He can’t remember his dream, but he wakes up late the next morning. The bright sunshine seeps through the curtains, and his alarm clock is a blur of red images. He fetches his glasses, and the time reveals itself as ten-forty-nine. He sighs to himself as he pulls himself upright and stumbles out of bed to kneel beside it and pulls out the drawer that keeps his fresh clothes. He slides on a blue T-shirt, grey-plaid boxer shorts, dark jeans, and white socks, then he heads to the bathroom door. He tries to turn it open only to see it’s locked. Now that he’s up close, he can hear the shower running inside.

He shrugs it off, and he returns to the kitchen to be met with his empty fridge again. He reaches for the fruit bowl and grabs an apple, finishing it off quick, then throwing it into the trash can. He heads to his desk at the window and checks his Twitter. It seems like every day the news has some sensationalist tragedy to market. He doesn’t know which is real and which is over-exaggeration. He tries to ignore; it’s not like he has time or money to help.

A while passes before he notices the shower has stopped running. He shuts his laptop and returns to the bathroom to knock on the door.

All he hears from the inside is a couple footsteps, then the lock turning inside. He gives a small shrug to himself, then he pushes the door open to see Curly-Hair standing in the bathroom pulling her shirt on over her head. She must have woken up before him and fetched her clothes; he thought he saw them still on the floor, but his subconscious must have filled it in.

His eyes draw to his clippers next to the sink, then he returns to her, now looking her in the face. Her mass of hair is gone; all that remains is a buzzcut of small curls.

“You shaved your head?” he announces.

Her back still faces his, her head tilted down at the sink. “Yeah,”

“Uh, why?”

“I guess I wanted to,”

As she tucks the clippers back into his cupboard, the realization dawns on him, and tumbles out of his mouth quicker than he can think over it. “You can speak Japanese?”

“I wouldn’t function here if I couldn’t,” she states in a matter-of-fact way.

“I just assumed. You never said a word to me the past few months,” he defends.

Her face softens. “I like what we had on the train. I mean, I like this, too. But I prefer simple things.”

“It’s too late to keep it that way,” he comments, leaning against the door frame.

“Yeah, true,” she half-chuckles, half-sighs. She walks out of the bathroom, and he steps aside to let her pass.

“You speak Japanese really well. How long have you lived here?” he follows her.

“Ten years,” she looks back to face him as she stands by the door, “I first lived by the ocean, in Urayasu, but…I moved here a few months ago.”

“I see,”

She pauses for a moment, rolling back and forth on her heels, eyes directed at the ground, picking at her fingernails. In the silence, his mind returns to the fog. His eyes glaze over under his glasses. They continue to look at her, but not with intent to focus.

“Are you still there?”

Her soft voice jolts him from his self-imposed stupor.

“You phased out for a moment,” she murmurs with a playful smile.

“Sorry. I do that sometimes,” he explains.

She chuckles and shifts her body to the door. “I’d like to go home soon. I can give you my phone number, if you want.”

No, not just yet!

He jumps to the front door and forces it shut right when she opens it. She steps away from him, her face confused and fearful.

“I’m sorry,” he pulls away from the door, holding the offending hand down in front of himself, “I want to—I want to get to know you better. It’ll be difficult to get ahold of you outside of work, and—well, work is all there is. It’ll take weeks to finish a conversation, and we’ll drift apart, then by the time we actually have time to talk, we’ll lose interest in each other.”

Her eyebrows furrow, giving him a cold, bitter look. “You want to know me better,” she repeats.

“Yes, I do,” he confirms, “I don’t even know your name, or your work, or where you’re from, or—or anything.”

“You could’ve said that first. I thought you were gonna trap me here,” she informs.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” he murmurs, remorseful.

She takes a step towards the door, but she never so much as touches it, instead returning her attention to him.

"What's your name? I don't think I ever caught that." she says.

"Isamu Yamazaki," he replies.

"It's nice to meet you, Isamu. My name is Rosaline Royer." she gives a little nod of her head as an informal bow. "Where do you work that requires so much time?"

"I'm a salaryman," he says.

"That makes sense. I'm an English teacher myself. Not many options for American expats, you know." she says. She adjusts the hem of her shirt before changing the topic, “Is that enough information for you?”

"Just one more thing," he presses, "Why do you wear those rings on your necklace?”

She turns her head away from him the second he finishes the sentence. She digs her fingers into her sleeves. A thought worms its way into his head.

“Are you married?” he furthers.

No answer, still. His heart sinks deep inside him, weighed down with dread.

“I was.” Her attention is still towards her own feet as she talks.

“What do you mean?”

“He died.”

Her voice is small, hollow, emotionless. Her fingertips are still buried in her arms, curling up the cloth in her forming fist.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, reaching out for her shoulder. He feels her trembling in his grasp. “Do you…Do you want to talk about him? If you want to?”

She relaxes with a discontented sigh. “His name was Quincy MacRae. He was gentle, soft-spoken, good with kids. He was my highschool sweetheart. We married young and saved up enough to move here. But…he got really sick when he was thirty-two. Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.”

He doesn’t know how to reply. He keeps the hand on her, stroking with his fingers.

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” she tried to drown out the sadness in her voice, “Tell me about your family.”

“Oh, uh…My parents live in Minato. I have two older siblings. Hideaki is the oldest, he lives with them. He’s an engineer. My sister Mayu is a nurse in Yokohama.” he answers.

“Do you get along with them?”

“I guess so. But I haven’t talked with them in a while. Uh…what’s your family like?”

“It’s just my mom and my dad; no siblings. They’re from different places—uh, my mom is from Senegal, and my dad is French—so I had a unique background compared to my friends in San Francisco.” she sits down at the counter.

“What’s it like in San Francisco?” he furthers, his head cocked to the side.

“Warm. Sunny. Dense. A vibrant personality,” she smiles, “Whenever I visit now, though, it feels weird and foreign, after spending so long here. I immigrated here because of the romantic image of Harajuku street fashion, the awe-inspiring anime, the corner-store bookshops and hole-in-the-wall ramen joints. But I’m old; I don’t really belong with counter-culture movements anymore. I kinda have to join corporate society.”

Her tone grows serious as her smile fades, and she stands up from the counter. He pulls back without realizing.

“I-I mean, I’m expected to fit in, but at the same time, my coworkers underestimate my abilities, and they never let me fit in. When the realization hit, I took solace in Quincy, but then he got IPF, and I had no choice but to watch him suffocate for three years, then I had to start over at thirty-four, and—and…”

She never finishes. Her voice turns shaky and tears well up in her eyes. She turns to the side with folded arms again. Thinking quick, he glances at the clock by the fridge, and the time reads eleven-thirty-six.

“Do you wanna go out for lunch?” he offers.

She returns her attention to him, cleaning the emerging tears from her eyes.

“We could talk over ramen, if you want. Maybe figure out what we have here. There’s a restaurant called Kojitsu, that’s nearby.” he points a thumb behind him.

She gives a weak smile. “Sure. I’ll talk about anything else right now.”

He grabs his wallet from the nearby counter and stuffs it in his pocket. Meanwhile, she’s gathering her socks and shoes. When both are ready, Rosaline takes Isamu by the hand and leads him out of the apartment.