The Unimagined

stage setting

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Akemi did respond to Charles' attention, if not exactly in kind. She showed interest, curiosity tinged with compassion. They had found themselves together on the line in the lunchroom, with yellow trays stalled before the desserts everyone had to pass to reach the cash register. Charles had complained about the delay but made no pretense of really minding. He was all smiles, charm.

“They change the rules,” he said, indicating the slow shuffle in front of them. Someone had just let a friend cut ahead. “I look and see there are more people.” Charles added, “But if you're here it doesn't bother me at all.”

“Something about your face makes me patient.” Charles was at least a good bluffer. If he worried he'd said too much this time, it didn't show. If anything, his grin broadened.

Akemi said she still didn't understand. Charles felt a bit pressured, had to explain. He stumbled, then regained his bearings, handled the moment deftly.

“What?” Akemi tilted her head, as if that would help her catch any nuance she'd missed. She smiled too.

“How you look. Your face,” Charles continued. “I feel there's a connection between us.” He was responding to the light in Akemi's face, luminosity, her clear skin before him- feeding her a line but really feeling the connection as he claimed.

“We could be compatriots.” The stress landed on the last syllable. His accent.

Here impatience did flicker on Charles face. He'd assumed Akemi was being obtuse on purpose, playful. Now he wondered. Was she less bright than he'd thought? They'd never really talked. Not that it would make any difference in his feelings.

“Your face. I feel there's something between you and me.” Having come this far, Charles wouldn't stop. “Your face.” Words failed him, a rare thing.

They both laughed. Charles dropped his suave pose for a moment, acknowledged Akemi had gotten him.

The way she looked at him- or didn't- he felt she'd clasped her palm on his cock and reached her fingers to his balls.

Charles was about to push things to the next level, propose a date, but the line started moving and timing was lost.

“You forgot to shave,” Akemi said as they slid their trays along the rails. Her bright eyes broke Charles' disappointment.

“It looks cool.” Akemi's glance slipped for an instant down his whole figure.

Even her tongue-in-cheek criticism had stung under the circumstances. Charles understood she was teasing- moving the conversation past an awkward point- but his pride demanded a measure of revenge. Here was something he and Akemi really did have in common. Each in their own way appeared meek, but neither were. If hit, they hit back harder.

Charles acted quickly. Akemi had arrived in a sweater that would come off only when she sat down to eat. Deep blue, dyed from an indigo plant or something, it was at least a size too big. Good will had so far prevented Charles from pointing out the odd shape. The sweater hung past Akemi's waist like a sweatshirt. His eyes now went to the hem and lingered there, without words sent the message that the handknit number didn't suit her body.

They had neared the register. Akemi leaned forward to examine a Boston cream pie. Squinted. Charles came up from behind. This time when Charles poked her Akemi reddened, flummoxed less by insecurity about her appearance than by the change in his expression. He was sneering. In fact, she looked great lost in the wool and Charles knew it.

Anybody watching them stare at each other then might have rooted for Charles and Akemi to make it as a couple. They looked right together.

Akemi's sweater lifted enough for Charles to admire her ass, in dark denim that did fit. He renewed his pledge to get it off with her one day.

“I was joking.” Akemi had lowered her voice almost to a whisper, seeing he felt hurt. For a moment she felt an impulse to caress his face, his stubble. She wouldn't even if Mitchell and the others hadn't been waiting at the table. Charles looked too scary when angry.

It was a bad moment that led to better ones. Humor had broken. They'd reached each other.

Whether or not Akemi did, Charles felt their connection deepen. His physical reaction made it hard to walk on the line. He had trouble sleeping that night.

And somehow he gradually wormed his way into their social circle- contact expanded beyond work to weekend nights- as he carried his plan forward, not hiding it. At a point, you had to stop laughing. He must have believed some women would respond to that dogged effort, see something noble in it, feel flattered, be touched.

She'd be wearing a dress- the day before the cafeteria scene, it was a white one- cream-colored- its close weave made it sort of shell-like, and- this was what alerted Mitchell- he poked the surface- because hard it was smooth, relatively featureless- he poked where he thought something interesting was- beneath the dress, that is. That was his game and it was funny; he sort of poked fun at the whole idea of sex and of barriers- but he was serious.

The succulence of her lips that became apparent as she talked, the wet surfaces, the elegant, box-like shape they made; you might not notice as she talked- you were paying attention to what she said- but when you did, you couldn't forget.

