“It’s unfair,” Takeshi Fukuda complained as he pulled a piece of grilled chicken off the skewer with his front teeth. It was eight in the evening. The izakaya near the station was teeming with white and pinstriped short-sleeved shirts.

The air conditioning was supposed to be on, but the restaurant was so dense with people that it felt like the humid heat from daytime, which had peaked to an all-year high, had dragged on into evening. Sweat coated the brows of people there, and alcohol flowed freely.

The restaurant’s interior was barren, as if to reflect the owner’s equal lack of friendliness. It clearly lacked the ambiance for a date, for none of the men there were accompanied by women. Apart from them, one could only spot the odd university student here and there.

Fukuda clicked his tongue in front of Yosuke Matsuoka’s face, and waved his bare skewer back and forth like a conductor waving his baton. A Gucci watch bobbed at the mouth of his suit sleeve.

“Just the sight of that guy stresses me out, and he has no idea about it. I feel like it’s unfair, you know, when I’m the only one who feels irritated.”

The dew had accumulated on Matsuoka’s highball glass. He brought it to his lips, and drained it down to the last drop of melted ice. His phone had rung right before seven in the evening, as he was on his way home from making sales visits. It was his co-worker, Fukuda, inviting him out for a drink this evening.

“Sure, I can go,” Matsuoka had answered lightly. There was no soccer game to watch tonight, and it would be better than eating alone. He had no idea Fukuda would seize the chance to go on such a wearisome tirade.

“When I got promoted to chief of general affairs, you know what this guy says? ‘Congratulations’ with a smile on his face. I’m being promoted and I’m younger than him. Position-wise, he’s the one going to be assisting me. At least I’d know he has some pride if he was a little pissed off. But smiling like that? Does this guy even care about his job?”

“Yeah, totally. I know what you mean,” Matsuoka agreed. “You get people like that sometimes. Oh, excuse me! Can I have a lemon chuhai?” Matsuoka gave an order to a server passing the counter, then turned back to face Fukuda.

“Don’t let it get to you so much. It’s what happens the earlier you get promoted: you end up with more incompetent older subordinates to deal with.”

“You know, you just might’ve hit a philosophical point,” Fukuda murmured in all seriousness. Matsuoka laughed. “With those sidekick-types, you just have to ignore them. It’s called natural selection. Incompetent guys are just meant to be weeded out. That’s how society works.” He grinned at Fukuda.

“Yeah, I guess,” Fukuda said, shrugging. He was a man steadily being promoted through the ranks to become chief of general affairs at twenty-eight. His clumsy older subordinate by comparison seemed to irritate him to no end.

“Don’t you find it hard to deal with guys when they have, like, a half-decent personality?” Fukuda asked.

“Are you talking about your assistant? If he’s a good guy, what’s the problem?”

Fukuda made a show of sighing in exasperation.

“You don’t get it, do you? Personality doesn’t matter at work. A guy can be a total ass, but I won’t complain if he gets all of his work done properly. What’s important is whether he can pull his weight. We go to work to work, not to make friends, you know what I mean?”

Fukuda’s pedantic tone made Matsuoka bristle. Why the hell do I have to be lectured by you? he thought. But Fukuda didn’t stop there.

“You’re so lucky, you know,” he went so far as to mutter. “At least you people in sales get to step outside. Not like us general affairs, where we’re chained to our desks all day. No one would be able to tell if you guys slacked off a bit. And you guys get to step out and refresh yourselves.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Matsuoka agreed amiably, but inwardly, he was seething. Refresh myself? Are you kidding me? I wish I could show you the gruelling journey that we take every month to meet our quota. They had to walk endlessly from one business partner to the next until their legs were stiff. Skipping lunch breaks was the norm. Even after all that work, sometimes they were unable to garner a single new contract. The frustration was indescribable. They waged regular battles with seniors who commanded them to do the impossible. If you were barely making your quota, by the end of the month your business smile was plastered to your face, and medication was an absolute necessity for your stomach, which churned with the stress of it all. Some people even vomited blood and collapsed.

“Besides, you’re good-looking. If the company representative’s a girl, I’m sure you have no problem snatching up those contracts, right?”

I’d be living the high life if I could get contracts with my looks, Matsuoka thought bitterly. But he grinned nevertheless.

“Well, let’s just say I make full use of my arsenal. Wow, will you look at the time! I’m sorry, but I have to get going soon.”

“What? It’s still nine,” Fukuda said, pouting in dissatisfaction.

“My girlfriend called me before I got here,” Matsuoka explained. “She said she’d come over to my house once she’s finished with her co-worker’s farewell party. I’m really sorry.”

Matsuoka ushered a reluctant Fukuda along and exited the restaurant. Outside, the humid heat of the summer night clung to their skin.

“I dunno if it’s because we’re the same age, but I feel really comfortable talking to you,” Fukuda admitted.

It was a flattering way to say it, but in reality he probably had no one else in general affairs that he could complain to―Matsuoka made the calm analysis despite his light alcoholic buzz.

“You’re a pretty good listener, you know.”

Good listening was a technique Matsuoka had honed in his sales career. The rule of thumb was to respond consistently. There was also a trick to how to give those responses: you never disagreed. You nodded and agreed to his opinions, no matter how absurd they were. That way, the speaker would begin to think, ‘Oh, he understands me. He knows how I feel.’

“We should go drinking again,” Fukuda said.

They parted at the stairs of the subway station. Matsuoka and Fukuda each entered platforms for trains bound in opposite directions. The moment Matsuoka was left by himself, the exhaustion came down like a lead weight on his shoulders. If I knew I had to put up with his complaining, I should have gone drinking by myself, he thought in regret.

Venting felt good for the person who was venting, but in turn, accumulated in the listener. Those emotions hardly led to anything positive, and it was clear they were anything but beneficial to mental health.

“Ugh, I’m exhausted.”

Matsuoka dismissed the griping colleague from his mind. Forget that; tomorrow was Friday, the day he’d been anticipating. What should I wear? What kind of makeup should I put on? Just the thought of it filled Matsuoka with excitement. He ducked his head and grinned to himself.

