The Smell of Old Books

I blink, tilting my head and itching at my ear. "Eh?"

Did Rie ever wear glasses?

"The smell."

I wrinkle my nose. "What are you talking about? Be serious."

"I am," she says, turning from her seat at the table and sidling over to me. "You've never smelled one?"

"Of course not!"

She places a hand on the floor, closing the rest of the distance between us by leaning forward, almost in a crawl. She lifts the book. I bat it away.

"Stop it!" I snicker, feeling flush, almost giddy. "You're being so strange."

"Here," she says, again lifting the book to my face. Tipping the cover towards me, she spreads the pages wide, and the book's releases a tender groan of inanimate effort. "Smell."

I glance at the new beauty mark, poised just above her lip.

The rosiness grows in my cheeks. I lean forward, my eyes locked to hers. She observes me as I dip all the way down, until my nose graces over the spine, and nudges against the crisp, fragile pages. I close my eyes and breathe in.

The smell is hard to describe. Redolent of candlelight, or mountain peaks, rose hips in fresh water, and careful, peaceful scents, like potpourri.

...and cigarettes on rainy days...

In another way it is, simply, the smell of old books.

My eyelashes flutter when Rie reaches out to tuck the loose strands of my hair behind one of my ears. Having sorted me, she cups her palm against my jaw. I follow her guidance, sitting up, but hunching forward with painful care, worried that any particular motion, even into her, might shake loose her tenuous hold.

"It's good, huh?" she asks.

Dazed, I nod.

"Sometimes," she says, "when I drink in that smell, I feel like I could disappear from the world."

My lip tucks between my teeth.

Her fingers slink along my jaw... "Mariko, you're really going? To Tokyo?"

"I have to," I whisper.

...then up... "I don't live there, in Tokyo."

"I know."

...taking my ear... "I won't ever live there."

"I know."

...she brings me to her... "I might not ever live anywhere."

"Why?" I ask.

Drawing me closer and closer, soon she's brought our faces to perfect symmetry. Our noses quash each other, and our lips are perilous in their proximity. A giggle forms inside me. Trapped beneath the surface tension of my stomach, its captivity radiates pressure throughout my core. The book snaps shut with a clap of finality. Her lips part, brushing against mine with the careless whisper of soft flesh as she says...

***

The sound of gunfire wakes me with a start. My body goes so rigid I nearly slide off of the couch, and it's a few seconds of confused flailing before I realize that we are not actually being invaded by aliens, it's just the TV. I click it off with the remote and glance at the clock.

It's after midnight. If Naoki had come home, I'm sure he would've woken me up, or at least shut the TV off, but still I glance towards the door to see if his shoes are there.

They're not.

I drag myself off the couch and pick up the wine glass on the end table, still half full from my second pour—I could never handle two drinks.

I bring it to the kitchenette. The track lighting in the living room casts deep shadows along the cabinets and down into the depths of the sink. I upturn the wineglass, watching in sleepy stupor as the murky red liquid gurgles its way down the drain. My tongue rolls against the roof of my mouth, dry. Let's have a glass of water before bed, and maybe take something to soothe the possible hangover.

All that remains of the wine is the last few dregs, slinking towards the drain. A slick coating paints the bottom of the sink with a dull sheen.

I reach down, pressing the pad of my index finger into the sink. It squeaks against the metal. In the low light, the wine looks almost black.

I squint, rubbing the side of my face with the palm of my hand, and flicking my hair back into place. I wonder if I'm still dreaming.

With a sigh, I start the tap and spray the sink clean.

I can't quite bring to mind what my dream was about. It seemed like a nice one, if a bit melancholy at the fringes—then again, what in life isn't these days?

I feel somewhat numb. My arms are unwieldy, as if they'd recently belonged to someone else and I was still learning their movements.

I feel somewhat satiated. A funny warmth rests somewhere in the bottom of my belly. Heavy, but pleasing, it's like holding your hands near a hearth-heated stone in wintertime.

It is, I think, the alcohol talking.

The living room clock ticks in the silence. It's nearly half past.

I pass through the living room, heading for the bathroom, unbuttoning my shirt as I do. In my exhaustion, I stub my toe on one of Haruki's carelessly strewn toys. Almost tripping over it, and my own feet, I mutter out a swear and slap a hand against the wall for balance.