He had made himself out as a connoisseur of the arts, showed keen interest in Akemi's work and hinted he might be able to help her with her career, through his European connections. It wasn't as if Mitchell didn't talk about her painting, but apparently Charles did in a different way, listened better. There must have been ideas Mitchell gave short shrift without realizing it, whereas Charles heard her out.

He showed some interest in Mitchell's writing. Meeting them together, he had no choice but to be sociable. He said he saw in the part of the novel he read an underpinning in a Greek myth. Mitchell hadn't thought of that before but understood what he meant, tried to remember the story in question- he could picture the Aegean coast, its grey rocks sharp against blue sky- and expand on his idea.

They got into a routine of going to play squash after work on Fridays. Mitchell and Akemi, Charles, and another couple. It started as Charles' idea. Probably liked to show Akemi his body or just to get hot and sweaty with her, if he couldn't alone in company better than nothing. But there was a snowstorm that day and Akemi's college, where they used squash courts, was closed. They went out for dinner and drinks instead and someone said, “For exercise tonight let's have sex.” That wasn't Charles speaking- they'd all been drinking on empty stomachs- but might as well have been. He'd somehow insinuated the idea into the gathering, Mitchell believed.

The other couple along, Joel and Nora, had even less close connection to Mitchell and Akemi than Charles did, were hardly more than acquaintances. Mitchell got along okay with Joel at work and that was it. The coincidence that he and his wife also were interested in squash and free Fridays came to light at the coffee break, in conversation Charles broached. Then they'd gone out, casual as hell. The connection was light, conversation hardly existent. They were just joining forces to have some exercise, recreation. The idea of going to the hotel had come all of a sudden, seemingly from nowhere. But it wasn't completely a surprise. This was the way things sometimes happened between two couples starting on their marriage, working things out, four people pushing a limit that had seemed hard and fast and finding it wasn't- with Charles, five people in this case.

Because of the snow they decided against hiking back to one of their apartments, voted by acclamation, repaired instead to the motel close to the restaurant. That could be fun too. They'd chosen a cheap place for their refreshments, a cocktail lounge, more or less a diner that served alcohol and took credit cards. The Traveler's Inn was on the same commercial strip, came into view as soon as they stepped out into the storm. Looming on a rise to their right, with a multilevel highway just behind, the two story light brick structure invited travelers and shelters with its promise of shelter and seemed to especially suit their wishes that night. They might feel less like outsiders inside that setting designed for placeless people. And they didn't mind feeling themselves strangers. Getting into that role was part of what the fun of the night was about or might be. Snow swept across their path as they navigated the few steps from the restaurant and ascended the small hill leading to the motel, sometimes gripping a sleeve- of whomever- in order not to slip on the way. The red-orange neon letters spread above the row of second floor windows showed through the windblown snow as through mist, beckoning. Akemi felt she was panting from excitement. “Romantic in a low-rent way,” someone laughed. Not Joel, the other guy, who had broached the plan, but his wife Nora, Akemi's ally for the night if only by virtue of their shared gender. About twice Akemi's size, Nora was not bad looking, with brown shoulder length hair mussed in the snow, a big, round face, winning smile (slightly sorrowful, Mitchell had always felt- she seemed to want acceptance, willing to offer love, compassion and expect little in return), a little thick around the middle, but attractive. She had big strong legs, would give back an embrace you'd feel for a while.

Was fun sometimes as good to watch from outside as to take part in? Case in point, the French man with his crown of dark hair- he'd done something to deepen the shade and trimmed himself, to honor the occasion put on his best look- short and cut close to the scalp. What he showed mostly was circumspection, had all evening and continued to with Akemi, looking nowhere else, giving her all his attention. He'd help himself in reserve and had all his strength at his command when he decided to use it. He wasn't especially large of frame- as a European well-matched to Akemi (whatever else she was, Asian), on the short side, slim but wiry powerful. His skill and energy obviously reached Akemi. She responded to his uniqueness. She too didn't look around, attended only to him.

