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So as we we’re walking down Broadway, she turns to me and says ‘Do you want to see me become her?’ I didn’t know what she meant but I just said ‘Yes’- and then I saw it. I don’t know how to explain what she did because it was so very subtle, but she turned something on within herself that was almost like magic. And suddenly cars were slowing and people were turning their heads and stopping to stare. –Amy Greene, on Marilyn Monroe
Saejima sometimes felt as if he’d slept for twenty-five years. His memories of prison had reality, but it was the sharp reality of nightmares, fading like a neglected tattoo until thrown into sharp relief by a smell or a sound or a flavor half-recognized. Unreal. He would wake in the morning and look to the side and see his lover’s face relaxed in sleep and for a moment feel young again, as if all had been a fleeting bad dream. Until the terrible wrongness hit—wrong haircut, new tattoos, too many lines on the face, the soft pit and empty eyelid where the left eye should have been.
He’d heard stories, seen pictures, Majima would in his manic highs spend hours filling him in on the life he’d missed. But when had the corners of his mouth turned down? Who had given him the shiny old burn on his upper arm, or the scar that traced down his thigh as if the intent had been to cut him open? How had he come to be the man asleep next to Saejima in bed?
Saejima tasted gun oil on the back of his tongue and mourned for twenty-five years spent on nightmares.
Under his gaze, Majima stirred, rolled over, and pressed his face into Saejima’s side. “Bro, what’re you doing up? ‘s way too early.”
“Just restless.” Saejima reached for him, hesitated, and then rested a hand on the back of his head, stroking his hair with a thumb as he made soft, irritable noises. “Go back to sleep, bro.”
“You ever go out anymore? Like you used to with Yasuko and me?”
Majima looked up from his papers, startled, an uncharacteristic flush spreading over his cheeks. “Nah, bro, I’m…I’m too fuckin’ old for that kinda stuff.”
Saejima frowned. “Why? You useta love it.” That was a good memory, of a laughing face and loud music and a faded rush of warmth. “Nothin’ wrong with doin’ shit you like.”
“’cept there’s this whole ‘respectable businessman’ thing, bro. Gotta maintain my rep.”
“So? Anyone talks shit, I’ll throw ‘em through a wall.”
“I don’t dance anymore. Not like that. Tried a few times, but it ain’t the same alone.” Majima watched him for a moment with a stray-dog look, wary and shy and ready at any moment for a kick. “Besides, bro, you always said you hated dancing.”
For some reason that one conversation stuck in Saejima’s head for days after. Of course Majima had changed. They’d both changed. People always changed. It was something about how his shoulders had hunched, though, the strange blush and the kick-me look juxtaposed with the clear memory of laughter, that stuck under Saejima’s skin. There’d been change, all right, but maybe this one wasn’t so good.
So he went and got lunch with Kiryu.
“Worried about Majima,” he said over a bowl of noodles.
“He’s worrying.” Kiryu weathered the level stare surprisingly well for a few minutes before continuing with, “Worried about what?”
“Changed a lot. Obviously. He seems sad.” Saejima paused. “You know where chicks get dresses and shit now?”
Kiryu frowned into his noodles for a moment and then said, “Ask Akiyama, he knows about that stuff.” Beat. “Is this about Goromi?”
Saejima blinked at him. “How’d you hear that name?”
It had been a tease, the first time. Saejima had taken Yasuko out to get groceries, and on returning they’d caught Majima trying on her lipstick. She’d thought that he’d been planning to play a joke on her, and decided to make the joke first, cooing, “Oh, Goromi-chan, you look so pretty! But I don’t think that’s your color.” The memory of Majima’s hurt, embarrassed expression would have haunted Saejima for weeks, if Yasuko’s immediate response upon seeing it hadn’t been to follow up with, “Here, I’ve got one that’ll suit you better.”
Saejima stared at the picture Kiryu showed him and said, “That don’t look anything like Goromi, she was always real stylish. And she had black hair.” And better makeup, he almost said, but Yasuko had always been the one doing makeup, she was the patient one with the steady hands.
Both of them were less without Yasuko, really.
Kiryu waited a long time to see if he’d say anything else. “You want the picture?”
“Nah. Doesn’t look anything like her. You said ask Akiyama?”
“Yeah. He know where girls shop. And if he doesn’t have a good suggestion his secretary will. You just have to be really polite to her, she’s kind of scary.”
Akiyama’s little round secretary squinted up at him with the dubious expression of someone who’d seen it all and wasn’t impressed. “I’m not a personal shopper, you know. And you haven’t really told me anything about what this girl likes.”
