“Fukuhara Nishiki.” The license declared. “Sixteen years old. Height; 149 centimeters. Brown eyes, black hair. Class One Ordinary Motorcycle Driving License.” 

He read the words over and over again as he made the two kilometer trek back home. Whereupon he noticed that his father’s car was sitting in the driveway. He had come home early and a startling realization crept into Nishiki’s mind. Forgetting the joy he had felt before, his shoulders slumped and his feet dragged him, rotting, over the threshold. 

“Son.” His father’s voice boomed from beneath the strong upper lip emboldened by an enormous appendage of graying hair. The light reflecting off the man's pridefully polished cranium blinded the poor boy, who sat to take off his shoes. He recalled a metaphor he had read of Admiral Togo at Tsushima, overlooking the waters with determination, and took an ounce of strength imagining himself in that position. 

Without another word the two proceeded to the kitchen table where his mother was waiting patiently with worry. Nishiki knew what had spawned this sudden meeting, and was unsurprised to see the bag which sat on the table. A white paper bag left on the floor of his room earlier that day, and which his father would naturally have discovered. If he had not come home early, or if Nishiki had been more careful, then this terrible situation could have been avoided. 

“Now, what are you doing with stuff like this?” His father reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of red nail polish. 

“It’s for a friend…” Nishiki mumbled, sinking in his seat. 

"So I take it you're having girls over when we're not home?" Nishiki's mother put a hand on her husband's shoulder. 

"You're a good boy." His mother smiled.

"Exactly my point, and no son of this household is going to be flagrant. Out with it, who was it? The Nakamura girl? Or is it that flimsy girl from Toyono?" 

"Sukimoto?" His mother asked.

"It is her isn't it? Stay away from that floozy son. She mixes with a bad crowd. Bad stock I think, her father was also soft spined..." As his father trailed off into complaints of a similar note Nishiki sank deeper into himself. Hands sweating in the pockets of his jeans. 

"Anyway..." His mother guided.

"Anyway son, I don't want you acting in such a way. You're a smart boy, and I don't want to see you throw away your talent." His Father leaned back.

"If you keep going like you have been then getting into that university is certain. Let's try to stay focused, okay?" His mothers words of reason and his fathers rant of passion broke the final resistance he had. He merely nodded his head, feeling like a slain deer. 

"Right then," his father clapped his hands and proceeded to stand, "you'll be returning that stuff to the store, get your money back. Tell the girl you've no interest as well." 

Nishiki’s mother stood and disappeared out of the back door while his father sat on the couch and turned on the television. Nishiki took the bag with a deep sigh and went upstairs to his room. Dejection, the word had a faint eminence to him. He started to empty out his pockets onto his desk when a sharp plastic card once again found itself in his palm. It sat as testament to his determination, his improved will. In secrecy he had sought it, and thus had also obtained it. He stood looking at it dumbly for several moments. 

* * *

In Nomaguchi there was a shack. It was a bit bigger than a shack, technically, about six mats—though said mats had long been missing, leaving a bare wooden floor. It had been the meeting place for the high school tea club. Some years before, however, the tea club disbanded. Leaving the shack, set quite too far in the woods to have been remembered, totally abandoned. In the ensuing years children and teens  made use of it for any number of youthful sports. The outside had spray paint displaying many unintelligible phrases of the passing times. However, in the time leading up to Nishiki arriving there, it had fallen into grave disrepair. The roof had faltered in some places, and the windows were all totally shattered. The inside had become utterly disreputable as detritus from outside crowded in. Piles of leaves, loose trash, and no shortage of animal droppings. There were only two people who ever dared the hazardous little six mat shack in the middle of the forest. One of course being the strange young shut in with no particularly striking features that set out that afternoon. The second was waiting for him there. 

She sat cross legged on a fresh pillow that Nishiki had purchased for the purpose. While comfortable enough it could hardly account for the overall unnerving surroundings. Out of place as well was the small folding table he had bought for whatever use was needed. It was the type meant for camping, so the top was made of some metal that in the pitiful shelter was about freezing to the touch. 

“Idiot.” She groaned, fetching a sweater from her backpack and using it as a barrier between her bored chin and the table it rested on. Outside it must have been in the high twenties, she thought, so why the table had been so rude was anyone's guess. 

After an interminable amount of time she heard a shuffling of leaves outside. Looking out the veranda, whose doors had long since been removed, she managed to catch sight of a strange figure. It was a boy hunched over some odd machine which the trees and bushes surrounding the shack obscured from view. Nishiki was having a tough go of the whole thing. 