Eyes went to Akemi. View was from her back, how her hips worked, the in and out undulating thrust complementing his and then some, her skin tone almost orange, lit by humidity that night. That motion had to tell on him; just observing there were points when you were near to orgasm, from the five senses without touch; the others came on so strong. But it was nearly too much, her expertise, the repeated moves, the tempo she maintained and augmented; too good, mechanical, almost like watching a prostitute at work. But this was Akemi, with her arms clasped around his shoulders. Mitchell saw what he had before; in the guy's determination to have her, he was unrelenting. His shoulders were broad compared to Akemi and Mitchell could see her hands move, exploring, it seemed, as if she'd been curious for some time about that expanse of skin on muscle. On Charles' side, here was a picture of someone enjoying a feast he'd long hankered for. His hands had sequestered Akemi's breasts, moved them into a small space at the center of her chest, where he brought his face, moved without ceasing, from one to the other.

He had seemed skeptical all evening, dubious about the group sex arrangement. He kept his own counsel but was distracted, looking around during conversation, as if considering his own plan. He didn't like the idea of compromising, having to abide by the group's agreement, following a sequence decided on by consensus, spend some of his time with a woman he was less interested in rather than go directly, solely to what he wanted.

He noticed that in addition to the bed where we were all having our preliminary discussion, there was a second bed in the motel room, right beside, the other one, only inches away- it was a single bed but enough- and that he might take Akemi there without anyone stopping them, the etiquette for the night being that while the group worked together - friendship not just sex was the point- you didn't interrupt; you accorded mutual trust. It would be too late before anyone made a move to call Akemi and him out for going on their own, ignoring the spirit of four-way shared adventure. On the foot of the bed sat someone's brown handbag, like a stuffed toy. He'd only have to remove that to make all the space theirs.

Earlier Akemi had talked- not to Mitchell- about how the French man's hand felt. His old-fashioned ideas about how to treat a woman could sometimes make her laugh, but he was well-intentioned. She confided to her friend Hiroko that she liked him. Patience, sincerity, or just earnestness that was deep, crazed, came through in his touch and she couldn't help being moved. He knew what it did to her- the texture of his fingertips, the whorls there, engaged the fibers of her panties- and pressed on until she whispered for him to stop; they were both beside themselves with laughter. He had this notion of seducing her that was as winning as it was corny. In his view, courtship was an art, and he had appealed to her as an artist for understanding, for her time- and did display understanding of her paintings, listened to her talk about them with abiding alertness Mitchell sometimes didn't muster. He had brought to their few, light encounters the technique of a classical guitarist. In intervals of silence, you heard the slide of surfaces, fingers moving between strings to form new chords. He was sweet in that languor and precision, knew how to convey his confidence to her. At first they only fooled around, had fun. She still wasn't sure if it should go further, get serious.

Akemi had her friend Hiroko and tonight Nora. Mitchell also had friends. He wanted to tell her now. Peter. Not Joel- stiff just sat there shaking his head as he watched, clucking, “My golly. Isn't that something?”

“Think I liked watching him at her chest, like a blind person before a TV screen, gripping both sides, trying to shake an image out, having her nipples tilt to his mouth, her back arching for him?” Later, he'd give Peter his version. “At the same time, I don't know.” Thinking back, he'd shake his head too. “The scene had something.” The objective view, he meant, looking from a distance. Akemi's thighs up in the air. He thought of her breasts Charles wet. “Made her beauty stand up, literally.”

Mitchell liked to try out different positions with Akemi. A favorite was from the back. Charles didn't fool around with any of that, approached directly, face to face- in keeping with his old-school notions of gentlemanly conduct, gave what she wanted. When they first got on the single bed by themselves, he embraced Akemi tenderly but his hand soon went down her pants with a deep thrust. They had to get started before others could interfere. Akemi understood that and after a stiffening and scream of surprise, a groan, she adjusted to him; his hand and she moved together. Mitchell saw those floating moves of her hips he knew. Akemi didn't know if he was looking or at least didn't acknowledge him; her eyes had turned in another direction and there they remained, locked in a stare in which it seemed to Mitchell from his indirect view there was some sadness. At first, when the action moved from affection to the physical, Akemi looked past Charles. For a moment they seemed distant from each other, negotiating, and removing the space separating their bodies. Akemi looked off into the empty space at the back of the hotel room. Her eyes looked alone but that was temporary. They were feeling their way back to each other and to do so they had to draw back to themselves for a while. His hand, Akemi's eyes seemed to ask, whose was it? Then they were kissing, his mouth on hers, in that hackneyed romantic way of his Mitchell couldn't stand, Akemi's thighs up, aligned with his frame, the bed already getting wet under them.

