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The night Kawai was murdered, the air was cold and dry. Kuwana would not remember it fondly—the gore; the sick smell that coated his frozen lungs like a rancid tar. He had been hot under his clothes, and the AC couldn't offer any solace.
He was beside himself, now, folded over the edge of his bathtub, scrubbing the blood and dirt off of his shoes. Sunlight slowly peeled into his bathroom window. He spent the better half of the last few hours washing the rental—a motion that would have soothed him if the mess wasn't his fault to begin with. He moved in circles at least a thousand times; under the glove box and in between the seats. Reiko's perfume lingered in the passenger seat and it gave him a headache. It stunk like an old piggybank, too. There was so much blood that when he pressed down in the cloth, it would ooze out like soap from a sponge. He didn't realize people could bleed that much. She must have hit an artery. He saw her handprint on the seatbelt and matched it with his own. At that point, he felt like just driving the van into the water and calling it a day. But he promised no trace of her would ever be associated with Kawai's body, so he kept his head down and washed every part of her away.
His body ached, and his mind was plagued with thoughts of only her. It was selfish, really, to take someone's life but to only think of the woman who held him afterwards. This would be something he'd remember fondly: the two of them sitting in the rental van, listening to the engine hum dully and the vents squeak, right behind her home—as close as they could get without touching the back door.
"I'm trying to decide, now..." He remembered Reiko started after a long stretch of silence, "...if it's better to leave naked, or covered in blood." She unstuck her feet from her heels—they came off in a sloooooooow-pop, blood caked into her stockings like icing.
Kuwana raised his head, which had been resting thoughtfully on the steering wheel. "Sorry, I should have told you to bring a change of clothes." Then it was quiet, again.
Sitting in silence, playing the quiet game—it was almost fun for them. There was too much to say, and not enough time to say it. When she turned towards him again, and saw him staring at the stars, this is what Reiko had decided:
"It's better to leave naked."
Kuwana nearly jumped. She thumbed the seam of her stockings and began unbuttoning her bloodied shirt. He had to look away, but now the stars seemed much less interesting. He wasn't sure what to say to get her to stop, but he supposed a panicked W-Wait! would do.
And it did.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and zipped his jacket clean-off; bundled it in his hands and nearly shoved it in her face. He had done it so quickly he was nearly out of breath by the time he (quietly, and sincerely) said—
—"Put your pants back on."
She took it and put it on—her shirt still half-unbuttoned and her stockings at her ankles. She barely filled it; it was long enough to sit below her skirt. She looked awkward. He probably did, too.
"Thank you, Sensei." She half-laughed. "...For always putting me before yourself."
"You're welcome." He swallowed his protest. He never dared to disagree with her.
Before Reiko left, she climbed out of the passenger seat and leaned on the door. They squinted at the light as the automatic bulbs lit and exposed them both. Heels and bloodied stockings in hand, bare feet stuck to the gravel and dirt of her garden, she bowed him a goodbye without another word.
Kuwana leaned back. There was a warm spot on the cold tile from where he had been sitting in the sunlight.
Tired, he rubbed his face with his whole hand—plastering the blood and dirt from his shoes into his hair, eye, and cheeks. He groaned. In a few hours, he would arrive at her doorstep with a bottle of wine and a swollen eye.
Because the night before, she had forgiven him; and even though she said No offense, but, I never want to see you again—it usually meant I'll see you tomorrow night.
He would have slept, but thought of seeing her again made him restless. When he was getting ready, he thought about how lonely she might have felt all by herself at home—it must have been the reason why she invited him over in the first place—but whatever family-shaped hole she had in her heart, it could not be filled by him.
Truth be told, part of him did miss spending his ex-teaching days lugging around her bags and handing her tissues when she cried. She was hardly ever kind to him, but he never asked her to be. Because what was once intended to be a coincidental way to atone, quickly became a relationship with the most beautiful and immoral woman he had ever met—as if cooking dinner and having sex with her whenever she pleased was a way to make up for a (now) eight-year-long coma. She used to spend her lunch breaks stretching Mitsuru's legs and combing his hair—Kuwana recalled being beside her, but not for very long.
There was a time when the two of them would visit him together; when Reiko would say she wanted to stay for an hour, and when an hour would always become an overnight. Kitakata had gotten used to sleeping upright on a couch with her against his arm—legs tangled and propped up on a low table, under a thin blanket that was always too hot.
She would say things like I'm sorry, I just want to stay a little longer—like she had a good feeling that every day was the day her son would come back to her. He would never tear her away from him, but there was a deep part of him that wished Mitsuru would never wake up. After a while, he realized it wasn't because he needed her affection, but because he was afraid how shameful he would have felt if Mitsuru saw him by her side.