Matsuoka’s favourite part about putting on makeup was choosing the colour of his lipstick. From every colour of the rainbow, he picked one out depending on his mood that day. If he wanted to play the sexy woman, he picked a shade of red. If he wanted to go for the modest look of a well-bred woman, he picked a shade of pink. Today, he felt like being a woman who’d done her share of fooling around, so he picked a deep shade of red.

He filled in his lips over the neat coat of foundation on his face, being careful to draw them in smaller than the actual line of his lips. Putting on makeup was similar to painting a picture. It was important to maintain a good overall balance.

His lips, vivid like freshly-picked cherries, moved in the mirror. He gazed intently at his reflection, drawing close to the mirror, then distancing himself to inspect his job. Matsuoka smiled. It was perfect. He looked much, much more beautiful and cuter than the girls at his workplace.

Once his makeup was in place, Matsuoka shed his clothes and dug out a bra from the back of his closet. He padded it and put it on. He slid his arms through the sleeves of a patterned shirt, and wore a black skirt with dark stockings. A long wig with tresses tumbling down to his chest completed the look. Imagining himself as a slightly flashy office worker on her way home from work, he posed in the mirror with a purse in hand. He was absolutely dreamy, if he could say so himself. From the top of his head to the tips of his toes, he was a perfect woman from every angle. Matsuoka spritzed himself lightly with perfume as a finishing touch, then walked out the door.

The passersby turned to stare. He’d been picked up on more than a couple occasions. These facts lent him even more confidence.

It was a year ago when Matsuoka had started dressing in drag. At the time, things were hectic at work, and he ended up coming home late for many days on end. Unable to put up with it anymore, his girlfriend of three years walked out on him. They had practically moved in together by then, so when his girlfriend left, Matsuoka felt like she had left a gaping hole in his heart.

After a time, when his loneliness no longer bothered him, Matsuoka used his day off work to tidy up the things his girlfriend had left behind. Inside the bags she had told him to throw away were heaps of old clothes and cosmetics. Fond memories made him pick them up, and as he gazed at them, he was suddenly struck by a thought―hey, I think I’d fit into this. When he tried it on, it was a little tight around the waist, but not unwearable.

The simple sleeveless black dress looked much better on him than he’d imagined. This surprised Matsuoka. Just for fun, he put on a little lipstick. This, too, suited his pale complexion well, and he looked like a doll. It was almost funny that he looked so good, so he tried out some foundation and mascara while he was at it. When he finished, he was left with a self he could barely recognize. One would be hard-pressed to find a woman who looked as beautiful as Yosuke Matsuoka did now.

Matsuoka was so quickly and so fiercely sucked into this alternate world and his beautiful self that he even surprised himself. He bought clothes, lingerie, and cosmetics over the Internet, and referred to magazines to figure out makeup tricks. Unfortunately, his job in sales did not allow him to grow out his hair, so he got a wig for that. When Matsuoka stepped into his role as a woman, he played it from head to toe, and he forgot all about his everyday self. It was exhilarating transforming into the kind of beauty that turned heads, and it was good stress relief.

Matsuoka was aware that his hobby was not exactly normal, so he decided his “drag day” would only be on Fridays. Limiting his dressing up to once a week simply heightened the desire he felt for it as well as the pleasure he derived from it.

On Friday nights, Matsuoka carefully and meticulously groomed himself to become a woman. At first, he only used to walk around the house, but gradually he began to want to go outside. His desire mounted so much it was irrepressible; one day, he finally ended up stepping out of the house.

Everyone turned their heads as he walked down the street. He found the attention pleasantly dizzying. He basked in the feeling of superiority at being more beautiful than an actual woman, and inwardly laughed with contempt at the cocky stares of the men around him.

On the sparsely-populated train bound for the city, Matsuoka was filled with excitement just imagining how many men would try to strike up conversation with him tonight.

―Now it had started to rain. Matsuoka was curled up in a corner of an alley in the outskirts of the shopping district, vomiting copiously from the overwhelming nausea he couldn’t hold back. The smell of his own vomit triggered his nausea, making him vomit again. His stomach felt a little more settled after he had emptied it, and he staggered a few steps forward. He had barely walked a couple dozen metres before he felt ill again and had to squat on the ground.

He’d been repeating this routine for quite some time now. His brand-new shirt and black skirt were dirty, and his perfectly-finished makeup was now a mess from his tears. He felt horrible; his mood was worse than what worst could describe. Immediately after arriving in the shopping district, Matsuoka had been approached by a man in his forties. He would have ignored this man like any other, but today, Matsuoka had smiled and gone along with him. He had seen this man before at one of the companies during his sales visits. This company representative in particular always tried to take advantage of Matsuoka’s weaknesses, but was unusually yielding to this man. This bothered Matsuoka.

“Who is that guy?” asked a close co-worker later.

“The sales manager of Takeshima Products,” his co-worker had told him.

Matsuoka was eager, to say the least, at any chance to network with Takashima Products. He had visited a number of times to pitch a sale at them, only to be turned away at the doorstep. Although he knew he couldn’t talk about work while he was dressed in drag, he had an ulterior motive anyway: if he could find out the man’s hobbies and preferences, Matsuoka figured it would become a useful entry point into garnering a new client.

Matsuoka was taken by the man to a cocktail bar on the top floor of a luxury hotel. Matsuoka drank whatever that was offered to him and made harmless small talk with the man.

“You’ve got a pretty low, husky voice.”

The man’s comment made Matsuoka’s heart stop for a moment, but he managed to smooth it over by saying he was catching a cold. No matter how perfect he was in appearance, there was nothing he could do about his voice. His anxiety at the possibility of being discovered made Matsuoka say less and less, and to fill the awkward air between them, he drank nonstop. Since he only usually drank beer or chuhai, it didn’t take long for him to get sick from drinking unfamiliar cocktails.

“Aghhhh!”