“What a weakling.” She laughed, going out to meet him. 

Nishiki was wearing his typical gray hoodie. Slanted and meager as it made him look. It served to worsen the already grim demeanor he had adopted as part of his struggle. He was pushing along a ragged looking motorcycle. It had, at one time, been white. Though after an unknown eternity exposed to the elements it was more yellow than anything. The trim seemed to have been chrome but then, on that grassy pathway, only rust and bare metal were left. While the aesthetic parts of the machine were awful to look at, she could tell, at least, that the mechanical workings had been renewed at some point in the last decade. Nishiki caught her glance and hid something behind himself and the bike. 

“Help?” She called out. 

“No, it’s alright.” He made an attempt to sigh but in the heavy breathing of his work it caught in his throat and made him cough. As she made her contribution in the form of laughter he finally deployed the kickstand.

“Why didn’t you just drive it up, stupid?”

“I wanted to surprise you.” He mumbled as he took his place on the cold wooden floor across from her at the table. Then, he produced the bag. 

“What’s this, a present?” She grinned.

At her mockish tone Nishiki shrunk. Resolute, though, he slid the bag across to her. As she brought out the same nail polish his father had taken issue with he felt a cold shiver. Whether or not he could produce some money to fool his father into thinking he had followed orders drove his eyes to the floor. While he was looking down at the splinters and cracks of the weathered flooring she had erupted into a few gestures of surprise. As she took out the rest of the contents of the bag the gestures became exaggerated, then finally she responded. 

“What’s up with you?” 

“My dad found it before I got home. Gave me a real lecture. I’m supposed to return that stuff to the store, but, well here we are.” He was talking to the ground more than her. 

“Well,” she said as a shuffling was heard. Nishiki looked up at a sudden shadow that cast itself over his previous solemnity. 

The girl had drawn herself over the table, no more than a finger's width from his face. She had her bare elbows propped on the table as she held her head in hand. In the boyish way he was prone to he could not but help take in the scene before him. That girl was wearing some frilled blouse in a color similar to cream but with more red or pink. It was a confusing shade that he had not seen before. She also had been wearing a gray pleated skirt that cut off abruptly just above the knee. He had no idea what to make of the whole affair.

Her name was Shoko. That was it. She had told him her surname but he neglected the memory ever since. When he tried to pry it back into the light it had a faint smell of eel, which struck him as odd, but anything else simply would not come. That was not to say she smelled of eel, quite the contrary. She always smelled so lovely. Often he was reminded of sugar, cotton candy, and a sweet sakura tea. She was not exactly a trendy person who played with a lot of perfume, and definitely not a flimsy girl as his father would likely have described her. Knowledgeable, Nishiki would think, and worldly in a good sense. She lacked totally those odd eccentricities of scorn and pity which others would often throw at him in days of past exploration. 

As for the face, it was beyond Nishiki to explain. That is, he could not place how the thin nose which protruded delicately from the silken skin had managed to capture him. Ending in a bud of seemingly normal aspect, yet under some spell that grabbed him awfully. Or how the high cheek bones were both quite apparent yet blended so well with the fullness of the flesh surrounding them, effortlessly fading into the temple and short black hair that had been lightly touched with a hint of auburn dye. Her small hands and thin fingers, too delicate for the duty of holding up her head, grasped a petite chin whose lips were slightly accentuated by a tasteful hue of lip balm, and then her eyes. Such a depth of feeling was far beyond even his observation of the physical world. 

Simply, she was beautiful. It was not the affected beauty of those who were more devoted to plaster and canvas. Those things which he had disgusted, in his own pompous introversion. While she had adorned herself in makeup as a matter of course, it was with an adept hand. If she were a painter she would be famous, as a sculptor she would be divine. Yet she practiced restraint and painted herself, sculpted her own features. She did it in such a way that transcended such petty superficiality as someone who normally lived as Nishiki would fall into animal adoration of. Her art seemed to be attempting something, to pry from its material some facet or base trait which most would be unable to see. 

“What can you do?” She chuckled, sliding back to her side of the table. 

“What was that about?”

“A little service, as thanks.” She winked, applying the new polish to a finger. 

“I don’t need that kind of service,” he scorned. 

“Oh? Not enough for you is it? Pervy little man…” With this he about popped a blood vessel from embarrassment. Burying his head in his hands as Shoko started laughing and admiring her newly decorated fingers. “Look at this Nishiki.” 