Looking down I spot not a stray toy, but the bag from the Labrys. In my frustration, I almost level a sharp kick at it.

Instead, I crouch. Tugging loose the knot on the plastic bag, I retrieve the book. Tied around its paper wrapping is a pleasing red and white thread. I turn the parcel end over end. It's not particularly large, which makes it weight all the more surprising. Taking the book in both hands, I heft it appraisingly. Could it be a tome? Would that mean Mr. Yoshida's wife is secretly a witch? Fascinating.

I lift the book. The wrapping paper is soft against my nose; ticklish, even. A carefree smile passes my lips. Tension slinks away from me. I inhale.

It smells like candlelight and rose hips, potpourri and mountaintops I've never seen, and cigarettes. Closing my eyes, I feel the touch of fingers upon my wrist. I sense the rove of impassive eyes. My insides clench, just below the stomach.

I lean my back against the wall so I can slide from crouching to sitting. My legs unfurl, touching the wall on the other side of the narrow hallway. For a while, I hug the book to my chest—though not for any specific reason, only because it's rather heavy, and this is the most comfortable way to hold it. Eventually, I decide I should put it back inside its bag.

I feel better, once I put it away; or I do until I touch my hands to my cheeks and realized how heated my face has become. I try to think of a reason why I just smelled an old book in the dark.

I place a hand against the curve of my stomach.

I feel... somewhat urgent.

It is, I think, the alcohol talking.

I stand, shaking out my head to clear the cobwebs. I curl my toes against the carpet and take a breath to steady myself.

I click off the living room lights and use the somber orange beacon of the bathroom nightlight to guide me down the hall.

I brush my hair. I remove my sweater and my slacks. I wash my face. I avoid looking at the mirror too much, and when I do try not to focus on bags beneath my eyes, even more evident this late at night, beneath the pale glow of the fluorescents. I try not to think about what she thought of me, when she noticed them—if she noticed them.

She?

Something stirs around inside me. I gnaw at the inside of my cheek.

As I'm replacing my toothbrush my hand slips, inadvertently knocking Naoki's electric razor from its charging cradle. It tumbles into the sink, turning on from the impact. A sharp mechanical whine sound fills the small bathroom as it clatters around like a ferocious little animal.

I reach for it. My fingers grace against the button, and the sleek metal shape transmits its petulant rattling into my bones...

I turn it off and rub at my eyes with the side of my hand. I'm tired. I haven't stayed up this late in years.

As I lift the razor to place it back in its cradle, I flex my palm into it. My fingers tingle with the memory of its vibration. That pressure builds inside me once again, a clenching somewhere between my stomach and my hips. It's become petulant. My thumb rocks against the power button, not intending to do anything...

I flick the switch and the razor once more begins to buzz—alive, powerful, like it's trying to wriggle free of my grip. So I clench down on it, like I clench my insides against the fire these firm vibrations seem to have stoked.

I'll just touch it against my neck; only because I'm curious.

It is angry, buzzing so hard it's as if it aims to tear itself apart. But, touching the side of it to my neck, I give a comforted sigh. That does feel nice.

I look at myself in the mirror. My hair has slipped over my shoulders, my face is red, and... I'm smiling. I look like a totally different person.

I look excited.

I take the razor from my neck, cossetting it in my palm and considering it like a foreign artifact, something to be scrutinized dispassionately, objectively.

The cap is still on. It's surely safe.

Safe? What do I care about safe?

Nervous, I'm only brave enough to press it against my leg. But even that distant proximity stirs my hungry core all the more. Then, I only intend to cross the front of my leg with it. Once that's done, I discover how pressing it against the inside of my leg curls my toes against the cool tile. I work the sleek razor against the subtle plushness of my thighs, now regretting the extra calories of meat for dinner, but at the same time, I cherish in the squirmy feeling of my flesh relenting beneath the aggressive, continual bursts of speed and sound. I look down my body, marveling at this thing, shivering in the darkness.

From there, it's a simple step—or at least I make it so.

The jump of the razor against my sex is almost painful. I jerk it away.

My hand is shaking almost as badly as the razor. I look at myself in the mirror. I decide to turn it off, put it away, and forget this whole affair. I decide...

...that it wasn't so much painful as it was surprising. I wasn't ready for it, that's all.

