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“That’s a nice colour.”
The paper under the display is a rich reddish mauve, a mature tone that’s ladylike but not too old. The lipstick’s case is a sleek, black metal bullet, a gold band trims the top of the base. It costs more than a week of groceries. A refined woman who wears silk scarves and smells like something beautiful would use this lipstick. Saejima catches him staring.
“For Yasuko, I mean.” Majima says, turning away and following him down the aisle. They’re here for first aid supplies after they found the bathroom cabinet empty. They have 2000 yen and scraps of change to fix a bloody nose and a black eye between them.
“Right, for her .” Saejima teases. The band-aids are on the lowest shelf, he stoops. “Sure ya don’t got any other ladies in mind when you’re sayin’ that?”
“Shut up.” Majima scoffs. He grabs iodine solution from a higher shelf. “I just think it’d suit her skin tone.”
“Since when didja look at that kinda stuff? You tryin’ to figure out what’ll impress a hostess the next time we go to a club?” Saejima stands. Majima picks up a tube of anti-inflammatory cream. He wonders if the lipstick’s metal would feel as cool as this.
“Why do you care?” He almost snaps the sentence out as they walk to the counter. “It’s not like we’ve got the money to go to one anytime soon.”
Overplayed pop music wafts overhead while the cashier scans their things. “Sorry.” Saejima grumbles, watching the cash register’s display. They have just enough, he slides the money over. “I was just askin’ but I guess ya don’t gotta tell me everything.”
There’s no change. Majima takes the receipt and the items. Saejima is his best friend. They trust and know each other. They’ve said everything that could be thought and spoken and felt by men. But he can’t admit his thoughts to someone who’s like a lover, as a man to another man. They leave.
He feels as if he’s half of who he used to be. He has four walls and a little bathroom all to himself, but this place feels smaller than the gap between Saejima’s mattress and the wall, where he used to shove his own futon. When he looks in the mirror he sees a self that doesn’t feel right. His one eye is dim while the other is gone. He’s still not used to it, things aren’t as far or as close as he thinks they are. When he turns on his side to sleep and the light shines the right way, the big coat hanging by the door looks like someone he remembers. The flicker of that memory sparks a hope, a light in his right eye, that fades into the same empty black of his left when he realises a memory is a memory.
He doesn’t know why he hasn’t cut his hair. He keeps forgetting it’s that long when it clings to his shoulders after a shower. That smug ass old man nagged him about it when it started growing past the bottom of his ears. That’s too scraggly for a fine establishment like the Grand, you don’t even bother styling it, you look more like an underpaid waiter than a proper manager . Actually, he knows why it’s that long. It pisses off the old man.
But last week, he made an offhand comment when he was getting his weekly cut of the club’s profits, Majima’s profits. He stared and squinted. Those ugly wrinkles around his eyes got even deeper than usual.
“Y’know, you’re pretty for a guy. The long hair suits you.” Though the man stood to his blind side, his grin was audible through a thick smoker’s rasp. “Might want to cut it someday though, if it gets too long a customer could mistake you for one of the girls from behind.”
In truth, he likes his hair. He likes how it frames his face when it’s out of the ponytail. He likes feeling his jaw and the space between his lip and nose without bumpy stubble, even if shaving every few days is annoying. When he looks in the mirror, he sees a self that could be right with a touch of colour on the lips, a second eye, less gauntness, a pretty man who could be someone beautiful.
The razor buzzes against his chin as he looks in the mirror. He hates the stringy hair that grazes his bare shoulders and how sharp the edge of his jaw is, even the shape of his own eye in the dark feels too spiky and hard. He could shave it all off, now that’d really piss off that old asshole. But he’d lose what he has, as little as a headful of hair is.
It doesn’t feel right to consider himself as “Majima” anymore. On most days he feels more like a useful thing than a person. Sometimes he barely considers himself human when his skin itches all over just from glimpsing a distorted reflection in a discarded glass. Saejima, does he even deserve to remember his name anymore? If he had made it to the hit that day, then they'd at least both be rotting in jail together or dead. He's the whole reason Majima's still here, toiling away at a life he's not fit for. He misses him, but he’s become someone Saejima wouldn’t remember anymore.
