I light a cigarette just to have something to do with my hands. Been parked across the street for almost an hour, engine off. Every passing salaryman in his pathetic identical tie looks away fast, recognizing what’s in my eyes. They are all terrified of me, as they should be.
Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m still here. Maybe because of how Naoya-san tied me up last night, rope only around my neck and nothing else. Maybe because he didn’t lookscared when I pulled a knife on him when I freaked out a little, just tilted his head and told me tobreathe.
And I did.
Fuck, was breathing always that easy?
He steps out, locks the door, pockets the key. I watch him cross the sidewalk—spine straight, bag over his shoulder, thatproperface that looks like it never saw anything dirty. I drag my eyes down his hands—long, pale fingers. The same fucking fingers that had me choking on my own moans.
He doesn’t see me, of course. He never does. He probably thinks I only show up when I want something tied. He doesn’t get it yet. Doesn’t know he’s already mine in the fucked-up way people like me claim things—through bruises, blood, death, and whatever the hell’s left after that.
I flick the cigarette out the window. Guess I’ll follow him again.
* * *
There’s only one day he doesn’t give kinbaku classes at six, and that’s Friday. Every other day, he goes straight home to open the studio. But on Fridays he gets to rest after work… or fuckingsocialize.
I knew that before, and didn’t give a fuck. Wasn’t my problem if some neat little salaryman wanted to go sip alcohol and pretend he had a life outside his job. But now he’s mine—or I’m his, whatever. Point is, it pisses me off when I drive all the way across town to catch him leaving work and see him walk outwith a group, laughing, tie loosened, his clean collar showing a bit of skin.
I get out of the car.
I don’t even know who I’m planning to kill yet.
Maybe whoever invited him out.
I shove my hands in my jacket pockets, watching from half a block away as he moves with the crowd—four guys, two women. One of the women is walking too close to him, bumping her shoulder into his arm every two seconds, laughing all sugary and shit. I can tell by the way Naoya’s lips move that he’s being polite. He always is. He’s polite even when he’s got a hand on my throat.
I feel my jaw lock, blood boiling, and my tanto heavy, like she’s humming with me.
They turn into a shitty izakaya, with the lanterns out front and the smell of yakitori and sake spilling out onto the street. Salarymen fucking paradise, I guess. Naoya-san lets the woman enter first, and then disappears inside after her. The thought of him in there, listening to her laugh, pouring her sake and pretending he doesn’t see she’s into him, makes me want to cause a fucking scene.
I was already itching for a fight anyway.
So fuck that.
The wood floor sticks under my shoes when I walk in, and the noise of people laughing and talking grates on me. But that’s not so bad because Naoya-san is right there, his white shirt still tucked in, but collar opened enough to show the start of that pretty throat. Yeah, fucking good sight.
Some waiter comes quickly to say something, probably like“we’re full”, but he shuts it real fast when he sees my face.
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
And look at that—the table I wantedjust got vacant.Life’s full of miracles.
The room goes quiet. I know that sound—the silence of people realizing something ugly just walked in. It’s not a bad sound at all.
Naoya-san’s sitting near the back, corner table, with that woman still giggling at whatever corporate joke she thinks is funny. I take the now empty table right across from them.
“Oi,” I call out to the waiter. “Bring me sake. The good one. And whatever grilled stuff you got.”
He nods, trembling like I just ordered his execution. Pussy.
I lean back in the chair, one leg spread out, jacket half open so they can all see the glint of steel under it.
The whole room goes tight. Nobody breathes right. I canfeelNaoya-san’s coworkers shrinking in their seats, whispering, trying not to look at me but too scared not to.
I grin.
“What’s this, huh?” I say to no one in particular, voice low but enough to hit every ear. “A funeral? Why’s everyone so damn silent all of a sudden? Go on, keep talking whatever boring shit you were before. Don’t mind me.”
