The Lake by Banana Yoshimoto

happens, I know I’m definitely going to have a nightmare. I suspect it has a lot to do with how my body is doing, like if I’m particularly exhausted, or if the air pressure is particularly low—stuff like that. I can’t go throw myself into my parents’ arms now, of course, and I can’t ask you to put up with that kind of thing, so when it happened today as I was going to sleep I just put the rack under my arm like I always do.”
    I nodded sympathetically, though I felt more sad than anything.
    That night, watching Nakajima’s back as he brushed his teeth, I cried a bit. I couldn’t help crying when I thought of him sleeping with that rack tucked under his arm whenever he got lonely, ever since his mother had died, as if doing so were as natural as taking medicine for a fever, or having someone give you a scare when you can’t stop hiccupping.
    But what sense was there in crying?
    After all, he had found a rational way to deal with his loneliness. The truth was, I thought, that I was insulting him with my tears.
    And so I decided not to cry anymore.
    But when I got up to go to the bathroom that night, the edge of the rack that was sticking out of the book Nakajima had put it in glinted in the dark, and that got me crying again.
    Nakajima was fast asleep.
    Suddenly it dawned upon me. He really isn’t the sort of guy who can just go off and spend the night at someone’s apartment, without giving it another thought. When he made up his mind to come here, it was because he really wanted to.
    I was still pretty childish in those days—the truth is, I really was a child—but I prayed then, prayed until my head hurt, that I wouldn’t do anything to betray his trust, and that he would go on feeling comfortable here, in my apartment, forever and ever.
    I had finished outlining the mural and it was time to fill in the colors; I no longer had any uncertainties about the finished design, which I was gradually coming to see in my mind’s eye. All I had to do now was keep moving toward that vision.
    I enjoyed going out, spending each day moving my hands, without talking. This part was the most fun. Things progress most smoothly when the end is in view, and all you have to do is keep adding layers. I didn’t have to think anymore, and things had settled down enough that I could horse around a bit with the kids. The day before, I had let some girls paint an area pink. It ended up being more trouble than I had bargained for because I had to go back and fix the places where they had gone outside the lines, but that was kind of enjoyable, too. Fortunately I wasn’t really worried about keeping on a schedule.
    Sometimes I found myself utterly alone. Somehow, miraculously, no one would come by, and it would be very quiet, and I was relaxed enough to notice.
    So what was I thinking then, during those rare moments when I was feeling perfectly at ease, all by myself, in the absence of any children and my student helper, when even the composition of the mural had ceased to concern me? That’s not something I want to share.
    I lean against the wall, pour myself a cup of lukewarm coffee from my thermos.
    My butt is aching, there’s a crick in my neck. I feel like I’m getting a cramp in my arm. My whole body feels strangely cold.
    As long as I keep moving my hands, though, I can forget all that.
    That’s when I notice, all at once, that I’m alone, and I discover the vast sky overhead. In the distance, the flag over the school whips madly in the wind; other than that, it’s as if everything has come to a stop.
    I prefer to keep the thoughts that come at times like that, as I sit drinking my coffee, to myself—the particular texture of the sadness I feel, say. I prefer to keep those thoughts private.
    I’ve traveled a long way today, I often think to myself.
    “We’re having boiled tofu for dinner.”
    Nakajima was awake when I got home, and he welcomed me in an apron.
    The scent of well-boiled konbu filled the room.
    “You