He raises the razor. It buzzes against his ear. Hair grows back. But once it tumbles into the sink, he drops the razor. It hurts to get rid of something that feels right on his wrong self. He cries and wonders if there’d be less sadness if he had a second eye to cry with.
It really is a nice colour. The reddish mauve suits Majima’s complexion and draws attention away from the deep bags under his right eye and the furrowed wrinkle rapidly developing between his brows. He wears it with just about everything in his wardrobe, except for what he has to wear, of course.
The lipstick is the last thing he takes off when he gets home. Heels, false eyelashes and wigs are annoyances he’s always glad to be rid of. Sometimes he’s relieved when he takes off a too-tight thing and can finally breathe properly again, other times he keeps the clothes on so he can’t see the shape of his body underneath it. Changing back to his regular eyepatch bores him, going back to plain flat black feels like a downgrade every time.
It’s hard to put on and take off earrings. He still has to thumb for the little hole in his earlobes every single time, even though he’s had them for two decades. He got pierced with Saejima years ago, back when they were two delinquent teenagers because they thought it’d be cool. They were too cheap to go to a proper piercing salon and thought a needle, some ice and gauze would do the trick. It did not do the trick because one of Saejima’s piercings got infected, swelled up like crazy and closed up after treatment. He didn’t bother re-piercing the closed one, but sometimes he’d put a stud in when Majima wore something.
He never questioned the little gems and dangly bits on some of the earrings. As far as Majima knew, Saejima just thought that was his style. Lipstick wouldn’t have been too far of a jump. But maybe that’s wishful thinking.
He wipes a soaked cotton pad over his cheeks. They look more gaunt and grey without blush.
How many things could he have said back then? Even if those thoughts had become sentences, two decades have passed. Fleeting “maybes” and “somedays” have settled into his mind and become something permanent. This self is allowed to have fun cocktails, whisper gossip with friends and wear whatever the heart desires. Majima has to stick to whisky, sift through reports, wear stuffy suits and sit through hour-long meetings that go nowhere. He can become this self, but the reverse can never happen.
The pad goes over his forehead. Do his pores look bigger? Men shouldn’t care about things like that. He closes his eye, places a new pad over it and lets it sit.
Majima is eccentric. It’s normal for him to run around like a madman and pop up in strange places, but if his “eccentrics” can’t be passed off as mere gags then people would ask questions. If he presents as a woman in any actual capacity, he’d be a laughing stock. It would be more “normal” to hire a bunch of goons to dress up in zombie costumes with him. If he was female, he wouldn’t be the patriarch of his family anymore. Of course, he would still lead it, but his fellow yakuza wouldn’t take him seriously anymore. And besides, he’s old, over 40 now, would it even be worth whatever time he has left if he became someone new?
The makeup remover has probably stayed on for long enough. A long, slow swipe does the trick. There’s a splotch of mascara along the outside of his eye, he dabs at it.
If there was time to change himself, he should’ve done it earlier. When? Should he have started growing out his hair when Saejima did? Or could he have bought a skirt to wear in private instead of his first ever pair of proper dress shoes? But if he had wanted to try back then, before that day, they would’ve been too poor to afford anything nice. He decides that the prickling discomfort he felt back then, if he noticed the breadth of his shoulders or the strange knot he’d get when he saw stubble on his cheeks, was preferable to putting tacky, cheap lipstick on a pig. Of course he couldn’t have changed in Osaka, his boss would’ve put a quick stop to anything that deviated from the image of a proper manager. He sheared off most of his hair after that. It felt like a bad memory was draping itself onto his back and shoulders whenever he took it out of his ponytail. And in all the decades between then and now, somehow there hasn’t been a single right time to change at all. If there wasn’t time then, there wouldn’t be any in the future, so he’s Majima.