He was woken by a man’s yelling. Once he came to, Matsuoka realized he was in a hotel room, lying on a twin-sized bed. Feeling more room around his crotch area than usual, he looked down to see that his skirt had been hiked up and his lace boy shorts had been pulled down to his thighs.

“Y―You’re a man?!”

Matsuoka felt all the blood in his body rush to his feet. He hastily pulled up his boy shorts and got off the bed. His feet were unsteady from intoxication, and his knees buckled as he crumpled to the floor.

“You tricked me, you disgusting pervert!”

The man lunged at him, red in the face. He straddled Matsuoka, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slapped him across the face. The man yanked his hair, making his wig come off. When he paused in astonishment, Matsuoka took the chance to shove him off.

He picked the wig off the floor and tore out of the room. He fell twice on his way to the elevator. His shoulders rose and fell as he gained his breath, relieved that he had not been followed. Just then, a middle-aged woman who had stepped into the elevator with him saw the long wig that Matsuoka was holding and gave him an appalled look. Matsuoka put the wig back on on the spot, but since he didn’t have a mirror, he wasn’t sure if he’d been able to put it on properly.

He exited the hotel and walked the best he could with staggering steps. He started feeling ill partway through, squatted, and vomited several times. A shudder went down his spine every time he recalled the man hitting him. He knew what he was doing wasn’t normal. But he had never thought he would be put through such misery, that he would be subjected to violence. I want to get home as soon as possible to take these clothes off. I’ll never dress in drag again for the rest of my life, he thought.

He had forgotten his heels and his purse, which contained his wallet, at the hotel. Thankfully, he had left his apartment key in the mailbox, which used a combination lock, so he would have no problem entering his apartment. But without cash, he would not be able to take the taxi home. The last train had already gone. He would have asked a friend to bring cash, but today of all days, he had forgotten his cell phone at home.Even before that, Matsuoka smiled bitterly, would I have the courage to see a friend looking like this? He would rather have died if he was going to be condemned and called a pervert as he had with that man.

No one approached him as he sat curled up in the alley. Back when he was striding jauntily down the street, some men had even come running to catch up to him. But in the end, he was just a fake―reality came as a blow.

He felt the presence of a group passing by in front of him. Hearing a familiar voice among them, Matsuoka looked up reflexively. It was a group of seven or eight men and women, and Fukuda was at the centre. Perhaps they had gone drinking on the way home from work; Fukuda was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a navy blue tie. He glanced at Matsuoka for a moment, then shifted his gaze away. They passed Matsuoka completely.

Although he would have been dismayed if he was recognized, Matsuoka also felt a little hurt that he had been ignored. But he couldn’t bring himself to blame Fukuda. If Matsuoka had been placed in the same situation and had spotted a drunk woman squatting on the ground, he felt like he would have ignored her instead of approaching her.

It’s a good thing you were ignored, he told himself. Had he been approached and recognized, he would have been met with scorn. Even worse, if Fukuda went on to tell other co-workers of his age, rumours would start circulating at the office. Although Matsuoka sometimes went for drinks with Fukuda and was relatively close to him compared to other people at work, he still didn’t trust the man wholeheartedly.

After a while, the rain suddenly lessened to a drizzle. Matsuoka heard the rapping of raindrops hitting an umbrella. He looked up to see a man holding an umbrella over him. He looked about thirty-four or thirty-five, with an uninteresting haircut and a generally unfashionable look; his tie was coming loose and hanging to the right. He looked familiar―perhaps he had been with Fukuda earlier.

“Are you alright?”

I’m alright, Matsuoka was about to reply, then thought better of it. If revealed through his voice that he was a man, he would be treated with contempt again. Matsuoka nodded silently instead.

“I saw you earlier, and, um… would you like me to take you to your house?”

Matsuoka nodded enthusiastically at the unbelievable offer. The man offered his right hand, and Matsuoka took it. It was warm, yet at the same time, he had his own suspicions. Perhaps this man was planning to take a drunk woman home and have his way with her.

“What happened to your shoes?”

The man was quick to notice Matsuoka’s bare feet. Matsuoka had forgotten his shoes at the hotel but couldn’t go back to get them―but he could never say that. So he simply shook his head. The man took his own shoes off on the spot.

“It might look dorky and you probably won’t like it, but at least it’s better than stepping on something and hurting yourself. I’m wearing socks, so… please.”

Matsuoka shook his head in a panic and declined, but the man refused to put his shoes back on. After a long moment of deliberation, Matsuoka accepted the man’s goodwill and put the shoes on. They nestled close together under the small umbrella and Matsuoka clomped along in shoes that were too large for his feet. He never lifted his face once throughout.

When they reached the taxi stand, Matsuoka was faced with a predicament. He had no money to take a taxi. No matter how much the man insisted, “Please, get on,” Matsuoka couldn’t bring himself to. Finally, a customer complained from behind them.

“If you’re not going to get on, can you get out of the way?”

They shuffled off to the side.

“You don’t want to go home?” the man asked him with a concerned expression. Matsuoka shook his head.

“You haven’t said a word up ‘til now…”

Matsuoka took the man’s hand. The clear plastic umbrella fell to the asphalt. On the man’s open palm, he slowly wrote each letter out.

‘I can’t talk.’

The man looked at Matsuoka in surprise.

‘I don’t have money to ride the taxi.’

The man picked up the fallen umbrella and took Matsuoka’s right hand. He went to the very end of the taxi line.

“Can you write down the general area where your house is?”

Matsuoka was offered a notebook and ballpoint pen, where he wrote his address down. When their turn came, the man made Matsuoka climb into the taxi, and passed the memo to the driver.

“How much would it cost to go here?”

“About 5,000, I think,” murmured the driver. The man took out his wallet and handed the contents―all of six thousand yen and some change―to Matsuoka.

“She can’t talk,” the man said to the driver. “If there’s something you need to tell her, please write it down on paper,” Then, he turned to Matsuoka and smiled.

“I’m going in the opposite direction. Be careful on your way home.”

The man backed away from the taxi. Matsuoka wanted to say thanks, but couldn’t talk; the door shut on him before he could write it on the man’s hand. The car lurched into motion. Matsuoka clutched the money in his hand tightly and continued to gaze at the man’s figure getting smaller and smaller into the distance.