“I don’t know. Lace, I guess? Short skirts? She likes real bright colors. I don’t know what’s fuckin’…trendy right now, she always liked wearin’ the newest shit. She and my sister used to spend fuckin’ hours tryin’ shit on. And she likes real high heels.”
Hana scanned the list he’d given her. “It looks like you’re trying to buy her a whole new wardrobe, did she have a big house fire or something? And you don’t have any of her measurements? I can probably find things she’ll like, but if you don’t tell me the size she needs then I can’t guarantee that they’ll fit. And you can’t just put ‘makeup’ on here, I need to know what kind.”
He shrugged awkwardly. “I don’t know what kindsa makeup there are. My sister always did that. I just kinda carried their bags.”
She made an irritated face, opened her mouth to speak again, and then stopped, peering at him, and sighed. “Look, do you know how to text? Akiyama, does he know how to text? I can’t get this all right now, but if you text me her measurements tonight then we can go shopping tomorrow.”
“…we?”
“Well, clearly you already know how to carry a girl’s shopping, I’m not going to be able to manage all of this myself.” She paused, and then reached out and patted his hand gently. “Whoever she is, I’m sure she’s very lucky to have you for a boyfriend.”
Boxes. Boxes and bags and packages, and an expensive lunch for Hana to thank her for helping him out, and two hours spent on that video website she’d shown him how to use, and then another couple of hours combing through page after page of news before Majima got home. Saejima wasn’t trying to find out anything in particular, but fury at all the things he’d missed helped tamp down the terrible weight of joys lost and comforts forgotten.
“Holy shit, bro,” Majima said when he finally got home, “what the fuck were you up to all day? Bedroom looks like a fuckin’ warehouse, all those bags and shit.”
“Went shopping with Akiyama’s secretary.”
“What, Hana? Did she threaten you or something, bro? You hate shopping.”
“She was helpin’ me with something.” Saejima paused, scratching at the back of his head. He hadn’t asked Hana for date recommendations; everything she’d said and done while they were out suggested that she didn’t like the kinds of clubs Goromi did. “Look, uh. If you did wanna go out dancing a little. Where would you wanna go?”
Majima’s back went stiff as he was pouring himself a drink. “I said, bro. I don’t do that no more.”
“Yeah, you said. But if you did.”
A long pause, a sidelong look as Majima took a sip of his drink and a flicker of the kicked dog fading into a wistful sigh. “I don’t know. Genius, maybe? Over in Ginza? It’s real classy, I always thought Yasuko woulda liked it there.” The corner of his mouth twitched up. “You’d probably hate it, you can’t just wear a t-shirt and jeans and call it a day. Gotta dress up.”
That…was a problem. “I don’t own a suit, bro.”
“Not like I got anything I’d wear either.”
“Yeah, well, speakin’ of that…”
Majima’s glass froze halfway to his mouth. “…speakin’ of what?”
“Look. Bro.” Saejima paused. “Goro. When I say I missed you, it don’t mean I only missed half of you.”
Sip of whiskey, Majima’s throat working for a moment longer than it really would have taken to swallow before he said, “I missed you too, Taiga. Lotta shit changed when you were gone. And honestly I ain’t always sure there’s even half’a me left.” Another sip, and a long silence—and then he shook himself, and his eye gleamed, and he grinned at his reflection in the window and past that to Saejima’s reflection behind him. “So speakin’ of havin’ shit to wear, you’re telling me you got me somethin’ nice and you ain’t shown me yet? What kinda fuckin’ tease is that? If you’re takin’ me out somewhere nice there better be a goddamn diamond eyepatch in there, I can’t wear this fuckin’ ratty thing out all the time.”
[Hana he’s saying I gotta wear a suit]
[why do you think I made you tell me your sizes too, you giant. Akiyama ordered you one already, it’s on the way.] Hana looked down at her phone with a satisfied smile after she’d sent the text. “I knew that was who I was shopping for.”
“Hold still, bro.”
Majima squirmed. “Ain’t had someone do this in years. Where’d you learn, anyway?”
“Youtube. Hana showed me how to look up those videos that chicks do where they teach you how.” The brushes all looked like toys in Saejima’s hands, even more than the little pots and palettes Hana had picked out. She’d had a nice eye for color; Majima had always looked good in gold. “Close your eye, bro.”
Majima’s eye fluttered shut as Saejima tipped his chin up, and he hmm’ed quietly at the strokes of the brush. “Feels like old times almost.” Despite his fidgeting, he stayed still for eyeliner, mascara, the false lashes Saejima had been almost too nervous to bring out. “I shoulda shaved.”