He hesitates when it’s time to remove the lipstick. It’s not like it’s difficult to put on or like he’ll run out of this colour soon. But when it’s off, he’s not this self anymore. He’s not really himself when he dresses up, is he? Bright pink, brassy blonde, big rings and bold eyeshadow aren’t “Majima”, nor are they “Goro.” Saejima was the only person who sounded right saying that name. He can’t imagine what Saejima would call him now as he’s half-undressed with a pile of womens’ clothes next to him. When he tries to imagine his voice, it’s like trying to pick out a word from radio static. It’s been far too long.
He wipes the lipstick off. It smears. Goro isn’t a bad name, but it’s male. It doesn’t end in a pretty sound like “na”, “ko”, “ka”, “ki” or “mi.” Gorona, Goroko, Goroka, Goroki, Goromi. None of those sound as pretty as he’d like them to be, but he doesn’t hate Goromi. That would do as a name. But for now, it’s back to Majima.
“Shit, I spilled some sauce.” Majima hisses as he puts his chopsticks down. It spilled in an inconvenient spot, a big splotch on the wrist near the arm of his jacket and on his glove.
Saejima shovels another big mouthful of rice out of the bowl. The restaurant is empty, save for them. The ventilation fan above their grill whirs a low hum.
“Here.” Saejima hands him a napkin. The coals below the grill flare up. The meat sizzles, nearly burnt, he picks it up and eats it.
Majima grumbles appreciatively, dabbing the napkin in water. First, he wipes the sleeve, then he rolls it back. The fan muffles the rustle of leather when he slides the glove off. “How’s the meat?” He asks. “I feel kinda sick after eating all that, it’s like I ate a chunk of lard.”
“ ‘S good.” Saejima shrugs. In truth, he’s grown so used to bland prison food that anything tastes better, even overly sugary sauce that barely masks too-charred pork belly. “Thanks for treatin’ me by the way, this is a hell of a lot nicer than the slop I got in there.”
“I missed ya, man.” Majima shrugs. The sauce is sticky and stubborn, he dips the napkin in his glass again. “Of course I’d treat ya, this has gotta be, what, maybe your twentieth, thirtieth meal you’ve had since you’ve gotten outta jail?”
Saejima shrugs as he chews. “Probably.” He gulps some beer, a bit dribbles down his lip but he wipes it with the back of his hand. “Ya done already? We got a bit more meat on the way, I swear ya used to be able to finish off two-person barbecue platters by yerself.”
“That was years ago, bro, you think I still got that kinda appetite? That shit’s too heavy and fatty for me now.” His jacket’s clean now. He pins the glove onto the table and pulls it taut with two fingers, tapping the stain with the napkin.
“How? It’s the same kinda thing we used to splash out on after a good job.”
“It’s like sugar, I guess. Kids can eat candy until they get a stomach ache but grandmas complain if their tea’s too sweet, tastes change.”
There’s a lot that Saejima hasn’t asked him about but there’s not enough time to have a proper conversation. He’s going up to some prison up north in Hokkaido to serve out the remainder of his sentence tomorrow. It’d be cruel to dump two decades of the past and let them fester for however much longer he’s got to be in jail for. Of course they’ve covered the basics, “what happened to your eye”, “why are you wearing that”, “are we still a thing”, “can we meet up when I’m out”, it feels like their relationship could easily get back to how it used to be despite everything that happened.
“What’s that?” Saejima points with his chopsticks.
It’s Majima’s thumb, which is pinning down the glove, its nail directly facing him. There’s red nail polish he forgot to clean off from a few days ago. He always wore gloves.
“Huh, it’s some chili flake,” he repositions the glove and pulls his hand away behind a small bowl. “It probably just dropped off my plate.” Majima’s plate is empty.
A server puts a new plate of meat on the table. “Thanks.” Saejima nods at her and puts some on the grill.