I spread my legs apart cautiously, putting myself in a wide stance so there's enough space to, very gently, grace the side of the razor against the crux of my thighs without touching anything too sensitive.

Imagine my surprise, then, when the briefest tingle against that spot makes me suck in breath like a wheeze. My insides roil. The clenching sinks deeper, down all the way to my hips. My body shakes with anticipation. I edge the razor inwards...

Only the thin barrier of my panties cushions me from the seeking pulse of the device. I groan. Lofted by my swelling breath, my breasts riot against the constriction of my bra. My nipples spring erect, oversensitive like a fresh welt. My thighs clench around the razor, and I breathe out sharply. Cords of muscles tighten in my neck. Equilibrium goes off-kilter. I slap my other hand down on the sink for balance.

When I shut my eyes, I see her—long nose and canny eyes, thin lips and small beauty mark. My heart strums. My face grows hotter, all the way to my ears. It's as if someone's wrapped a warm towel around it.

As my thighs go numb from the stimulation, my sex feels not just alive, but on fire, bristling and awake, dangerous and hungry.

I picture the nonchalant way she gripped me on the hand, lithe fingers in a loose embrace, fingertips soft as feathers tracing over my skin. She doesn't smile; how I wish she would.

I open my eyes—I force them open—I have to stop thinking about her.

I focus on the electric whine of the razor, echoing off the tiled walls.

Head bowed, when I glance up at myself in the mirror, all I see is the curtain of my hair. The razor fluxes against me, and I stifle my urge to cry out by biting against the inside of my lip. My body is booming. I wish I could plunge it into me, adhere it somewhere deep, deep inside, and let it revel around my core. My arm aches all the way up to my shoulder from gripping the sink so hard. My knees begin to shake from the effort of keeping myself standing. My sex begs them to give out, knowing if I collapse, it will be free from this percussive, unrelenting force.

But where would that leave me?

A ripple crosses my brow, the warning before I explode in sweat. I can't breathe, except by panting. First, it's only one, and I swallow hard to stymie the rest—but that traps them only for the next few breaths. My cheeks bulge out like a zealous chipmunk's. Aching fingers scramble against the device, searching for a way to increase the speed. I'm leaning over a precipice, poised to plunge, but a headwind presses against me, refusing to let me drop no matter how hard I thrash. My eyes screw shut, and the image of her fires back into my mind, looking at me with those insouciant eyes, unflappable and calm, ready to attend me.

"Please!" I gasp, hoarse through my ragged breathing.

Pressure on my wrist instructs my hand, real as if she were doing it herself. I glide the sleek metal shape flatwise against myself. The oscillating waves radiate out against the hidden line of my sex and into my body. An icy shiver ripples up my spine. My insides clamp down hard enough to strangle a gulp of air from me. My suffering sex cries out in revolt beneath the forcible throb, wordlessly begging for release from this unyielding torment, pleading to soar.

I throw my head all the way back, my hair spills away from my face, and I cry out a moan that seems to extend out through the entirety of my inconsequential life.

Or it would, if my treacherous knees didn't give out, sending me tumbling to the floor. The razor slips from my grip, buzzing raucously as it leaps across the tiles like a puppy on a lark and clattering to a stop against the bathtub. I use the last of my strength to lunge for it, get it in my hands. My cheek slaps against it as I sprawl out on the ground.

I wallow in it for a while, stroking my face up and down the smooth surface and enjoying how it rumbles against my stupefied brain, flexing my sore muscles like a sleepy cat. I am as loose as a hammock in the wind. I am an apple swaying delicately on a tree branch, not really caring when, or if, it falls, trapped up in a peaceful moment, and content.

I blink back to my senses when I notice the slickness between my skin and the razor. I touch my face, wondering at the small sticky spot on my cheek. I don't have to wonder long; an incisive throb from my slowly calming sex provides ample indication of its source.

Tentatively, I reach my hand down, sneaking it between my folded thighs and exploring the simple cotton expanse of my panties. I find myself worryingly... damp. Mortified, I let out a pressurized hiss .

I shut off the razor and clamp down on my breathing, worried about... about... about... about a million things, I suppose!

The apartment is quiet. Not a creature is stirring.

...except for Mariko, but she's trying her best to be still...