“Don’t matter. You look good all the time.”
“Now you’re just sayin’ shit.”
“Nah.”
When he reached for the lipstick tube, Majima took it out of his hand. “I can do this part just fine myself. Go change.”
Saejima ducked into the bedroom to change, fumbling irritably with the silk shirt and ridiculous necktie that had come with the suit Akiyama sent over, feeling ridiculous in dress shoes. He caught his reflection in the mirror and looked…old. An old man, dressed more finely than he deserved, broken-nosed face out of place above the fine suit. This whole thing might have been a mistake.
“You ready to go in there, old man?”
He stepped back into the living room and went very still for a moment before the warm relief crashed through him. “Hey, Goromi-chan. You look like you ain’t aged a day.”
Goromi swatted him on the arm. “Flatterer.”
The dress was green, and pretty short, cut off above the knee to show off the long, shimmering line of silk stockings down to a pair of breakneck heels—python-print, of course, because he’d seen them and had to make the joke, and Majima had opened the box and laughed and it had been good. Matching handbag, too, Goromi had always liked things to match. The cutout in the front of the dress had seemed pretty daring to Saejima, but Hana had assured him that it was fashionable.
With her long hair combed down in front of the left side of her face (it had taken ages to find a wig that looked like the one she’d worn before, he’d almost been afraid they wouldn’t find it at all), she looked almost exactly like she had. Twenty-five years fallen away in an instant, no eyepatch, no prison, and any second now Yasuko would come out of the bathroom still brushing her hair and tease him about staring at his date without telling her how pretty she looked.
Goromi said, “That tie is ridiculous. What’re you starin’ at?”
“You just. You look real pretty.”
“’course I look pretty.” Goromi had gone faintly pink. “I’m the prettiest girl you know. C’mere, lemme fix that.” She reached up and pulled him down, long nails brushing the hollow of his throat as she adjusted collar and tie.
“…why’d you undo it?”
“Looks better open.”
“Why not take it off, then?”
She wrapped the loose ends of the tie around her hand and tugged lightly. “I like you with this nice handhold.”
“That’s…real forward, Goromi-chan.”
“So? I’m a modern woman, I can say what I want.” She took his arm when he offered it and leaned against his shoulder for a moment. “It’ll be nice to go out. I ain’t been out dancin’ in ages.”
First there was dinner. They’d never gone anywhere really nice before—they’d been too young and broke for fine dining, especially paying for three people. Now they were older, richer and maybe wiser and certainly more scarred, and without that third mouth to feed. They could go to the finest restaurant in Kamurocho, no problem.
Except that people were staring. They’d always stared at Goromi, but Saejima had never seen her respond to gazes and murmuring by flinching like she’d been slapped. She’d always basked in attention before. “What’s wrong?”
“Everyone’s lookin’ at me.”
“You never useta mind.”
“Yeah, well.” Her shoulders hunched. “Back then I wasn’t famous for bein’ a crazy person.”
“You ain’t famous for that now either.” Saejima reached across the table and brushed her hair out of her face. “That’s just a guy who looks a lot like you.”
“We ain’t really that different.”
“Nah, but he ain’t as crazy as people say he is neither.”
Her fingers curled around his on her face. “I don’t know where you’re right, but that’s a real sweet thing to say. About him.” Her eyelashes fluttered. “Taiga-chan.” And…he could feel her foot sliding up his ankle under the leg of his pants.
His face felt warm. “Goromi-chan, we’re in public.”
“Yeah, and this is my night.” Her eye gleamed wickedly, another of those lightning changes he’d once known and was relearning. “I gotta have some fun, right?”
Genius wasn’t simply upscale, it was intimidatingly fancy, a glittering expanse of beautiful people, flashing lights, and expensive champagne. Saejima felt desperately out of place. “This ain’t really my scene, Goromi.”
“When was it ever? Ask me later, I’ll show you pictures from when I was in Sotenbori. Used to be my only scene.”
“In Sotenbori? When was that?”
Goromi’s face flickered for a moment. “Year or so after you went away.”
“And you were goin’ dancing there?”
“Well…I wasn’t. They didn’t know me there. But he ran a club.”
“Their loss. Everyone oughtta know you, you always been the prettiest girl in Kamurocho. Sotenbori’s got nothin’ like you.”
“Flattery’s definitely gonna get you somewhere if you keep it up like that.” She reached up and wrapped the hanging tails of his tie around her hand, just as she’d done earlier. “Dance with me.”