“It looks good.” He said, not lifting his head. She grabbed the back of his hair with one hand and lifted his head up aggressively. Supporting the heavy weight from its chin with one hand she started displaying her painted nails close to his face. 

“It’s a nice present.” She stared deep into his eyes without smiling. 

“You’re welcome.” 

At this she let go of his chin and he managed to support his skull of his own accord. She was intolerably whimsical, making fun of him one second and then flipping up those galactic eyes. He had no real idea how to handle her, even more so than his total ignorance of how to handle normal people. Of course, Shoko was hardly what one could have called normal, so he would devolve into a fatalistic view of their relationship more often than not. He was a cat toy, being played with and jabbed at, and yet…

“So, what’s with the bike?” She had started transferring the bag's contents into her backpack lying beneath the table. 

“I bought it from that old farmer, Oba, after I got my license.” Her ears perked as she continued to transfer the makeup. Not noticing her interest he thought back on the bike, on how he had actually paid a fraction of what the old man originally quoted him. Of course, the old man was probably just entertaining the boy when he asked for a price at the age of twelve. Four years of saving allowance, working on neighbors fields, had gained him handsome funds. The old man had shown the impressionable boy some mercy, or maybe he was just impressed. 

“It's an old thing, but he said he’s kept it pretty much working.” Hesitantly Nishiki pulled the plastic card from his pocket and dropped it on the table.  “Yamaha or something. He’s had it since the eighties so it might not–” 

“Screw that!” Shoko yelped in a wide smile. She stood and grabbed his hands, forcing him into a strangely one-sided waltz as she laughed and finally hugged him. “Congratulations!” 

“It’s not that cool” He blushed, unable to look her in the eye. 

“It is. You worked hard for it little man, be at least a bit happy, yeah?”

Wild mood swings aside, she was right. A social reject, a pitifully incompetent boy such as him, had managed to achieve something. However small. He wondered how many kids his age actually bothered getting their license? Hardly anyone in the cities, that much was certain. As for the country, it could be said that those who worked with their families on farms or of that sort would of course take up the heightened responsibility that came with such an age. Besides that? For those suburban youths or those who lived outside the city? He had hardly seen a soul on anything with a motor. Bicycles were simply more prevalent. So, in that sense, he had achieved something most others like him—country living folk who have no responsibilities—had never even tried. Though it could hardly be enough to amount to a positive score, it brought a shadow of a smile to his lips. 

Shoko brooded, turning away and pacing about the room.

“What time is it?” She finally asked, and Nishiki checked his watch. 

“Half past three.” 

“That’s that then.” She had evidently decided something with a definitive vigor. She grabbed her backpack and hid it away in the closet of the shack. After rifling around inside the closet she pulled out two baseball helmets. 

“Where’d you get those?” Nishiki asked. 

“I snuck into the gym storage last week and nabbed a bunch of stuff. Got a bat too.”

He opened his lips to rebuke her thievery yet again, but she carelessly shoved the helmet onto his head and began beating upon his back with her open hand. It was  more a beating than a pat, after all. Then she laughed, donning her own helmet and walking outside. He followed without a word of resistance. 

* * *

If any word could be used to describe Nishiki’s mind while he drove along the road that led to Osaka, it would probably be nervous. Maybe trepidation. Either way he had a hard time focusing on the task while Shoko, riding on the back, had her arms lightly around him. It was halfway between a refusal to touch him and an embrace. How she managed to keep hold while they were moving was beyond him, but it worried Nishiki something fierce. Nevertheless, her grip maintained a semblance of balance for the entire trip. Even when one arm would raise suddenly to point to a turn or a side street, she did not falter on the bike. 

She had led them to Dotonbori, a popular tourist and local district in Osaka. Parking was easy enough to find, and after a small fee Nishiki carried his parking ticket to Shoko, waiting on a bench in front of a convenience store. He sat next to her, confused, mostly, and asked what they were going to do. It was already getting near five due to his careful pace on the bike through backroads. He remained too shy to take the highway. 

“I haven’t got that far. What do you think?” Nishiki shrugged and slumped back into himself on the bench. A ton of people passed them by, teenagers, foreigners, businessmen, and even disorderly looking bums. A few looked drunk, others rambunctious, but overall the mood on the street was plain, and at best lighthearted. An old woman with a child in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other greeted Shoko politely while she passed. 