On Monday, Matsuoka forcibly made time in his schedule to come back to the office from his rounds at lunch. He visited the general affairs department, aiming to arrive the closest he could get to the end of lunch break, when any workers who had gone out for lunch would be back in the office.

“Hey, what’s up?” Fukuda was quick to notice him.

“I’m running an errand for the section chief,” Matsuoka lied as he took a sweeping glance of the room, looking for the man from Friday. Since he had been with Fukuda, it was very likely he was from the general affairs department as well. ―Found him.There he was. At the desk at the furthest end of the room was the man who had lent him fare for the taxi.

“Who’s that sitting at the desk in the far end?” Matsuoka asked.

Fukuda peered in the direction that Matsuoka pointed. “Oh, him? What do you want with him?” he said, his tone suddenly careless. The change in attitude bothered Matsuoka.

“Nothing in particular, really, it’s just…”

Fukuda pulled at Matsuoka’s suit and drew him closer.

“That’s him,” he whispered in Matsuoka’s ear. Matsuoka pieced it together from the man’s general vibe. He was probably the older subordinate that Fukuda had been endlessly griping to him about.

“That guy’s him?”

Fukuda wrinkled his brow and nodded vehemently.

“Yeah. He’s called Hirosue. Just the sight of him pisses me off, so I moved him to a desk at the very end of the room.”

One o’clock came and went as they chatted. The afternoon portion of the work day began. Hirosue suddenly got out of his seat and came this way. A cold sweat broke out on Matsuoka’s forehead. He wondered if Hirosue had recognized him as the woman from Friday, but Hirosue gave not so much as a glance to Matsuoka as he stood before Fukuda.

“I finished preparing the materials you told me about.”

Fukuda snatched them from him. “Didn’t I tell you to hand them in first thing this morning?”

“I’m sorry,” Hirosue apologized, even lowering his head in a bow.

“This isn’t the first time, is it? It’s a problem, you know, when you can’t keep your deadlines. If you can’t finish something in the time frame I give you, can you at least let me know beforehand? I have issues to work out on my end as well, you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. But if I’ve pointed out a mistake to you once, don’t ever repeat it again. Please.”

Without making a single excuse, Hirosue only bowed his head apologetically before returning to his desk. It was painful, to say the least, to watch him endure one-sided abuse.

“I know he’s your subordinate and everything, but he’s older than you. Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh?” Matsuoka warned in a whisper, but Fukuda appeared unfazed.

“This is just the right amount of strictness. He’s always got his head in the clouds, so anything I say takes a while ‘til it gets to his brain, you know,” he said, clearly not open to second opinions.

Since he couldn’t stay and chat in general affairs forever, Matsuoka returned to sales and went out again. He visited and checked up with important clients, and rushed through preparing pamphlets to take to a new business partner. It hadn’t yet struck six in the evening when he returned to the office.

Matsuoka figured it would be unnatural for him to show up in general affairs so many times. He instead bet on the guess that Hirosue was still in the office at this hour, and sat by the hedges of the building next door to the office and pretended to text someone on his cell phone while he waited for Hirosue to come out.

Past seven in the evening, Hirosue came out of the main entrance of the office by himself. He walked in the opposite direction from where Matsuoka was sitting. Matsuoka followed a distance behind, being careful not to be noticed. It made him feel like a detective, which was a little exciting.

Hirosue got off the train after a fifteen-minute ride on a line that ran in the opposite direction of where Matsuoka lived. He then walked about five minutes from the station to the third storey of a four-storey apartment building, and entered room 306. Matsuoka hadn’t needed to find out where Hirosue lived, but he’d gotten carried away and ended up tailing him the whole way home.

On the train ride back to his own place, one thought occupied Matsuoka’s mind and refused to budge: how had Hirosue had gone home that night, having given Matsuoka all the bills he had in his wallet, and with no trains running to take him home?

Matsuoka mulled considerably over whether he should meet with Hirosue again dressed in drag, or just as himself. If he were to see Hirosue as himself, he didn’t want to say that he’d been dressed in drag, which meant he would have to fabricate a persona for his drag self. He wondered if he should lie and say he had a little sister, but his lie would be exposed instantly if Hirosue were to talk to Fukuda about him. Fukuda knew that Matsuoka only had a little brother.

After thinking long and hard, Matsuoka decided to see the man in drag again. He would arrange to “bump into him again” at the station, and would return the money and shoes. Since he had already told Hirosue he couldn’t talk, he figured the man wouldn’t try to pry into his personal life all that much.

The next day, Matsuoka took a room in a business hotel near the office. He left a bag containing women’s clothes and cosmetics with the front desk before he went to work. When his work finished, he ran straight into the hotel, got changed, and put makeup on. He wore a navy scarf around his neck to hide his Adam’s apple. Today, he went for the modest, well-bred-woman look. His summery white suit made him look like a fresh, youthful beauty.

Matsuoka went out, perfectly co-ordinated from head to toe. On the side of the platform where Hirosue boarded the train, he waited for the man to appear.

Yesterday he had appeared around seven. Today, there was no sign of him, and it was already past eight. Perhaps he had gone for drinks on his way home from work―just as Matsuoka considered giving up and going home, the man finally showed himself.

The man came down the stairs just as the train glided into the station, and he made to board from the nearest door. Matsuoka hurried over to grab his arm to stop him from getting on.

“Yes?” Hirosue turned around and tilted his head curiously. His hair was a little overgrown, his figure was wiry, and he had a small face. His eyes were not very large, and he had thin lips. Despite having looks that weren’t bad to begin with, he still managed to look incredibly tacky. He was the picture of a man who was unconcerned about his appearance.

“Um… can I help you?”

Matsuoka was astonished that Hirosue didn’t instantly recognize him as the woman in the rain from the other day. He hastily took out a pen and memo pad from his purse and scribbled a note.

‘Thank you very much for Friday.’

The man read the memo and took a second look at Matsuoka’s face.