Did she see it too? The polish started chipping, it doesn’t cover his nail entirely, it’s a vague enough small splotch that it could look like a chili flake from far away. But is it shaped enough like one? Is it too bright red to pass as food? Maybe it’s too big to be a flake, could it be a sliver of meat? Not long or thin enough, besides, who would dump raw meat on their plate and have it fall on their hand? Goromi wears nail polish. Majima is having dinner with Saejima.
Majima blinks calmly as his glove is finally clean. He tugs it on hastily. The leather makes him feel itchy, sweaty, even though it felt fine a minute ago. The itch is all over him. It’s more than itchiness. It’s like scraping. Hot and cold metal scraping the inside of his chest and stomach and the length of his bones down to his feet.
He’s used to itching. If he pushes through tingles of discomfort and unease, they fade. But the itching never goes away.
“Hey, you good?” Saejima’s voice is soft and concerned, he’s worried. To Majima, it sounds like a sharp knife twisting into the squishing itch of his brain. He doesn’t need pity on their last night together for… When will they see each other again?
“The meat’s burnin’,” Majima waves at the grill. It’s smoking. “Some smoke got into my eye, it’s nothing.”
“You sure?” Saejima drops a piece of meat onto Majima’s plate, then onto his own.
“I’m gonna miss you.” Majima wipes a tear away. He doesn’t know if it’s from how he feels or actually the smoke. “How long are ya gonna be away again?”
“Three years, maybe two if I behave well.” Saejima’s voice is still calm. It shouldn’t be, who’s calm when they’re going back to jail?
“What if things change while you’re gone?” He can’t speak about himself, it’d be selfish to make Saejima worry about his own worries. He shuts himself up by eating the grilled meat. It’s like kitchen grease down a clogged sink. “Like what if the Tojo clan actually falls apart?”
“Even if that happened, you’d still be around.”
“But what if something happens to me?” There he goes. He’s selfish, he keeps things he should say to himself.
“As long as you’re still breathin’, I’ll come back to ya, I promise.” Saejima puts down his chopsticks and looks him in the eye. “I won’t die in there. I survived a quarter of a century in the slammer, I can tough it out for a lil’ longer.”
“What if I’m different then?”
“How?” Saejima scoffs and gives him an amused smile. “You’re the same guy I knew back then and you’re the same now, even if you’re missin’ an eye. Hell, even if you ‘change’ in some kinda way I’m not gettin’, you’re still you. That’s not gonna change how I feel or what we’ve got.”
Majima is still Majima. Saejima will always see him as that, even if things change. Saejima loves Majima. He has to be Majima. Goromi isn’t him, no matter how badly he wants it.
“I’ll try my hardest to stay the same.”
“You don’t have to.” Their eyes meet. “I love ya, even if ya dye yer hair, get sick, lose another eye or whatever else you’re scared of happenin’.” Majima loves Saejima. Goromi could love him someday too.
They’re in the dark. After moving here, there and elsewhere, he doesn’t really reach for them anymore. If he did want them, he’d get asked why he’s knee deep in a pile of boxes and old clothes. But being flashy, bold and sexy doesn’t suit him anymore. He’s starting to get lines on his neck and the skin sags when he pinches the underside of his upper arm. He’s almost eligible for senior discounts.
However, moving companies don’t offer senior discounts. Not even when you’re moving out from a city into some nameless seaside town. So he and Saejima are clearing their house of every piece of their lives. A van can only fit so much, they’ve had to throw out old knick-knacks and sell things like the air fryer and dehumidifier. Their storage closet’s mostly empty now, save for the few forgotten boxes they said they’d go through together.
They’re out now, in the middle of a pile. The box on top is lifted off and opened. It’s full of CDs and VHS tapes. Most of those are thrown out. They keep a box set of their favourite show and a handful of movies. Even a remote village probably has the internet these days.
Now they’re the box on top of the pile. Saejima lifts it with ease. “Ya know what’s in this?” he grunts as he puts it down.
“Nah,” Majima shakes his head. “Go ahead and open it.”