It was so like her to go into these things without thinking them through. Yet, even though he had not wished to condone such behavior, he could not help admire her. Someone with the confidence to go to a place they have never been, without any goal, surely had some greater sense of life than he had. A sense brought on by youth? Or perhaps just the vitality of that soul who could perform such actions without fear. Was she afraid? She was alone in a city she did not know, with a boy she could not depend on. Then, if she was not afraid, why? He fought the usual selfish ideas of masculine pride, but though he tried, a progressive phrase slipped through his lips. 

“Hey, Shoko, what’s our relationship?” Even while saying it the words felt wrong, as if it was close enough to the question, but so far off base. Shoko looked around while she thought, whistled her lips a bit, and patted her fist in her palm. 

“Fiances?” She asked with a wide smile. Nishiki, already low, practically melted. 

“What do you mean by that?” He asked in perplexion, losing all train of thought. 

“It’s the only thing I can think of. We were, in a manner of speaking, engaged at one point, and at a later date we will perform a sort of ceremony. People who exist together between those two points are considered fiance’s.” 

“But that’s about marriage!” He scorned. All Shoko could do was laugh at the hilarious display of embarrassment he put on. A trio of girls their age passed by with whispering glances at Shoko’s gaiety. After a minute something clicked and she put one hand on his shoulder. 

“How about karaoke?” 

She was not a trendy person, in fact she seemed to hate the idea of owning a cell phone. She had never owned one, and even Nishiki’s offer to buy her one with his excess funds was rejected vehemently. She never dressed very stylishly either. She dressed well, and certainly not formally, but she did not follow fashion trends. Her taste, if she had any, rested in a casual sort of field. During holiday seasons she could be seen wearing kimono, during cold seasons she could be seen bundling up with heavy coats. She hardly listened to music, just sitting patiently whenever Nishiki played his while doing homework in the shack. While she spoke informally she never used any slang. Also, though not necessarily indicative of any deformation in trendy people, she was remarkably intelligent. She spoke English fluently, was a whiz at math, and would probably pursue the sciences at Tokyo U at the rate she was going. That nobody at school ever talked about her, or that she was not the top of her grade, was a matter of grave contention to Nishiki.

“I just don’t care about tests.” She would say with a tired expression whenever he asked about it. So the fact that this carefree genius with no interest in anything but toying with him had recommended, of all things, karaoke? While he had no idea how to respond he did retain the ability to do as he was told. By the time his confusion had reached its end—figuring that, of course, such a girl as her would naturally be careless enough to partake in whimsy—he was standing behind her at the desk of a karaoke place. 

All around he could feel innumerable eyes. The fluorescent lights sought to illuminate the shoddy corpse of a boy that had dared walk in. Furthermore he knew that, even though they looked in his direction, the beacon house before him ultimately drew their attention. She had that effect on people and he had noticed several other boys their age twisting their necks to get a better look. There was something unnatural to the beauty on display. An allure towards the compelling shape of her chin, the size of her ears. When one looked at her they could notice all of these things easily and with inspiration. Nishiki knew as well the power she could wield with those features if, as a change of heart, she wished to destroy someone. 

He stood silent, staring at the floor, while Shoko handled getting the room. When he heard of payment he gave his wallet to Shoko, and she elegantly received it without a word. Upstairs, first room on the left, that was their destination, and in his shame and timidity Shoko laughed and led him by the hand up the steps. She set him down on the couch in the room as she grabbed the remote and started looking through the songs. 

“Cheer up little man, we came here to have fun.” Shoko’s consolation would normally feel hollow and cheap, a passing joke, but strangely despite himself, he actually cheered up at hearing the words. At the inclination that she really cared about his feelings. Boyish joy took him as he grabbed the remote to choose his songs. He picked a piano version of Vapor Trail. 

“Do you come to these places often?” Nishiki asked. 

“Nope, not even once.” She said, grabbing the microphone as a smooth guitar came through the speakers. A pretty anti-cute hip hop song from Moroha. 

“You’re not going to ask if I have?” It was a stupid question, he knew, but the words came to his stupid lips before reason did. Shoko laughed when she was supposed to start singing, and the rest of the session she kept toying with him for it. 

“Hey Rock Star, do you always come to karaoke? Wherever do you find the time?” 

* * *

The two of them exited the building in mixed spirits. Shoko leading, naturally, while Nishiki dragged his feet and rubbed his face with his hands. As though he could wipe away the embarrassment that had overtaken him in that confined karaoke room. For an entire hour he had managed to twist and turn in every way that Shoko had wanted. Every off-beat vocal, every word that was horribly out of tune. When it was her turn to sing, and his to cheer, every word of support was turned against him. 