“Oh, you’re from that time.”

When Matsuoka flashed a smile at him, the man blushed sheepishly and looked at his feet.

“Were your feet alright?”

At first, Matsuoka had no idea what he meant; but he soon realized Hirosue was talking about him being barefoot.

‘They were fine. Thank you. How did you get home after that?’ he wrote in the next note.

The man peered into the pad in Matsuoka’s hands and smiled wryly.

“I tried phoning my friends, but I couldn’t get a hold of any of them. There was nothing I could do, so I walked home.”

It took at least twenty minutes by train from Hirosue’s house to the shopping district. On foot, it would probably have taken at least one or two hours.

‘How long did it take you to get home?’ Matsuoka wrote. There was a slight pause before the man answered.

“Don’t worry about it. Not more than thirty minutes.”

Matsuoka knew it was a lie, but at the same time, it stirred his heart. To Hirosue, he was an unknown woman, a total stranger. Yet Hirosue not only had the good heart to lend his shoes and money to him, but was also kind enough to tell this small lie so he wouldn’t make Matsuoka feel bad. Matsuoka was touched. This was what it meant to be someone with a big heart, he thought.

“Are you on your way home from work?” Hirosue asked. Matsuoka nodded silently.

‘I usually don’t stop at this station, but I happened to be around here for work. I’m glad I was able to see you again. Um, will you be at this station tomorrow?’ Matsuoka wrote on paper.

“Yes,” Hirosue answered. “If I take this line, I don’t have to take any transfers to get home from the office.”

‘If I come here tomorrow around this time, would I be able to see you? I want to return your shoes and money.’

The man shook his head hurriedly.

“Oh, no, please throw those shoes away. They’re cheap ones, anyway. You don’t have to worry about the money, either. Really. Also, I go home at different times every day, so I can’t guarantee to meet you at a certain time.”

‘I’ll be waiting,’ Matsuoka wrote on the memo pad, and smiled at him. Hirosue uncomfortably avoided his gaze. Matsuoka squeezed the man’s hands tightly, and without waiting for an answer, left the station as if to flee it.

The next day, Matusoka had some time before their scheduled meeting at eight, so he went back to his apartment once after work, changed, then went back out.

As he made his way down the station stairs fifteen minutes before their meeting time, Matsuoka spotted Hirosue sitting on a bench in front of the platform. The sight made Matsuoka finally realize his mistake.

Yesterday, Hirosue had said he didn’t know what time his work would end. That was true; two days ago he had come out of the office at around seven. Perhaps his work had ended earlier, but he had been forced to stay behind and wait for Matsuoka to show up. The thought made him feel guilty.

As Matsuoka drew up beside him, Hirosue looked surprised at his sudden appearance.

“Oh, thank you for yesterday.” Hirosue hastily got to his feet and bowed his head. “You left the platform yesterday, so I thought you were going to come off the train.”

Hirosue’s prediction made perfect sense. Matsuoka glossed it over with a smile.

‘I’m sorry. It looks like I’ve kept you waiting.’

“Don’t worry. You haven’t,” came the predictable answer. Since the man was the type who took care not to make others feel bad, Matsuoka couldn’t tell if he really hadn’t waited, or if he was just saying so.

Matsuoka handed the paper bag he had been holding to Hirosue. The shoes inside were not the shoes he had borrowed, but a newly-bought pair; the soles of the borrowed pair had peeled cleanly off at the toe while Matsuoka was drying them. The rain had dealt a final blow to those shoes, which were already very well-worn.

Also inside the paper bag was the money that Hirosue had lent him that day. Hirosue didn’t seem to notice yet that the bag he had accepted actually contained new shoes on top of the money. Matsuoka felt like he would have refused if he knew, and was relieved that the man was still oblivious. It was also a little fun to imagine the look of surprise on his face when he got home and found out.

“I’m really sorry. I ended up making you go through even more trouble.”

Matsuoka shook his head. ‘You were a lifesaver. I’m very grateful for your kindness,’ he wrote, and smiled at him. The man looked down as if to hide his blush. He must be a really shy guy, Matsuoka thought as he stared at the man’s dark, unfashionable head of hair, which he hadn’t even bothered to improve by dyeing it a lighter colour. I wonder if he’s even dated a girl, considering how he’s acting now. Matsuoka found himself even worrying about things that were really none of his business.

Hirosue’s sheepishness and gentleness was strangely comforting to watch. Come to think of it, Matsuoka realized he hadn’t come across this type of person in a while since he began working. He had close colleagues at work, but if they were both in the sales department, it made them rivals, which meant he couldn’t truly be himself around them. Then, would he find it easier to open up to people from other departments? That was a hard question also. But as Fukuda said, work wasn’t a place for hanging out, so he’d figured things were fine the way they were.

Maybe it’s because I’m tired, Matsuoka answered his own question. That would explain his dressing in drag, and feeling comfort in this man.

“Uh, um―!” The man suddenly looked up and spoke in a rather loud voice. Startled, Matsuoka unwittingly took a step back.

“W―Would I be able to get your phone number?” As soon as he said those words, Hirosue hastily apologized. “I’m sorry. I knew you couldn’t talk, but I just… sorry. Um… your e-mail… can I have your mobile e-mail address?”

His whole body was trembling, and his hands were laced together tightly. To top it off, his face was red like a monkey’s. It was painfully obvious how much effort it had taken for the man to muster enough courage to ask for his e-mail address. He was anything but suave, asking for his phone number even though Matsuoka had told the man he couldn’t speak. Normally, he would have been more than put off by this behaviour, but for some reason, he found it hard with this man.

‘I’m sorry.’ When Matsuoka showed the memo to him, the man’s face turned clearly crestfallen. No matter how good of a man he was, Matsuoka had no intention of seeing him in drag again. That was why he wasn’t going to give the man his e-mail address, either.

“I’m sorry for bothering you like that. Um… please just forget about what I said.” The man laughed a little as he stared at his feet. “Really―don’t worry about it.” His voice grew smaller as his gaze fell to his feet again. Matsuoka felt guilty. Even after he left the platform and was climbing up the stairs, he felt like Hirosue’s gaze was following him. He turned around several times, and each time, his eyes met with Hirosue’s.