They’re revealed. The box has old dresses that used to fit like a second skin, spare wigs, makeup that’s past its prime, necklaces that have tangled into knots and other things that belong to a woman. No women live here.
Majima feels strange. Since he started living with Saejima, he hasn’t been able to dress up or go out like that at all. He had to throw away every scrap of femininity that couldn’t fit into a box before they moved in together. The familiar perfume and comforting clothes feel foreign now. He had honestly forgotten about them, he thought this stuff had been thrown away ages ago. The relief he should feel isn’t there. There’s shame. A man shouldn’t see another man own these things.
“What’s this?” Saejima asks. There’s no judgement in his tone.
“Junk.” Majima closes up the box and kicks it to the side. “It’s a buncha useless shit girls left over at mine, I thought I’d get around to returnin’ them someday, just throw it out.”
“Yeah right, you’ve gotta have some kind of early stage Alzheimer's to forget returnin’ this much stuff.” Saejima teases.
“Just throw it out.”
The men stare at the box. Majima knows Saejima is curious but is too polite to ask any questions. Majima knows he’ll throw it away without question if told to, he respects Majima enough to do that. But they probably don’t have enough space for it in the van.
Majima realises no time is right. There never will be a right time.
“You sure ya don’t wanna go through it one last time?” Saejima suggests. “Just in case ya forgot anything of yers in there?”
“...Sure.”
They open the box together. Majima sits down and sifts through. There’s less than he expected, the box is rather small. Most of the things in there aren’t worth keeping anyways, they’re broken, torn or otherwise unusable. All he manages to salvage are a wig, a few dresses and a handful of accessories and makeup.
“These are mine.” Majima says. There’s no questioning ownership when he’s home alone or wearing things out in public, but this is the first time he’s claimed these as things he owns, not just a mere part he can take on and off.
“When’d you get them?” Saejima asks, sitting as well. “I don’t remember ya havin’ anything like this.”
“A while ago.” Majima feels ashamed. These things are so easy to say. “They’re a decade, maybe fifteen years old.”
“Why’d ya buy ‘em?”
This is hard to say. He can trust Saejima as much as he trusts himself. Saejima wouldn’t call him a freak, a pervert or a slur, but that’s how Majima views her during his worst moments.
“I like wearing them.”
“How?” Saejima stares at a necklace. “As like a crossdressin’ thing, because ya like it or something else?”
Majima laughs when he hears the last bit. Saejima really does care, even now he’s doing his best to not offend.
“Something else.” He picks up the necklace. It’s a gold chain with three glass pendants on it. Cheap, shiny, pretty, it’s one of his favourites. “I don’t like feeling like a guy.”
“Well,” he fidgets with the necklace’s clasp. “It’s not that I hate it like I hate shitty beer or my allergies or people who abuse animals, but it’s always felt… Wrong.”
“How’s it feel wrong? Is it like hatin’ how tall you are or yer face or wantin’ to be pretty?”
“Sort of, yeah,” Saejima’s taking this a lot better than he was expecting. “It’s all of that. Most of the time when I think about bein’ a guy, it’s like I’m wearin’ a shirt that’s too tight. It technically fits but it doesn’t feel right at all. I mean, I don’t really wear shirts, but ya get what I mean.”
“How come ya didn’t tell me earlier?” Majima looks up. Saejima looks curious but there’s a bit of hurting to his stoic face too.
“I didn’t want to.” That’s not quite right.
“It didn’t feel like the right time.” A half honest statement. There never was a right time. Even now, he’s wondering if he should’ve opened that box at all. It feels wrong, uncomfortable to say these things, yet so easy to put words to decades-old thoughts.
“I can’t be that.” This feels true to Majima. “Even if I want to be a woman, everyone sees me as a guy. No matter what I wear, if I grow my hair out, get surgery or whatever, nobody’s gonna think I’m female. I’m too tall, my shoulders are too wide, and my face doesn’t have the shape I want.”
