“It’s okay,” she said, and meant it. She was good at meaning it. “I’ll just head home. Maybe read.”
Sachi stood there for a long time. When she finally walked to the station, her train arrived, and she boarded it, and she went home to the apartment she shared with Haruki. He was still at work. She made tea, sat on the couch, and opened her book. But the words blurred. All she could see was the woman’s back, her hair in the wind, and the sea that never arrived.
Sachi’s throat tightened. She thought of Haruki’s predictable text messages. The same restaurant every Friday. The way they made love with the lights off, in the same two positions, with the same soft, polite sounds. kimi wa yasashiku netorareru 1
He didn’t introduce himself as an artist, but Sachi noticed the paint stains on his cuffs, the faint smell of turpentine and cedar. He didn’t ask her name, didn’t invite her inside. He simply stood there, letting the silence breathe, until she found herself saying, “I’ve never seen this gallery before.”
“That’s because I don’t advertise,” Ren said. “The right people find it. Or it finds them.” “It’s okay,” she said, and meant it
He reached across the table and squeezed her fingers. “You’re an angel. Next weekend, I swear. I’ll clear everything.”
He picked up his bag of vegetables, gave her one last, unreadable look, and walked into the gallery. The door chimed softly. The amber light swallowed him whole. Maybe read
That night, when Haruki came home and kissed her forehead, murmuring an exhausted apology, Sachi smiled her gentle smile and said, “It’s okay.”