―Long ago as a boy, he had found an abandoned dog that he couldn’t take home. Unable to simply pass it by, he remembered turning around again and again―so many years later, that memory suddenly came back to him.

One day, about a week after he had given the man the shoes and money, Matsuoka ended up stepping onto the same elevator as Hirosue. To top it off, they were alone together. Matsuoka was anxious that Hirosue might recognize him, but the man seemed not to be interested in Matsuoka at all. He only stared steadily at the elevator’s floor indicator.

Matsuoka casually dropped his gaze to the man’s feet and was filled with a little burst of joy. Hirosue was wearing the shoes he had given him. Their high quality was evident at first glance from the deep colour of real black leather. Hirosue’s suit was a little worn, but he looked very smart if you only looked at his feet.

“We’re on the fifth floor now.”

The sudden utterance in his direction nearly startled Matsuoka out of his wits.

“Aren’t you getting off?”

Matsuoka inclined his head awkwardly before getting off the elevator. He found it laughable that he was the only one getting flustered and agitated.

Now that he thought about it, Hirosue seemed to be more downcast than usual. He’d heard the man sigh in the elevator several times. But since they weren’t close, he wasn’t sure. It bothered Matsuoka, but he had no way of knowing more about it.

Hirosue’s despondence nagged at Matsuoka like a fish bone stuck in the throat. He soon discovered the reason behind it within the day. On his way home from work, Matsuoka happened to run into Fukuda in the lobby, where he made the unusual move of inviting him out for dinner. Considering the griping he had been subjected to last time, he wasn’t very eager to eat with the man again, but he wanted to ask about Hirosue.

They were shut out of their usual place because all the seats full, so they settled for a national izakaya franchise instead.

“You know, one of our central sales people is quitting,” Matsuoka began, as a way of broaching the topic. Fukuda was busy stuffing his mouth with a piece of grilled omelette.

“You mean Mr. Aramaki, right?” he said in a muffled voice.

“Do you know him?”

“What’re you talking about? He was in charge of instructing us when we first started working here, remember? He has to take responsibility for the Sankyo contract he screwed up, doesn’t he?”

“How do you know about the contract?”

Fukuda sniffed smugly.

“I’m dating Okabayashi from sales. That’s how I get my news.”

Matsuoka wasn’t surprised to hear Okabayashi’s name. Fukuda liked pretty girls, and she seemed like a woman he would pick. Pretty was about all that Okabayashi was; she was unfriendly and proud, and every time she went to the restroom, she was gone for fifteen minutes. When she came out, her makeup would always be perfectly fixed. Last he’d heard, she had been dating Yoshida from the same sales department, but he hadn’t heard about any breakup. Maybe she was two-timing him, but Matsuoka wasn’t about to bring that up. It was much wiser to be the silent bystander than stir up relationship drama by snitching.

“There’s someone in my department who might be laid off, too,” Fukuda murmured. Matsuoka had a bad feeling.

“Who?” he asked nevertheless.

“Hirosue.”

“Uh-huh,” Matsuoka muttered, draining half of his beer. “So what’d he do?”

“You wouldn’t believe it. The financial report he was supposed to submit at the internal meeting? He was a whole digit off.”

Matsuoka cocked his head.

“Wait, don’t you as a chief have to look over financial reports before they’re sent up?”

Fukuda suddenly looked uncomfortable.

“Yeah, but Hirosue’s subordinate was the one who made the mistake. Besides, do you know how many cases I have to go through in a day? I don’t have time to be checking if every digit is correct. Well, you know, I did kind colour the story when I reported it to the higher-ups. I said he submitted it without going through me first. But it’s his job as an assistant to confirm these things in advance, anyway.”

No matter how many excuses he made, it was clear that Fukuda had thrust the responsibility that he ought to have taken on Hirosue. The man had always had this underhanded side to him, but Matsuoka had always dismissed it with a wry smile and a blind eye. As long as they didn’t work together, he never had to fear any direct harm. But this time, the anger he felt was palpable.

“That Hirosue guy didn’t deserve that,” Matsuoka criticized. Fukuda went from looking guilty to throwing his chest out in defiance.

“Well, maybe it’s partly his fault for being taken advantage of. I blamed him for all of it, and he didn’t even try to explain himself. Some people might say he took it like a man, but that’s basically running away, isn’t it? If something’s not true, he should just say so. Come at me straight-on, you know?”

Fukuda’s selfish mindset knew no bounds. Just listening to him made Matsuoka feel ill.

“Anyway, thanks to that mistake he’s been demoted from assistant chief and probably gotten into HR’s bad books. To tell you the truth, I hope he’ll just go on to get laid off so he can go where I don’t have to see him anymore. Or maybe he could get transferred to a subsidiary. I wouldn’t mind that, either.”

Matsuoka laughed half-heartedly as he drank his beer. The suds were unbearably bitter as they stung the inside of his mouth.

That day, Matsuoka informed the office he would be heading straight home from his rounds, and went directly from his sales appointment to his apartment by train. There was moderately high traffic at this time of evening, at seven o’clock. Weary from the crowd closing around him and the damp odour of sweat, Matsuoka looked out the window for any distraction. When the train stopped at the closest station to the office, he happened to spot Hirosue on the opposite platform. Perhaps he was waiting for someone; the man was sitting on the platform bench and looking up the entrance-exit stairs.

Two days later, Matsuoka was rushing back to the office from a sales appointment for some documents he had to submit first thing in the morning the next day. As he got off the train and walked towards the exit, he spotted Hirosue sitting on the same bench as before.

Even after returning to the office, Matsuoka’s thoughts were occupied with Hirosue. It took him about an hour to get everything together. By the time he left the typed documents on the section chief’s desk and left the office, it was nine. He went through the ticket gates of the station and was about to go down to the platform when, on a whim, he decided to walk to the opposite platform. He descended the stairs slowly. Partway down, their eyes met. It was the same gaze from an hour ago, which had been looking up at the stairs.