Mitchell suddenly remembered a scene- he wanted to tell Akemi about it, felt he was. He'd visited his friend Peter. Other people were over as well. He'd gone to a different room from them all to look for a book he wanted to show Peter. They'd been talking about a story by Henry James Peter hadn't read. That room was unused and scary in some way- a feeling pervaded it; a ghost or ghosts might be there. Mitchell felt a little uneasy alone looking in the closet, the upper part where some books were stored. And he heard a noise from the depth of the room, behind him and to his left. It wasn't a ghost though, he saw, but a dog, German shepherd, big and unpredictable. He hurried to get the book down and leave. The dog, sensing his agitation, became agitated in turn, and Mitchell and it raced to the door out of the room. Mitchell had his book, an old volume with dark blue, nearly black hard cloth cover and white binding. He was able to dodge the dog running from behind him, and the animal ended up colliding with someone else who hadn't seen it coming, wasn't able to get out of the way.
Mitchell had felt he was telling the story to Akemi, but of course he hadn't been. As he started remembering she and Charles were going at it and when he finished they still were.

Akemi had confided in Nora, as she had early in her friend Hiroko, about the pressure she felt to sleep with Charles, her mixed feelings, uneasiness as he'd put his hand on her back at dinner- she liked him and wasn't sure what to do when they suggested making a night of it. Mitchell's willingness to go along put her at a further loss. She drank with the rest of them to relax, and then got angry at Mitchell's indifference- little did she know it wasn't that but a problem of communication; she didn't realize Mitchell had been hoping she would do something to stop the forward momentum, and when he offered no guidance she elected to take the path of least resistance, go with Charles, who at least showed strength, concern about her, if only on behalf of his penis.

Walking up the stone steps to the motel through the snow, holding onto each other, Akemi told Nora felt like she had a date to box Mohammed Ali. She said she was afraid; she might not go through with it. Unlike her friend Hiroko, the wife of Mitchell's coworker brushed off her concern. She used the boxing metaphor. “What's your worry? You're going to go the distance.”

Akemi shook her head, laughing. They were leaning close, advancing gingerly on the slippery surface, bracing for the cold. “Do you know how long a boxing match is?” Akemi was really laughing now, sputtering- she felt the tension come out. More than the alcohol, it was the other woman's presence that relaxed her. “Fifteen rounds, isn't it? I think each is three minutes,” Nora roared in reply. The men had come from the motel office and were now behind them. Akemi and Nora knew they were in their line of sight. Nobody had expected to be out in a storm that night. They shivered partly because they weren't dressed for it, hadn't put on their heaviest winter coats much less boots and gloves. Akemi and Nora both wore jackets that reached to their waist. They understood the guys' eyes would be on their rear ends and they performed for them- two women together, they enjoyed solidarity, which included a shared sense that men were basically stupid, at least easy to control, play with. Nora was nice to Joel, avoided reaching the conclusion he was a nonentity. And he wasn't really, just insensitive, unimaginative. Mitchell called him a stiff on the basis of their interaction at work. About Mitchell, Nora knew nothing. Akemi wasn't her close friend and hadn't talked. That left Charles, a charming anachronism.

Nora bumped Akemi's hip, to make hers roll with her. And Akemi too got into the swing of it. She was a dancer but not used to this kind of demonstration.

"We're a team." Their heads came close. They were almost kissing, then had to draw back or else collide. "Ooh!" Stiff wind blew.

Nora's jacket was a shade of strawberry and Akemi's, which ended in a little tail, a tea brown that reminded Mitchell of the costume she'd worn to the culture center. Nora's stood out. You couldn't ignore the strong color. But it was Akemi's tail that caught the eye.

“You go.” When feeling good, Nora unconsciously adopted African American speech patterns, words and rhythms. “You got it.” She was feeling horny watching Akemi.

Akemi grinding her hips, Nora looking impressed. They leaned close. Akemi found she liked the smell of Nora's hair. For some moments it didn't seem beyond the bounds of possibility that they'd end up with each other for the night.

“I'll be lucky if I make it to the second round.” Sober silence followed Akemi's comment. It gave way to shrieks of laughter.

“I like you too.” Akemi wasn't used to this open display of affection, especially with someone she barely knew, but it felt good.

Akemi decided to pretend it was a wild animal she was in the ring with. If she thought of Charles as a beast, muscular tiger stalking, pacing tiger rather than a person, that might help.