“Goromi-chan, you know I don’t dance.”
“Just once.” She tugged, smiling. “It’s been years since I even seen you try.”
He hadn’t gotten any better. The press of people around him on the dance floor made him nervous, and the kind of movement required for dancing was too similar to fighting for him to relax, but not so similar that he felt like he knew what he was doing. If his partner had been anyone but Goromi, he would’ve dropped them and left without another word—but it was her, and she was smiling, and he’d been gone twenty-five years and nobody had been there to make her smile like that.
A glance, a murmur, and she didn’t flinch this time, but her eyes flickered. “I shoulda shaved.”
“Fuck them, I think you look pretty.” He tried, awkwardly, to spin her, and only succeeded because she knew what she was doing. “When’s the last time you went out?”
She turned a bit pink. “With Kiryu. Years ago. ‘cept we just got in a fight after, I kinda lost my patience. He was soundin’ too much like you to go around not bein’ you.”
“Yeah, he uh. Showed me a picture. That pink dress was real bad, Goromi-chan.”
“You shut up, I liked that dress, I woulda kept it only it got a lotta blood on it.” She spun again, watched critically as he tried to keep up, and then said, “I’m gonna make you take dancin’ lessons if we’re gonna go out again.”
When they were in the taxi home, slightly drunk and fizzing with the kind of restless energy that couldn’t be burned off just by dancing, Goromi reached up and pulled off her wig. She scratched at the back of her head, rolled her neck, and for a moment there was a minute transformation, Goromi becoming Majima in an expensive dress and four-inch heels and then herself again. And then she settled the wig again and tossed her head. “Been a real nice evening.”
For a moment Saejima was afraid that if he spoke, everything would dissolve. It was a dream. He was going to wake up back in the long nightmare with everyone he loved far away from him and unreachable, or even simply sit up in bed to realize that Goromi was long gone, that she’d died somehow while he was away and left Majima with a pit in his heart to match the one where his left eye had been. His throat felt tight. “Yeah. I missed you.”
She stared, leaned across the seat and drew him down and kissed him and tasted like the end of nightmares. “I missed me too.”
Beat.
The taxi slowed to a stop. Saejima reached up through the window, handed the driver a wad of money without counting it, and said, “So do I gotta wait for you to ask me up for coffee or can I carry you in?”
“What, you think just ‘cause you bought me all this fancy shit I’m gonna ask you in? What kinda girl do you think I am?” She took his hand as he got out of the car, stepped out after him, and winced. “Obviously you get to carry me in, you lucky asshole, I been wearing these shoes all night.”
He swung her up into his arms like she weighed nothing—which basically she didn’t—and started for the building. “Girl at the store made a crack about these bein’ shoes for lyin’ down in.”
“I oughtta slap you.”
“Yeah, but you’re not gonna.”
Saejima woke to the sound of loud cursing and his first instinct was to stand, to roll from the bed to his feet ready to break someone’s arm if they’d been trying to sneak up on him in the night. It had taken years to establish the kind of authority that kept people from trying to fucking shiv him, and some assholes still had to test it, they had to go and—
Bed. Wait. Real bed. Real sunlight. Coffee smell. Carpet under his feet, not stone.
Majima standing on one foot and cursing. “Got a fucking blister the size of Okinawa.” There was a trace of lipstick still smeared at the corner of his mouth, a faint smudge of eyeliner on his cheekbone. “That chick wasn’t wrong about those bein’ lying-down shoes.” He paused, and then a speculative glint came into his eye. “You think you’d wanna—”
“Maybe not this morning, bro.” Saejima looked down at Majima’s other foot on the floor. There was a distinct bruise at the back of his heel, and a red sore on his ankle where the strap of the shoe had been. Matching bruise and sore on the foot in the air, plus that blister. After a moment’s consideration he just picked Majima up, ignoring the other man’s startled yell. “You oughtta take a shower, bro. Where the hell were you last night, out pickin’ fights?”
“Asshole,” Majima muttered happily, resting his head on Saejima’s shoulder as they headed for the bathroom. “Last night was real nice.”
“Yeah, we oughtta do it again sometime.” Real bathroom, with privacy and hot water and a bathtub and everything. “Next week, maybe.” He turned the shower on.
“Thought you hated dancin’, bro.”
“Maybe you oughtta teach me, then.”
“Gonna need a whole new wardrobe, you know. You’re gonna have to take me shopping and everything.”
“Sure, sounds good. Maybe we can meet Hana for lunch.”