Matsuoka turned on his heel. He had a feeling that Hirosue was waiting for the female version of himself. He’d guessed that Hirosue was interested when he asked for his e-mail address, but he figured it was an interest he’d forget about quickly if they didn’t see each other.

From the platform across, Matsuoka could still see the man sitting all alone, looking up at the stairs. Hirosue remained unmoving even after Matsuoka boarded the train. The train began to move, and Hirosue’s figure went further and further into the distance.You can wait there for as long as you want, but you’re not going to see her, he wished he could tell the man. Matsuoka hadn’t dressed in drag once since handing the shoes to Hirosue. He had intended to stop altogether from that incident on.

How long did he plant to wait? The mute woman was never going to appear again. Matsuoka imagined the man sitting day after day on the station bench, waiting for a woman that would never come. He was overcome with a forlornness that couldn’t be put into words.

Matsuoka did his rounds with zeal and finished his work at the shockingly early hour of five-thirty in the evening. He declined his co-workers’ invites to go drinking, headed straight home, showered, and changed his clothes. He paired a blue suit with a white scarf. He chose a pair of white high heels, quickly put on his makeup, and ran out the door.

He would see Hirosue just one more time―that was his resolve for dressing in drag. He’d already scripted everything yesterday. If Hirosue said he wanted to see Matsuoka again, or he wanted to date him, he would say he was getting married next month. Matsuoka felt positive that if he told Hirosue he was marrying and moving far away, the man would be able to let go.

He had sown the seeds, so he was going to be the one to put an end to it. This way, he wouldn’t have to put up with the rending thought of Hirosue sitting day after day on the platform bench looking for him.

At seven o’clock, a nervous Matsuoka stepped off the train at the station near his company. Even when he drew up right beside the man, Hirosue continued to look up the entrance-exit stairs and did not notice him. Since he couldn’t just yell to get the man’s attention, Matsuoka willed himself to look as natural as possible as he walked right past Hirosue’s face. Even as he climbed the stairs, and even after what seemed like forever, no voice called him back. He kept walking until he finally ended up outside the station, at which point he felt the steam leave him.

Maybe it had all been his misunderstanding. Maybe Hirosue had been waiting for someone else, or maybe he was simply sitting there for no reason. Matsuoka was overcome with embarrassment that he had gone so far as to dress in drag intending to make Hirosue give up on him.

He turned on his heel to enter the opposite platform and go home, and almost yelled in surprise. Standing right there, close enough to bump into him, was Hirosue.

“Um, hello,” the man stammered, out of breath. It was so sudden, Matsuoka couldn’t even form a smile. He inclined his head vaguely instead.

“I’m glad to see you again,” Hirosue smiled, then moved his hands strangely in front of Matsuoka’s face. Unable to decipher what it meant, Matsuoka tilted his head. Hirosue looked confused at Matsuoka’s lacklustre reaction.

“Can you understand me…?” His hands continued to gesture strangely. It wasn’t until then that Matsuoka realized it was sign language. Hirosue must have thought they could converse in sign language since he couldn’t talk.

Matsuoka took a memo pad out of his purse, thought for a little, then wrote.

‘I lost my ability to talk last year because of an illness. I still can’t understand sign language very well.’

Hirosue read the memo. “Oh, I see,” he murmured. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

Seeing the man look thoroughly miserable in turn made Matsuoka feel apologetic. The last thing he’d meant was to make the man feel guilty.

‘But I’m touched by your kindness,’ he wrote. The man patted his chest and his face relaxed in relief.

“Um, I’m sorry for making you buy brand-new shoes on top of paying me back. When I got home and opened the bag, I was surprised to find such a nice pair. I felt so bad that I made you go through all this extra trouble. I just wanted to thank you again.”

Hirosue smiled a little and clicked his heels against the pavement.

“These are really comfortable. I love them. They’re all I wear, every single day.”

Matsuoka gave him a smile. I know, he answered mentally.

“Um… I know it sounds weird, giving a thank-you for a thank-you gift, but… if you don’t have any plans, um… would you like to have dinner with me?”

Just as Matsuoka was about to say no, his stomach growled loudly. He blushed in embarrassment. Hirosue’s face, which had been tense with nerves, softened a little.

“I don’t know any fancy places, but I know a restaurant that serves good food. How about it?”

If he went to dinner with Hirosue, he would give the man false hope. But if he flat-out declined, it would probably hurt him. Unable come to a decision, Matsuoka didn’t turn him down after all, and ended up going along.

He was then taken to a dirty izakaya that was clearly of questionable appearance for a date. If he were actually a woman, he felt like he would have turned on his heel the moment he saw the storefront. You’re taking a girl out here, not a guy friend. You could at least pick a nicer place, he thought, but there was no way he could give that kind of advice.

When he was asked what he would like to drink, he chose beer. He wondered for a moment if he should restrain himself and pick oolong tea, since he was a girl, after all, but since this wasn’t a swanky restaurant anyway, Matsuoka didn’t try to be modest.

The place was dirty and gave him possibly the worst first impression ever, but as Hirosue said, the food was good. The seasoning was simple, “like mom used to make”, which fit with Matsuoka’s preference for Japanese food perfectly.

They didn’t talk much while they ate. Hirosue would ask, “Is it good?” and Matsuoka would nod in reply. Partway through, a plate with a whole grilled fish was brought to the table. Matsuoka sat hesitantly for a while, unsure of where he should start, when a voice spoke up from across.

“I could divide it up, if you like.”

Matsuoka didn’t mind either way, but since it was hard to say so, he nodded vaguely instead. Hirosue immediately set to work on picking the fish apart. All the flesh was removed cleanly until only the bones remained. The man did it so nimbly that Matsuoka couldn’t help but take out his memo pad and write, ‘You’re very good with your chopsticks.’

The man grinned shyly.

“My hometown is on a harbour, so we had fish on the table almost every day. My mother’s the type not to mind details much, but she was really strict when it came to eating fish. If I had one thing I wouldn’t lose to anyone in, it’d be eating fish cleanly.”