“And if you make it- without getting killed- a punch from him can kill you,” Nora said, “there'll be a big reward. Ten million dollars. For Mohammed Ali? I think that's right. You never have to work again.”

“I really want to buy a house in the country, some land,” Akemi played along. “And if I die, the money will go to someone else who can use it.” She thought automatically of Mitchell.

But imagine yourself in the ring. The lights. The crowd. Caesar's Palace. Las Vegas- Akemi had yet to visit the resort, but the motel had a tawdry glitz that brought it to her mind. The crowd unable to sit still, spitting, yelling themselves hoarse before the fight even starts. His figure with you. How huge he looks up close. His torso, shoulders, arms. The way he moves. Menace. Power. His glistening muscles. The shadow he casts as he bears down, never in a hurry, content at first just to block your way. The screaming of fight fans that adds confusion, blocks your hearing as the hot lights blind- you look around but don't know what you see. Bettors especially noisy. All the money on the line.

“You'll at least have to go to the second round,” Nora said as they reached the door of the motel and waited for the men with the key card. “If you fake a knockout right away- if you take a dive-” Nora laughed at the term that had come to her, “the crowd will feel cheated, be out for blood.”

“I know. I'll ask him at the beginning what I can do to avoid being killed by him.” Akemi had achieved calm. The walk erased most of her doubts.

"Uh-uh," she protested and stretched to show off her rib cage. His hands went up and down. Mitchell guessed he might be thinking about his large-scale wife here. He opened his palm. His fingertips reached just to Akemi's nipple. That was when they moved to the other bed.

It didn't happen fast. Everyone was too stunned to remark on their pairing off, much less move to stop them. Transfixed. It wasn't as if any one there had the protocol down. Friday nights they went to the squash court, not a motel room. No one knew what to do and no one did anything.

Mitchell would tell his friend Peter, ÒI can't think of much worse. I've been in that position now. I'm the bad guy. I was the bad guy. Psychologically abusive, I guess.Ó

After Charles reached in Akemi's pants, she crossed her thigh over him. That was just to stop him temporarily rather than signal demurral. She was ready.

"A little." Her hand had gone to his abdomen. Charles thought she meant to announce she would begin touching his cock, but her palm stayed at his stomach and he got that she was still hung up on his comment before about how slim she was. She smiled.

"A little." Akemi conceded he wasn't as thin as her, then changed her mind. "Uh-uh." Her hand had gone to Charles' ribs. "You have to eat some more."

Akemi seemed to reach to his cock almost by accident. That was when he kissed her.

"Your beard. Pain," Akemi protested. Charles had stubble, light, not especially noticeable to the eye. Akemi felt it. "A lot of men have this much." Go unshaven a few days, she meant. "Pain for women."

As they kissed, carefully- Akemi kept drawing back; it was impossible to tell if she really felt bad or was joking- Charles tried to get his hand down her shirt to her breasts, had a hard time of it at close quarters. She wore a teeshirt with an open neck, the one she'd meant to play squash in, had on a bra. She gripped his erection- his pants were open and it was like a club wrapped in cloth- Akemi yanked at him as if annoyed at how hard he was, how much that made her want him. Annoyance wasn't a feeling she often indulged- too selfish- so she was saying, in effect, "I don't care. I don't care. I don't care." They worked each other and their bodies twisted as if the pleasure were so good it was anguish.

Akemi lay flat for Charles, let his hand work. It moved in circles. The others gazed- 'tantalized' is the wrong word- stunned by what they could see and couldn't. Akemi's jeans were still on. He hadn't even unzipped them, just skunked his hand down the waist. It finally opened only now. Akemi was smooth, oily. And Charles kept going, workmanlike, mechanic bringing his strength, finesse to bear on a stubborn bearing, patient, confident, feeling it free up; the easy back and forth motion he applied, never forcing, would loosen her; there was plenty of lubrication. Akemi called out.

"Cold." It was less a complaint than a question. Charles and she had worked her jeans off. She expressed worry he felt cold. Did he want to use the blanket? Modesty was also there.

