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I can't forget my little square
Even though I'm so far away.
I can't forget my little fair;
Maybe it's still there, still there today.
— Jeff Buckley
Kumiko wakes up to the sound not of her alarm, but of a loud knock at a door.
She watches soft particles of dust float a blurry swirl through the frigid shaft of morning sun, and it takes all of her strength to keep the nausea at bay. Somewhere beyond her bedroom door, the knocks keep on creeping, beating along arrhythmic patterns that seem to match Kumiko’s heart; it frightens her. Coming to focus, she sets her sight on the bedside table and reaches for her phone—finding it, unplugged, and out of battery. She wonders for how long, all while the knocking continues its syncopated drumming, growing louder and even frantic. She hopes, as she plugs her phone in, that it would just go away and let her sleep. Nothing, she reckons, could get her out of bed today.
Not today.
“Kumiko?” she hears, and is horrified to recognise the voice. She lays still, hoping in some way that the world might be a forest predator that would not attack should she not move a muscle or show any fear.
“Kumiko, are you in there?” the voice calls again, breaking. “Kumiko, please tell me you’re in there.”
This time, Kumiko doesn’t hesitate, and jumps out of bed. God, what did you do? she thinks, as she gives herself a glance in the mirror, realising she’s still wearing her make-up from the night before. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, she prays to whoever might be up there that she, at the very least, doesn’t smell bad.
She doesn’t have the heart to pretend that she doesn’t know who the owner of that voice—those gentle sobs—is, so she simply opens her front door.
“Kumiko,” Reina says, under her breath, as if saying it any louder might make Kumiko disappear. “Thank goodness, Kumiko.”
“Reina,” Kumiko says, pulling every heartstring as taut as possible so as to not cry. “I’m sorry. I was sleeping.”
Reina sniffs and wipes her eyes with a handkerchief in that lovely, elegant way that Kumiko would cross oceans for.
“Your phone,” Reina tries, keeping her voice steady. “I tried calling you. Asuka—she…she said you looked off yesterday and I just…I needed to see you.”
There you go again. You truly are awful.
“I’m so sorry,” Kumiko also tries, with lesser results, to keep her voice from breaking. “I…my phone died. I’m so sorry, Reina.”
Reina looks at her, silhouetted by a wash of sunlight; formless crystals spiral down the lambent lavender of her eyes. Kumiko reckons that there isn’t a force in the universe that could withstand the grip of Reina’s orbit—that wordless gravity pulling the galaxy’s largest, most mysterious objects into a secret, beautiful order.
Reina hesitates a moment before enveloping Kumiko in a hug, breathing deep into her unkempt auburn hair.
“I’m sorry,” Kumiko says, laughing weakly in spite of herself. “I think I might smell.”
“You smell fine,” Reina responds, laughing and tightening her hold. “But we should probably get you something to eat.”
Freshly showered, Kumiko finds Reina setting Kumiko’s entire existence straight.
Sitting on a couch in the living room, which now looks considerably more habitable, is where Kumiko watches Reina make coffee with the trained precision of a professional—Reina, with hands as soft as they were dextrous, face as delicate as it could be cruel. She watches the water fall from the kettle and feels the coffee bloom along with her chest, spreading its aroma around the room. Kumiko munches on some yogurt and granola, taking occasional bites off the last fig she had that looked edible. The flavour reminds her of summer—one spent eating fruit on some secluded Dalmatian orchard, overlooking the peaceful Adriatic.
For a few, simple moments, she figures that life isn’t all that bad; she takes a coffee cup from Reina and sinks into its warmth.
“Kumiko,” Reina says, serious enough to break her from her reverie. “Have you taken your medication yet?”
“Oh,” Kumiko forces, pulling herself together. “No, not yet.”
Reina rises and makes for the bedroom where, as if nothing else preoccupied her mind, picks a couple of orange tablets from a box, and a silver one from a bottle. Bringing them back to Kumiko and placing them in her hand, she hands her a glass of water. Were it not, then, for the gentle touch that she places on Kumiko’s forearm, Kumiko may as well have lost herself.
“How are your migraines?” Reina asks, giving Kumiko’s arm a gentle squeeze.
“Not too bad,” Kumiko shrugs, taking the medicine with one swig of the cold water. “At least, if I don’t drink too much.”
“Okay, good,” Reina says, shifting her hand to pat down a few stray hairs on Kumiko’s head. “Do you have any plans today?”
Kumiko smiles, as one does when one hears the exact words they want to hear.
“If you’re asking if you can stay over, the answer is yes,” Kumiko says, blushing into her coffee, giving everything away.
“Great,” Reina says, smiling with full abandon. “But first, let’s get you more fruit.”
They get groceries at the supermarket on Montague Street, more than enough for Kumiko’s simple, bachelorette life.
Still, as she watches Reina carefully pick every piece of fruit, inspect every gourd for texture, and pick out herbs for seasoning, Kumiko gets the budding impression that Reina might not be so much looking for ingredients of her liking alone. On the contrary, as they stand in line and hum together to the Smetana symphony streaming from the market speakers, Kumiko gets the sneaking suspicion that Reina’s fastidiousness had, for some time, ceased to be for only her—or for only Kumiko’s—own benefit. It’s a curious inkling, hidden in the undertones of the unison of their steps, climbing the three stories to her apartment, that settles sweetly on her chest, as she watches Reina readily pick out the front door key from Kumiko’s overcrowded keyring, knowing it by heart.
“You know,” Kumiko says, shuffling inside while Reina holds the door for her. “I should probably get you a spare key one of these days.”