“You like my singing that much huh?” She grinned. Needless to say, he hated karaoke. 

“What next?” He asked the back that stood with her hands in her pockets. Her bare arms were pasted to her sides and her neck arched slightly, yet this was not her focus. Her eyes were searching for another place of entertainment. To the left they could take a side street that led to an arcade, and was the direction in which Shoko was leaning towards. Nishiki patted her on the shoulder and led her off to the right. After two blocks and turning onto one of the main thoroughfares of Dotonbori, the pair stood before Don. 

“What are we getting here?” She asked, not seeming bothered by the trip. 

Nishiki walked in, barely minding the girl's motionless station, and emerged a moment later with a gray sweater. It was made by the same company that did his, but the one he gave her had a zipper instead of being a pull-over. She accepted it in silence. 

They walked a few more blocks as nights citizens seeped out into the streets. Mostly drunk couples and business parties, with the occasional miscreant or cabaret girl being noticeable among the crowds. Dotonbori attracted all types, though the number of foreigners had drastically decreased in the time it took them to reach a bridge that spanned the river. The bridge itself had a number of young people, native and foreign alike, who were taking photos of the lights and causeways along the river. A cityscape that went on for as far as the eye could see. Shoko looked as though she could hardly care less about the view, instead pacing in large bounds back and forth in one spot while she observed the newly acquired sweater. 

“Why Dotonbori?” Nishiki asked. Shoko stopped her pacing and leaned against the railing of the bridge. Her far off stare had not scared him, rather it somehow applied an air of unobtainable beauty. As if she were in a world apart from him. 

“No reason, just seemed like the thing to do.”

“Do you want to go to the arcade?” At this she turned back to him and smiled.

“I think it’s about time we head back.” 

Without much argument Nishiki followed as she began to wind down the streets and alleys of Dotonbori. A few drunkards blocked one road, a crowd of college students another. The night crowd had taken over the city, and the two teenagers were weaving past punks, cops, and bums. The transformation from day to night was strange, but even more odd was that the overwhelming mood had not changed. The punks were laughing, the cops were meandering, and the bums were soaked in liquor. That was not to say that the stares stopped. If anything they simply grew more repugnant. The lustful eyes followed her around every corner, every street. 

“Hey Shoko…” but before he could finish a drunk man wearing a purple shirt and tie half-heartedly rose from the fluorescent bar sign he had been leaning on and stumbled into the center of the road, blocking them in the crowd. 

“Hey little missy, where ya going?” His words slurred. Normally he would seem harmless, but the street denizens did not move to aid them. 

“Home.” Shoko said sternly. 

“Aw missy, come party with me? I just got a fat bonus, y’know?” 

One large hand landed on her shoulder. At moments like that, Nishiki understood, it was the duty of the man to interdict on behalf of his companion. Yet before his lips could move, and before he could manage the motion, she smacked away the drunken arm. The man’s face contorted into a frighteningly shrewd anger, and he reached again. Then, all at once, Nishiki was taken by some great force upon his arm. In some hasted motion Shoko grabbed his wrist and had run off. Looking back he could see the brute keeled over, holding his groin in agonizing pain. He had not seen the kick, he had barely seen the scenery in front of his face as he was forcefully turned away and rushed. Before he knew it they had threaded into a tight alley and Shoko rested her hands on her bare knees as she began to breathe heavily. Nishiki, still stunned, opened his lips to apologize. 

“Hey–” but she broke up in a troubled laughter. 

With no air in her lungs from the run she made an unappealing wheezing while holding her chest in one hand from the slight pain. Nishiki looked on in bewilderment. She turned to the side and lifted the hand from her chest to rest on the wall of the building beside her as she tried desperately to both stop laughing and catch her breath. In a bit of a silly situation, she walked deeper into the alley and started kicking a trash bag that had been left there haphazardly. She smashed it open with ease, pounding the unnamable contents into a repulsive mush until, finally, she turned back to Nishiki. 

“I went and scared you again.” Her smile broken by the lines of tears that reflected the neon street signs that filtered in through the muggy alley stench. Her makeup started to smear a bit, so she asked Nishiki to go back to Don and buy a kit so she could fix it. Though reluctant to do so he left and returned quickly to find her sitting on a garbage can, staring up at the various power cables that disappeared into a junction box near the top of the building. 

“Hey,” Nishiki began, “are you okay?” 