He would never confess this. Instead, he always replied with: We'll stay as long as you'd like—usually coupled with reheated coffee from the hospital cafeteria. They would stay for days before going home. He would watch Mitsuru from behind her shoulder. Sometimes she would fall asleep holding his hand, or doing her work at his bedside; but Kitakata could do nothing but watch. Something grew inside of him way back then—all those hours watching. It was guilt: the fear that he had killed her son; that he had aided Mitsuru in a death much slower than he had ever intended.
And, after nearly a year of being together, he fled—but not without hurting her feelings, too—as if one Kusumoto wasn't enough. But maybe it was their unsatisfying goodbye that brought him back to her. It was silly, really, to think that two people with the same loss could ever manage to have a healthy relationship. But, he loved her, even now, though maybe in a different way.
So, with hardly anything to wear (and even less to prove) he arrived at her doorstep a little earlier than what might have been considered polite.
When he entered her home, he could see that everything looked exactly the way he remembered it. Her kitchen opened up to a living room that was hardly lived in. It was modern eight years ago, but now it just looked plain.
The lights were dim and their feet touched under the table—though the distance between them felt greater than ever. Reiko was across from him, with tired eyes and a tight smile, running her finger over the rim of a lipstick-stained wine glass.
"How did you know I used to drink this stuff in college?" She was avoiding a question he asked earlier—about what the occasion was; what they could possibly be celebrating. Getting away with it? He would hardly assume that. It had only been a day.
"You know, I have my ways," Kuwana answered. He didn't. It was the cheapest wine he could find that wasn't in a cardboard box. Not his safest choice, but the one he could afford.
"Sorry, I ended up ordering takeout tonight." Reiko picked at her food. Neither of them had hardly eaten. "I was going to cook, but I couldn't stand holding a knife."
"It's alright," he said. "I didn't come here for the food."
"So why did you?"
The answer was obvious. "Because you asked me to."
Reiko scoffed. "So you'll just do anything I ask you to?"
"Haven't I made that clear enough?"
"Is there anything else you want to make clear?" She teased. But she could see that he was upset; like he could cry at any second. Reiko had to be gentle with him now—she had killed enough men in her life.
"I just want to make sure you're okay," he mustered. "I can't ask you for anything else."
"Good, then I won't ask you for anything either."
They played the quiet game with each other again—occasionally puncturing their awkward silence with even more awkward questions. There was no room to talk about their lives—what they had done without each other for eight years. Because eventually—as they picked at their empty plates and finished off the acidic bottle of wine Kuwana brought—Reiko had to get something off her chest.
"I don't regret it," she said sharply. It was not the wine speaking. "It's going to bring him back."
"An eye for an eye?" Kuwana guessed.
"No, it's more complicated than that." Reiko shook her head like a child. It made her dizzy. "Good or bad—I know what I've done. Killing Kawai was my only choice; it was the only thing I hadn't tried yet..." She raised her voice. "...You know how much I tried getting him back! No matter how much karma I tried to accumulate, it was never enough. Why else would I do something like that?"
He wasn't sure how to answer. It was completely different from hers. "I did it for justice."
"I don't care about justice anymore." Her voice was low and wavering. "I just want my son back."
Kuwana reached for her hand hesitantly, and she received it with a soft squeeze.
He had something to confess; something he thought about while cleaning the rental and scrubbing his shoes: that the suffering he felt from killing another was something he deserved—that it was something he had to do again.
He wouldn't just atone for Mitsuru, but for Reiko, too. Maybe she was right in thinking that killing Kawai would bring Mitsuru back to her; and maybe he could end her pain by doing the same.
He wouldn't confess this, either. No matter how much he thought about it.
"I do too," he finally said. And he meant it this time, because their relationship was over. He could only love her from afar in his own complicated way.
He was sure she did not feel the same—even with her hands cupping his cheeks at the entryway when they said their final goodbyes.
Her thumb ran over the bruise around his eye. He was not a fighter—she told him this—not even after the night before. Her other hand tugged at his collared shirt. She could tell he was trying to be the man he used to be, but there was no going back, not for either of them. But she didn't want that man anymore.
He looked tired—stretched thin from the mountain of work he had done the night before. And old. Age didn't suit the man she knew before, but it did suit Kuwana. The wrinkles under his eyes and tiny grey hairs around his mouth were not something Reiko ever expected to see.
"Back then..." he started. He was so vulnerable underneath her. "...I just wanted your attention. If I could convince myself you were keeping me around out of love, I also could convince myself you had forgiven me."
"Well, you have it now."
He shook his head. "I don't need it anymore."
He had wrestled with the guilt of being with her long enough, and she was so cruel to ruin it with a kiss.
"For our sake..." she said, "...I hope I never see you again."
And she meant it that time.