked in silence as I wondered whether or not I knew what she was thinking. I was once confident; but it had been a long time.

Memory shot like adrenaline through my veins. The street was narrow, the air cool, the leaves a fading yellow. The day was almost a year gone now, and yet the chill crawling on my blushing cheeks and nose was as comfortably real as ever. We were walking hand in hand. We knew what each was thinking then. And no gentle snores echoed through the air.

"Where do you think we'll be a year from now? Four years from now?"

"I don't know," I whispered.

"Together?"

"I don't know." It was an honest answer. Before then the thought had been untouched territory, unkempt and neglected. A purgatory we had never entered. We thought about it, I was sure, but our thoughts never materialized into words. The entire concept of the future, together or not, was taken as some pre-determined fate. Our common affection could become uncommon with the snap of destiny's fingers.

We walked on in silence, hands gripping tighter than before.

Our thoughts mingled between us, clutching each other and whispering in unison. "I hope destiny will be good to us," they murmured. "I hope I am always happy with you."

When we had reached her home, we kissed and parted. I remember that kiss. It was shockingly determined, deliberately long and enduring. I felt as though we were single-handedly fighting the forces of destiny. Whatever plans it had in store for us were to be scrapped and replaced by ours, our affection constant regardless of nature's mind-bending fickleness. I felt a paradox rush through us, the desire for a forced future love based upon a current natural one.

Now it was almost a year later, only a year later. And already I didn't know what she was thinking. Already I wasn't sure how she felt, waiting for me in Tokyo. Was she even waiting for me?