In the drowsy sunlight, the focus of time appears blurred. I guess the psychological term for this phenomenon that sneaks into my life is dissociation. Even my own whereabouts are in doubt. Meanwhile, “we replaced the wallpaper,” they are singing of their happy lot. The wall without wrinkles or stain is flowering in pink and cream-yellow that marks the end of a long winter. My cousin just got married for the third time a month ago. Her new husband is an actor, and also writes scripts for the theatre company she runs. Their new home is a second-hand flat, but it has been transformed into a beautiful room. Bossa Nova is playing on the portable radio. Sinking into a cosy couch made of Norwegian wood and welcomed by hot milk tea and freshly baked chocolate tarts, I feel like a high school student. The girl past the middle of her life who stiffens her body nervously and stares into the distant landscape. Sometimes the newlyweds leave me alone in a sunny spot and delightedly disappear into the kitchen. The steam from the pot of boiling water can be heard along with their secret laughter. Their lives seemed set, but the wallpaper in the corners of the ceiling already looks to be peeling a little from the damp. In a run-of-the-mill detective story, the narrator would confess that the plastered walls hid fragments of the former lovers’ diaries. Long ago, the groom used to be a cook in the bullet train dining car, seconded from the Imperial Hotel. He wrote many made-up tales on the back of menus that were discarded at the terminus. Brides leaving the train at the turnaround would be blessed with that confetti.

I hear a dog bark, begging for an evening walk. Children frequently use shortcuts to sneak into the backyard through the plantings. The dog may be warning of mischief. After saying goodbye to the couple, I ride my bike. Stop at a grocery store on the way back to buy side dishes for tonight and a bottle of cheap table wine. The gentle breeze on my cheeks reminds me of the supplementary maths exam tomorrow. I also have to compile the paper in a foreign language about the melancholic future-world, and more importantly, I have to reorganize my noisy memories which have been confused on the desk since the end of last summer. As it gets cold and I turn on the air-conditioner, the roar of the sea overflows through the airflow. Alternating waves of flooded near and distant views under the bed. When I grow up, someone will tell me what it means to be in love and to love forever. I am just a faded flower on the wall thinking about it with jealousy and a little embarrassment.

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hiromi suzuki is a poet, writer, artist living in Tokyo. Her writing has appeared in 3:AM Magazine, RIC journal, Berfrois, Minor Literature[s] and various literary journals on-line. Twitter: @HRMsuzuki