“Of course I am, little man, just a bit angry is all.” Nishiki slumped as she delicately used the small mirror on the kit to patch her mask. His failure as a man aside, he felt simply incompetent as a human being. Shoko laughed at him as he sat on the ground beside her trash can in defeat. After a moment of her joviality she finished her makeup and hopped off the can, taking a knee in front of him. 

“How are you doing, little man?” She asked in a soft voice, wholly unlike her. 

“Feeling pretty little, if I’m being honest.” She chuckled at his response and crossed her legs as she sat next to him, leaning her head onto his shoulder. 

“I really like flowers.” She said, Nishiki, rightly taken by surprise, moved his gaze to her upturned eyes, on the verge of ruining her makeup yet again. It was a new face that he had not seen before. Though it churned his heart, and he hated that he had been the cause, he could not help but admire the memorable wonder of the expression. 

“I especially like the summer flowers, because I get to see them all the time during break. Pretty childish, isn’t it? Well, I can’t help it, you know, because summer used to be the only time it was warm enough for me to go outside. My dad used to take us on trips too. Mostly to see the foreign doctors, but when we had free time we would go sightseeing. Those were really fun times, before my sickness got too bad.” Nishiki listened as her glazed eyes stared off into a past he had not known until that moment. He would have liked to know, he loved knowing. Why it felt tragic eluded him, but he could not remember her surname. She had introduced herself as Shoko, that was it.

“We even went to Germany. A doctor said the mountain air would help with my lungs, so we spent a whole week in the Alps. Imagine that, a little girl seeing mountains like that for the first time! Can you imagine it?” Expectant eyes. 

“Not really, we have big mountains here in Japan.” Nishiki responded, unsure. 

“Yes, but the Alps are so different. One thing they have there, that I always remember with vivid clarity, are asters. Alpine Asters, to be specific. Don’t look at me funny, I don’t know why they appeal to me so much. To everyone else they’re sickly looking flowers. Little thin, pink, perennials that bloom in the summer. They had a whole display in the garden of our hotel. I was love-struck the moment I saw them. When we got home I practically begged my mom to buy me an obi with aster. She had to get one custom made, but my sickness got bad again. Bedridden, miserable, all I could do was stare at it in the drawer. A little memory of the Alps in a Toyono bedroom.” Something felt off about her story, something wrong. 

“Didn’t you wear it that one time though?” Nishiki asked. 

Though the words left his lips he had no clue what time he was referring to. Shoko snapped out of her musing and laughed at his suggestion, then got up and dusted herself off before offering him a hand. Her knees, from kneeling previously, were slightly red and sweating. He stood by his own effort and pulled the parking ticket from his pocket. 

“Thanks by the way.” She said as they strode more aggressively through the crowds than before. Pushing aside docile drunks as necessary. 

“For what?”

“Your intentions. I know you were going to stand up to that guy.” 

“How could you know something like that?” He leered. 

“Because you looked totally shafted after I did it myself. You wanted your little moment to shine didn’t you?” She laughed. “Don’t worry, next time I’ll give you a better chance to react, maybe let you be my little knight in a gray hoodie.” 

“I could never be somebody like that.” He mumbled, attempting to say it under his breath, but the sound had managed itself towards her. 

She smiled while they stood before the parking area and Nishiki paid the remainder of the fee, retrieving the bike for the two and presenting their beaten up baseball helmets. She accepted her helmet and hopped on behind Nishiki as he slowly made his way through the streets of Osaka in the traffic of late night returnees in fancy cars and buses. Occasionally Nishiki could feel eyes glaring at the girl on his bike, daintily holding herself as though it were more relevant to act out safety than actually be safe. He stopped at a red light and turned his head to her. 

“Hey, grab tighter or you’ll fall off.”

“Oh? Being rather commanding aren’t we? Perhaps I’ve been too nice today, no more service for you then, little man.” She pouted, letting go of him altogether and crossing her arms. 

“It’s not about that, I’m just worried about you.”

Another foolishly misspoken phrase, but instead of snapping back on the comment she stared at him wide eyed. Then, slowly, she wrapped her arms around his stomach and gripped tightly. The light turned green and they continued on like that until finally leaving the city limits, passing into the hills and country that the two were much more familiar with. Instead of taking the highway Nishiki maneuvered several backroads that allowed him a more casual speed. Ahead, however, there had been a blockage that stopped traffic briefly. A truck was pulling a wrecked car from the roadway, but the winch kept snapping off the fragile looking automobile. They stopped beneath a lamp post to wait for the road to clear. 