"Your face"- beard, she meant. The kisses didn't stop but he went more gently, at least mixing them up, applying soft ones as a balm. That game distracted from the main event happening below, where two fingers had already disappeared. Others slid on the inside of Akemi's thigh, curve at the top. Incredibly smooth, near orange skin. Mitchell, who slept with Akemi, was amazed. Charles' fingertips applied caresses you could almost hear squeak. He was getting romantic with her again with that needling, light touch- it was annoying to watch him play the seductive French man, the bon vivant. And Akemi cried out, put her face to his shoulder. She bit or at least mouthed it.

“You like?” Akemi asked as he penetrated. Mitchell could barely hear. Her head was on the far side. He sensed her embarrassment; she felt he had to say something. Or maybe that wasn't it.

"Slow." Charles stopped halfway in, seemed to worry about coming if they continued, needed time to reset.

Akemi didn't show any impatience she felt. If anything, she seemed bored as she waited. Or else it was the native shyness again. Then Charles went the rest of the way in. Weathered the storm. Crisis had passed. It was full steam ahead. Akemi's thighs hinged up as he got his bearings on top, to drive straight, his cock hard inside her with staying power now. Confidence came on strong, enough to carry both of them.

He finally answered her question. “Yeah. I like that one. Mm.” The sound at the end was emphatic, percussive, hit like a punch.

Akemi shouted out, "Oh!" when he sent new, sudden thrusts deep. He gave a wavering call, like an accordion screen opening fold by fold, when he came.

And he couldn't write it off as a one-time thing. He woke up later and they were together again. It didn't start right away. A decision had been made to stay the night at the hotel; they were effectively snowed in. When everyone had gone to sleep- after Mitchell and Nora had had an uneventful fuck and then Joel and she had taken a quick turn for old time's sake, Mitchell woke and saw Charles lying with Akemi, head leaning its full weight, his hand on her, like she was a prize he'd landed. Mitchell detected his hand moving in the dark, gliding silent, hardly noticeable, up and down her front, again on her breast; fingers brushed her nipple. That light touch rang out. Devoting attention to her skin, as to a pelt a hunter had taken and brought home proudly.

Mitchell had forced himself back to sleep. It was when he awoke the second time that he found them up and alert. Akemi was on top now, rocking, trying to keep quiet, unsuccessfully- her calls were what had roused him from a good dream starting. Others too had woken, no doubt. Charles had seized her breasts with both hands- he definitely had a thing about them- and Akemi seemed not to mind. She rocked hard. Mitchell remembered her rolling hips during the mock dance with Joel's wife Nora on their way to the motel. She'd performed deliberately then. Now it seemed to Mitchell the dance was mocking him. But it wasn't. Akemi must have assumed he was still sleeping. This was for Charles. She had fingers in her mouth to avoid disturbing others in the middle of the night, tried to stifle her cries, but it wasn't working; they came out. Because of Charles. Some short guys are well-endowed. Akemi's surprise showed. She couldn't keep it to herself.

Likely her screams also had to do with how hard he gripped her breasts. Mitchell knew that, painful as it seemed, she liked that. "As hard as you can," she'd laughed to him when they were in bed. "Don't worry. It doesn't hurt."

He'd been too cautious with her or not cautious enough. It wasn't as if Mitchell was a wimp, didn't give her something she needed. For a moment, he wondered, with a start, if he had fundamentally misread the scene. Had she gone with Charles willingly? Had Charles forced himself on her and she kept quiet? No, she would have protested earlier, wasn't inhibited about speaking out in self defense. Or could she have acted on a dare to herself- with Nora- wanted a little fun and gotten more than she bargained for?

So much for Charles not wanting to experiment- who in the world did stick to the conventional missionary position? He'd turned Akemi over- or she'd turned for him- either way. The snow had turned the outside world white and its reflection shone in the room. The view was eerily bright, as if it was dawn, though the clock radio read only two- or as if there was a full moon. Mitchell saw Akemi's hips jamming up to him. The spectacle- there's no other word- was as startling as when Mitchell had first seen Akemi entering the culture center, the sleek black hair, fine cheekbones, in the traditional outfit, then changing to a purple dress- in the company of the young guy who he had taken for her boyfriend but turned out not to be. The scene looked to Mitchell like a frame from the late pages of some graphic novel, story he hadn't written, that is. What was he doing stuck in some stupid comic book, unable to get out. He saw here that Akemi had legitimate grounds for complaint against him. He was thinking only of his own situation, not hers.

To start their new life, Mitchell had just bought a car, and the question was how to coat the chassis, what would best protect for the long term, keep it polished, gleaming like Akemi's body that night.

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