It's only proving somewhat difficult, at the moment.

I drift my fingers, marveling at the slickness, and the pulse of heat, like a forge, that radiates from my sex even as my breathing slows and my body returns to its natural, normal state. Badly, I want to dip my fingers beneath the band of my underwear, crawl my nails through the tangled mess of my pubic hair, and explore this sensation face to face—or skin to skin, as the case may be. But... but...

Instead, I luxuriate in the intractable barrier of my panties, rolling against myself, and relishing how even the slightest pressure is made magnificent by my newfound sensitivity. I would never say I was "drenched," not ever, but... I marvel at my slickness, which is all the more glorious in its novelty.

It's not that I've never enjoyed... the act. And it's certainly not as if I thought I'd never had an orgasm—I just suspected the concept of an "orgasm," was less... superlative than literature and certain fashion magazines would have you believe. I also assumed that, as with most things, I possessed a more mundane capacity than most. The thought never really bothered me...

I explore, tenderly walking the borders of my touch around my smoldering exterior, not trying to cajole any further explosions of pleasure, merely floating in the memory of those recently passed, already hazy, but somehow more satisfying with distance. Emboldened, I go so far as to extract those fingers, to paint them along my face, just beneath my nose.

The smell is dizzyingly frank.

I roll onto my back and stretch my legs as far as they'll go in a bathroom so small it can't even hold the extended length of someone short as me. My feet against the door, my knees bend crookedly in, and immediately start to burn. I tell myself it's just like morning exercises, just the lactic acid building up, and the thought makes me snicker through my nose. The ceiling pulses in my vision like the breathing of a great, cosmic presence, ready to gobble me up. I laugh in its face. I don't care. My folly floats in the air like dandelion fluff. My skin is tight, like armor. I am unstoppable.

Without care, or even need for thought, my hand slips back between my legs. When I press against myself, sometimes my nipples fire with a powered beat. Sometimes I release a petulant sound, a cross between a gasp and a whine. Sometimes my eyes cringe shut, and I see... I see...

Her.

That's enough now, it's late.

I stand on shaky legs, wash down the razor with a hand towel and replace it in its cradle. Turning to go, I catch an image in the mirror.

It's an unfamiliar woman who watches me from the other side of the glass. I touch my face, and this distant woman touches hers in turn. I run fingers over my cheeks, and against my lips, and examine her every motion as she does the same. I marvel at this strange woman. Even with her hair in disarray, and her face harried by tiredness and time, and the deep bags beneath her eyes, you could say she is somehow beautiful. I suppose you could say that. I suppose someone, somewhere might.

Is this what you call "existing?"

Shutting off the bathroom light, still she is there, dimly in the near dark, a spectral presence in the orange beam of the nightlight. Turning that off too, I banish the obverse woman of the mirror.

I stand there, for a while, listening to the sound of my breathing and wondering, were the lights still on, if she might've done so too. Could I have caught the whisper of her breath? Would it have sounded wispy and thin, like mine, or would be bold? I close my eyes. My cooling heartbeat still paces through my ears. I squeeze one hand into a fist. Nails bite into my palm; I imagine them to be hers. The pain is clear. You might even call it refreshing.

Sometimes, I think the beast is me.

***

The next morning, I stir to life beside Naoki. Still fast asleep, he doesn't move even as I lean in to peck him on the cheek. I crawl from under the covers, fold away my futon, and begin my morning routine. My head is free and clear. I am pleasantly empty. Stress is a foreign concept.

Dawn begins to break as I'm finishing my exercises in front of the TV. I shower, dress, make Haruki's lunch, wake him and help with his clothes, and see him to the school bus before heading for my train, toting the plastic bag with Mr. Yoshida's book, which now seems light as a feather.

Inside, I am hollow. It is as if there is a great, cavernous emptiness within me, like a seaside cave, a place where you can shout and shout and hear nothing, ever, but the echo of your voice and the far-off murmur of waves against the shore. I am swimming inside myself, buoyant, like floating in lukewarm water. Whatever happened last night, perhaps it was like hitting a reset button or wiping clear a slate; a conclusive act.

Well, whatever it was, I'm certainly glad it's over with.

Sachiko, the young, plump receptionist, greets me at the front desk as I enter the office. "Ah, Kondo-san!"