Reina walks past her, placing the bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. She turns, and leans against the wall, catching her breath from something more than just the hike upstairs.
“Yeah,” Reina says, smiling. “That’d be nice.”
They have dinner on the tiny balcony, facing a lively Brooklyn street and squeezed into the old metal café table and chairs that Yuuko and Natsuki gave them. Under the keen scrutiny of Reina, the balcony has become something of a haven in the warmer months, at least for Kumiko. Once donned with lovely plants and a single thread of fairy lights, Kumiko could barely look once she realised that a number of the former had wilted under a period of some neglect. After the effort Reina had gone through at its expense, Kumiko found it inexcusable.
Nice one, Oumae. You’ll be lucky if she ever thinks any better of you. I wouldn’t.
And yet, silent as ever, Reina prunes those who could not be salvaged, and makes quick work at cleaning and watering the rest, writing in a little notebook the date and the types of plants still surviving. Kumiko wonders since when she has been keeping that, as she watches Reina shift gears to prepare dinner.
Kumiko approaches and puts on an apron of her own, holding her left wrist with her right hand in what she figures is the strangest display of timidity.
“You can just sit outside, Kumiko,” Reina offers. “Pick out a record; I’ll take care of dinner.”
“Can I pick out a record…” Kumiko says, quietly. “And then help you?”
Reina smiles, chuckling a bit. “As you will. But I run a tight ship when I’m cooking, as you may know. One mistake and you’re on line duty.”
“Yes, chef,” Kumiko says, with feigned gravity, and walks to her record shelf to do what she knows she does best.
After dinner, Kumiko finds herself lying across her couch, head nestled comfortably on Reina’s lap, who reads from a book on one hand and gently draws circles on Kumiko’s arm with the other. From the turntable plays a particularly sentimental Satie rendition, which Kumiko knows Reina is especially fond of. Its pretty and unpredictable trills seem to extract the abstract melancholy of the night, layering blacks upon blues, blues upon pinks, pinks upon yellows. The sun has set, giving way to its earthly afterglow.
“How’s Young Werther?” Kumiko asks, after some time. The pianist has moved on to Satie’s Sarabandes.
“Hm,” Reina hums, thinking for a bit. Then, closing the book: “Still sad, I suppose. Goethe must have been filled with quite the sadness.”
“Yeah,” Kumiko says, pursing her lips. “I get that.”
A pause.
“Hey, are you okay?” Reina asks, stopping her hand on Kumiko’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” Kumiko responds, and then thinks for a bit. “I had a dream last night. You were in it.”
“Oh,” Reina says, sounding surprised. “Do you remember it?”
“I think,” Kumiko begins. “I was little, and so were you. Maybe elementary school-aged. Which is weird, since we met in middle school. Anyway, we were in some square. It didn’t really look like anywhere around here, or in Japan, so I think it was Europe. It kind of looked like that old square in Prague. Remember that trip, when we graduated high school? We went with the whole band.”
Reina smiles and nods. Of course I remember , she seems to say.
“Yeah, anyway, there was some kind of fair going on, and this street band was playing a really old song. At least, it sounded old. And you were singing along to it. And all I wanted to do was sit there, dressed in this cute little dress, and listen to you sing.”
Reina stares at Kumiko, who has her eyes fixed on some indeterminate point in space. She resumes the circles on Kumiko’s arm.
“Sounds like an Edith Piaf song,” says Reina, smiling with curious melancholy. “Did something happen after that?”
“Yeah,” Kumiko says, after another pause. “The thing was, that I couldn’t hear you. Like, I could hear everything else. The music, the people, the noise. But the harder I tried to listen to you, the louder everything else became. I felt as if two large hands were covering my ears, and…”
And what, Kumiko?
“And I kept calling your name, but…yeah, I guess you couldn’t hear me either.”
Another pause; the second Sarabande begins.
“Hm,” Reina says. “Maybe it’s for the best.”
Kumiko snaps out of her trance, and looks at Reina, remembering those lavender fields.
“I mean,” Reina says, clearing her throat. “I don’t have the best singing voice.”
Kumiko blinks a few times, absently, but not taking her eyes off her. Reina looks away after a moment.
“It’s true,” she mumbles. “And please don’t look at me like that.”
The two then, simultaneously, break into laughter, and Kumiko finds that ever-natural equilibrium on Reina’s lap. After a bit, Reina, too, returns to reading.
Their tones, once again, tune to the same key.
“Do you often dream of me?” Reina asks, suddenly.
“I…” Kumiko says, and looks up at Reina. “Yeah. All the time, actually.”
“You’ve never told me this,” Reina says, matter-of-factly.
“You’ve never asked,” Kumiko mumbles, turning away once again. “I suppose.”
Kumiko suddenly feels a yawn creeping up and stretches an arm skyward, where Reina catches her hand and holds it against her cheek, rendering Kumiko still. Reina then plants a single, delicate kiss on its back, shooting rays of directionless radiance from Kumiko’s head and sinking to the depths of her heart, sparing not a single inch of her body in their path.
When Reina lets go of her hand, Kumiko keeps it up to Reina’s cheek, shifting so as to cup it tenderly.
“Hey, Reina?” Kumiko says, uncertain as ever in the face of an opening door. “Could you…stay over?…for a while?”
Reina, holding that door open, steels her nerves, as she knows she always can for Kumiko. She wishes that Gnossienne would play again.
Well, there’s always tomorrow , she thinks, and closes the distance between them.
In the ever-deepening warmth of Reina’s embrace, that night, Kumiko dreams of her again; this time, she hears her sing, clarion and clear.