Matsuoka thought he was cute when he looked proud. The man certainly wasn’t good-looking, and he’d brought Matsuoka to this dirty restaurant, but he wasn’t a bad person. Matsuoka felt warm inside when he was with him.

Matsuoka ate the fish that had been set aside for him. It was flavourful and delicious. When he looked up, his eyes met with Hirosue’s. The man hastily averted his eyes. It was unnatural. When Matsuoka lowered his face again for a while and looked up, their eyes met again.

When Matsuoka realized that the silence during the meal was due to Hirosue staring at him, he panicked. His body hair had always been sparse, and he usually only had to shave every two days. He’d also groomed himself properly before coming here, but he was suddenly anxious about whether he’d forgotten to shave a spot or if he was making manly gestures.

Now that he was self-conscious, it made him rather nervous. Matsuoka ate only the portion of fish that had been set aside for him, then put his chopsticks down. When he looked up, Hirosue wasn’t looking at him anymore. Matsuoka watched the man eat in silence, and way he delicately and elegantly handled his chopsticks.

It was past nine when they finished eating. Since the restaurant was beginning to get crowded, they got up to leave. Hirosue said he would pay, and Matsuoka accepted the offer graciously. He knew as a man that it was easier for them when women allowed themselves to be treated graciously, so he purposely didn’t interfere. Instead, he showed a memo to Hirosue outside the restaurant saying ‘Thank you,’ and smiled at him.

Their walk took a natural turn to the station, and the man gradually spoke less and less. Matsuoka hoped Hirosue would stay like this and not say anything until they parted ways at the station. If they could part with a simple goodbye, he would be spared from lying about getting married or moving away, and things would end cleanly.

Even if they were to part ways here, Matsuoka hoped to talk with Hirosue again. Next time, he would be wearing a suit when he approached the man. Since general affairs and sales didn’t mingle, instead he would frequent that restaurant, where Hirosue was apparently a regular. He would approach him in a natural way, saying something like, “Say, aren’t we from the same company?” He wanted to sit down and have a nice, long chat with this man, minus any ulterior motives or strategic calculation.

“Um―!”

When the man spoke up as they approached the station entrance, Matsuoka knew it was finally coming. He steeled himself and faced Hirosue.

“Um…” No further words came. Matsuoka felt impatience creep up on him as the words struggled to come out.

“Ah…”

The man continued to stammer “um” and “ah” before blanching and squatting weakly in the middle of the road. Matsuoka hastily went to his side and scribbled a memo to show him.

‘Are you alright?’

“I―I’m fine. I’m sorry.” Hirosue stood up, but he was still a little unsteady on his feet. “I haven’t been this nervous since I recited an English speech for a contest in middle school. I remember that time, too, my heart was beating really fast, and I started to feel ill…”

Hirosue looked steadily at Matsuoka.

“Please tell me your name.” His voice was shaking. Matsuoka’s heart fluttered strangely at being stared at like this.

“Won’t you?”

Matsuoka felt like it would be a brutal rejection to refuse giving his name. But there was no way he could give his real one. Pressed by the man’s pleading gaze, Matsuoka took out his memo pad.

‘Yoko Eto.’ He ended up writing his mother’s maiden name.

“Ms. Yoko Eto, I’m Motofumi Hirosue.”

Hirosue looked up from gazing intently at Matsuoka’s hands to press a slightly-curved finger to his mouth and laugh quietly.

“Funny, isn’t it? This is our fourth time meeting and we didn’t even know each other’s names.”

Come to think of it, it was true. Matsuoka laughed a little along with him.

“Will you be friends with me?” It came unexpectedly amidst Matsuoka’s moment of warmth. “Someone as beautiful as you, Ms. Eto, might be dating someone already. But if it’s not trouble for you―”

Matsuoka couldn’t bring himself to nod.

“Can’t I even be friends with you?”

Friends―it was a dangerously difficult expression. Hirosue wasn’t going as far as to say he wanted to date. But since Matsuoka had vowed not to dress in drag anymore, he didn’t want to see this man again in this form. He clutched his pen, making up his mind to refuse.

“Then will you just trade e-mail addresses with me, even?”

Matsuoka stopped writing. If they e-mailed each other, he wouldn’t have to talk, and they wouldn’t have to meet in person. Matsuoka gazed fixedly at Hirosue. He was a man who could wait like a dog every day on the platform without even knowing if Matsuoka would show up or not. He was taking a gamble which he had no assurances of winning; did this lack of smarts come naturally, or was he just that serious?

Matsuoka turned a page of his memo pad, wrote his mobile e-mail address and handed it to Hirosue. He felt it would be easier to end things through e-mail rather than rejecting him here and having to see Hirosue look heartbroken. As far as he was concerned, he had only chosen the easier route; despite that, Hirosue looked very happy.

“Thank you.” Hirosue folded the scrap of paper like a treasure, and put it away inside his bag.

They parted ways once they were past the ticket gates, and Matsuoka went down to the opposite platform. Hirosue was standing on the other side, and when he spotted Matsuoka, he waved his right hand in large swinging motions. Embarrassed, Matsuoka settled with giving him a small wave back.

Hirosue’s eyes never left him from the platform on the other side, even after the train had begun to move, until they could no longer see each other. A short moment afterwards, Matsuoka got an e-mail on his phone. It was a strange address, and he wondered who it could be as he opened the e-mail. It was Hirosue.

‘Thank you for coming out with me today.’

Matsuoka scrolled down.

‘I couldn’t say this to you directly, but in my whole life I’ve never seen someone as beautiful as you.’

Matsuoka flushed furiously in the train as he clutched his phone. It was clear the man hadn’t said it for laughs. He wondered what kind of look the man had on his face as he wrote this, and his whole body broke out into a sweat with embarrassment.

Matsuoka immediately wrote a reply.

‘No, I should be thanking you. You’re a very kind person, Mr. Hirosue, full of warmth. I felt very comfortable talking with you.’

After sending the text, Matsuoka chuckled a little.