“Hey Shoko, why do you bother with me?” She was a brilliant person in every way. Her eyes sparkled with some kind of force, some sort of will, that he could not even begin to describe. That day he had seen it happy, sad, angry, even confused, and yet felt as though he had only further flummoxed the idea that had barely managed to arise in his mind. He could not understand her, and thus considered that, perhaps, he should not. What right did a worm like him have to waste so much of her time? Shoko grasped his stomach tightly. 

“I admire you.” She said. 

Yes, Nishiki was admirable, she thought. He had done so much for himself despite his lack of constitution, despite the pain she put him through. Nishiki, however, seemed displeased with this answer and pulled off the road. Popping the kickstand and getting off the bike. Ahead of them the blockage was nearly cleared, with two men in white helmets picking up the bits of the car that had splattered across the asphalt from the repeated mistakes. 

“You’ve always looked like an aster. Thin, not really pleasing, but you have this color to you that I can’t take my eyes from. Ever since…well ever since I met you I’ve seen it. At first I was hopeful for you, then sad for you, now? I’m proud of you, little man. That’s all I can really say.” She sat on the bike as she spoke, but gradually leaned down onto the handlebars and rested her head in her crossed arms. 

“Do you love me?” He asked. She smiled and shook her head. 

“That’s not it, something like that isn’t possible between us. So I can only admire you for now, isn’t that good enough?”

 Yet what had he done that was worth such distinction? Had he really been so respectful as that? In his eyes flashes of shame and embarrassment flickered, each one a stabbing needle into his gray matter. Yet he could not muster the strength to ask any question but that stupid phrase, that selfish word. He and Togo, he understood, were different on one especially important trait. 

“At least Togo had courage.” He laughed. Shoko joined him, but spoke again. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you little man.” 

“Don’t be, it was a stupid question anyways.” Down the road a lightstick clicked on and waved through the darkness. A few cars began moving past them as Nishiki took his seat again. Shoko threw one arm over his right shoulder and the other under his left, practically embracing him with her full might as she leaned in towards his exposed ear. 

“You know what the name, Shoko, means?” Nishiki shook his head while gritting his teeth. Smiling, she answered, “The Heat of Circumstance.” 

Needless to say, the rest of that ride his ears were burning bright red. 

* * *

As he had not actually told his parents about the bike yet, or even the fact he had gotten a license, the matter of where to keep it suddenly became a concern. Shoko, quick to the punch, suggested he leave it at the shack. After all, hardly a soul but them had even approached the place in the eight years since the tea clubs disbandment. All those who visited afterwards, those painting punks and curious teens, had long since forgotten the place's mere existence. Besides, they would probably think it belonged to the caretaker and run off if they actually had it. Confident, under her guidance, Nishiki clipped on the wheel lock he had bought the week prior. 

“Well, I better get home.” He said. 

“You do that little man, I’ll see you later, okay? Be here after school.” At her usual farewell Nishiki waved and went to run, but turned back to her and yelled from the treeline. 

“I had fun today!” Smiling from ear to ear like the child he was before finally evaporating into the forest from whence he had come earlier that day. 

Shoko went back into the shack and sat down on her pillow for a moment. While the shack had mostly been abandoned, electricity was still connected to it from a nearby power line. The climate control had totally broken, not that it would have worked well with the number of holes and missing doors. Instead the ceiling light was the only thing that remained able to do much, which Nishiki had generously purchased a bulb for. Shoko stared at the rusted bowl of the light with sad eyes, reminiscing to when she could control the temperature. It only lasted a moment before she crawled towards the closet. 

The inside of the closet had been pretty well preserved from the elements compared to the rest of the place. At least the wood was still fairly smooth and lacked the reek of rot that the rest of the place had. Within there were various small items that the pair had collected from around the area. A few paint brushes Shoko had taken from the art room, a brass clarinet and a six string guitar she managed to nab from the music room. Several notebooks that belonged to other students in various grades that she had taken as a prank, and never returned. As well as an assortment of girls' uniforms from several of the middle and high schools in the area that she used as a means of disguise to retrieve her ill-gotten gains. 

Nishiki had called her frivolous whenever she bragged about her criminal accomplishments. Yet she smiled proudly while admiring the hickory bat, giving it a few strong swings in the middle of the room. 

“Takehaya stands at the plate…” the announcer in her head declared. “It looks like the other team is switching pitchers…an upset! The infamous Frame Fast Fukuhara is stepping up to challenge Take It Home Takehaya! This is a match for the ages!” 

Smiling, she stares dead at Nishiki standing as her opponent. She raises her bat in one hand towards the sky in a gesture of confidence. The only way people could see his pitches was if they rewatched the footage and slowed it down to single digit frames on a computer. She knew the arrogance her gesture would portray, but they called her Take It Home for a reason. She tapped the plate and gripped the bat, eyes set on the stone cold Nishiki. 

“No reaction?” She laughed. “I’ll just have to use that.” 

He passed the ball between his hands to warm it up, spat something onto the dirt, and assumed position. Gripping the ball in his right hand, lifting his leg, pulling his arm from the mitt, and focusing all that he could on the umpire, crouched expectantly with a smile. Nobody could defeat his Single Frame Pitch, not even that baseball girl. As he smugly grinned his gaze shifted towards Shoko at the plate. That was her chance, and as the arm threw itself forward she locked eyes with him, and winked. 

The crack of a ball hitting hickory reverberated through the stadium of her mind and she ran about the room until returning to the home plate of her floor pillow and collapsing in laughter. The bat rolling under the table no worse for wear. After her little game she pulled her knees up to her chin and smiled into space with those vexing eyes. 

“I’m having so much fun.” She told him, but with no mouth to call his own the phantom before her faded as he had minutes before. The sight of a back fleeing into the darkness, bearing a great weight without ever knowing it. She could see the stress marks, the shaking vertebrae. The torn muscles, the pin pricked mind. 

“Time for you to go home…” Her smile faded and she slid back to the closet to retrieve her backpack. From it she got out a mirror and a rag. Several of her clothes fell out, a pair of jeans of her primary interest. Turning off the light she changed out of her skirt in the security of darkness before flicking it back on and setting down in front of the mirror. She wiped away the light coat of lip balm and toner. She rubbed some remover to help clean off the foundation and gently wiped off the mascara. Finally she loosened the entwined auburn highlights from her black hair. When it was done she changed into a tee and donned the sweater Nishiki had bought for her. She dropped her outfit and makeup back into the bag and tucked it away in the closet. All that was left, she realized, was her nails. 

They glittered a quaint red shade, still rather bright. Hiding them would not be too much trouble, keeping them hidden in the pockets of the hoodie seemed a good enough plan until after the meeting the next day. In the direct light of the shack they almost looked pink. She admired them as she pressed the light switch and left the shack. Guided by the light of the stars she made her way back to the path that led home, and beneath them the pink implication had only been stronger. She moved in long, slow, steps, staring at her painted fingers the whole way back home. 

Father had gone out somewhere, probably to play mahjong at Oba’s farm. The idea of the farmer telling him about the scooter purchase had occurred to her, but she dismissed the idea. After all, Oba was mostly senile anyway. She pulled her phone from her pocket to find Mother had texted, asking where she had gone. The usual confusions, the usual misplaced ideas. Shoko slid the phone back into the pocket of her hoodie and entered the house. She took off her sneakers and quietly made her way up the stairs to her room. 

She turned on the lamp at her desk and sat down, pulling a pocket mirror from one of the drawers and making sure she had not missed any spots of makeup. Seeing all was well she emptied her pockets onto the desk. Her wallet, phone, the keys to the bike, and a crumpled parking ticket. Yet, in the back pocket, there was something else. She pulled out a small piece of fabric about as big as her palm. Frayed at the edges, with a spot of red, she held a piece of cloth with the image of an aster flower. 

“Nishiki, you sentimental idiot.” 

He could not remember, but he still held onto it, as if it held some greater meaning. Or maybe he was hoping it could keep her memory alive? Then, a lot of good that did. Forgetting, itself, she thought, is no sin at all. It was her fault for creating memories he did not want to remember, her fault for turning him into a crying little boy. Her fault for…

“My fault for you being such a weakling.” She muttered. 

Her eyes moved back to the little mirror. 

“I’m sorry little man, it wasn’t your fault…” 

His eyes met hers through the glass, and without knowing why, without even the ability to remember her name, he began to cry. In his hand he tightly grasped a scrap of fabric from a night long gone, with a stain awarded for protecting a little boy. The glint of a paper lantern on the stainless steel of a knife brought out one hot summer night. The red mud covering fingers grasping for a small hand and a little boy whose only happiness was quickly flowing out of her chest into the earth and wishing for more time. Years of cold suffering, forgetting. Thievery of  a painful scrap of cloth that should not have existed. Yet it did, and he was alone.