“Besides, I’m Majima, the ‘Mad Dog of Shimano’.” Majima raises his hands and does air quotes, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “That name meant something before the Tojo and Omi got dissolved, y’know? I was the batshit crazy strong guy nobody could predict, that was my thing. I wouldn’t be Majima anymore if I was a woman, even that’d be too crazy for anyone to see comin’.”
“Why would it matter if you’re female?” Saejima asks. “You’d still be Majima, yer name wouldn’t change.”
“Ya think any of the other patriarchs would actually respect me if I was a woman?” Saejima doesn’t answer. “Of course not! Even if Daigo was hammerin’ in the fact I was one, you think they’d respect that if he wasn’t around? Hell, I dunno if my own guys would even respect me. Sure, they’d call me ‘nee-san’ instead of ‘nii-san’ to my face, but I bet they’d talk shit behind my back.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t.” Saejima shakes his head. “Look, I dunno about the big-shots, but all yer guys would’ve respected it if ya were a woman. Nishida, Minami, all of ‘em, they don’t listen to ya just because you’re a guy or because you’ve got some nickname. You’re a good leader, ya don’t treat them like faceless goons and ya respect them, I bet they would’ve knocked the teeth clean outta anyone who called you ‘sir’ instead of ‘ma’am’.”
“But what about you?”
“What about me?” Saejima looks confused. Then he realises. “Did ya think I’d stop lovin’ you or that we’d stop bein’ together if ya were a woman?”
“Yeah.” Majima puts the necklace down.
“Shit, I-” Saejima stammers and scoots to sit next to him. He puts an arm around Majima’s shoulder and pulls him into a hug. “Did I say anything to make ya think that? Did ya stop dressin’ up and thinkin’ about bein’ a woman when I got out, just because of me?”
Majima returns the hug. “You didn’t do anything.” he murmurs into the broad expanse of his lover’s body.
“I would’ve if ya told me earlier,” Saejima’s grip grows tight. He’s almost crushing Majima. Majima can feel his body shake against his. “I would’ve bought ya dresses, helped ya with surgery, anything ya asked for, even if it meant that I’d be eatin’ nothing but plain rice for a year.”
“But I’d be a woman.” Majima says. He’s shaking too. “I wouldn’t even be a proper one, people would look at me and they’d know I wasn’t born one. It’s hard enough that we’re both guys, why would I go and change myself if it made it even harder for ya to be with me?”
“Listen, this is sappy as shit, but I love ya, Majima. More than anything, anyone else, I don’t care what ya think I’d think, it’s never gonna change how I feel.” Saejima’s chest shakes. He buries his face into Majima’s shoulder. Majima feels a wet spot grow on his sleeve.
“I think ya’d be the prettiest lady in the world. I’d be proud to call ya my woman and treat ya like one, no matter what anyone says.” The wet spot grows into a patch. Majima’s crying too, right into Saejima.
They’re used to crying, laughing, shouting, sharing every feeling they have. Neither of them have cried this much in years. It aches in a place deep down. There never will be a right time to talk about this, it will always hurt, but pain will always fade.
“Ya want me to start callin’ you she, her, like, talk to ya like a woman?” Saejima says through a sniffle as his crying lessens.
“Ya don’t have to. I’m too old to change, it wouldn’t be worth it.” Majima hates how much relief he feels when Saejima says “she.”
“But it’d make ya happy, right? It’d make ya comfortable?” Majima nods.
“You’re my girlfriend. I love ya.” This makes Majima tear up all over again. He’s used to being a boyfriend, sometimes a lover, but it feels so right to hear this.
“I love you too.” For a moment, the accent drops and it feels like all those years haven’t passed at all.
“You wanna dress up again?” Saejima offers, prying himself off Majima. “I’ll go through our stuff again for anything we can toss out to make room for yer clothes.”
“Ya don’t have to.” Majima stares at the box. “It’s all old anyways, not worth keepin’.”
“So ya want a new wardrobe, that’s what I’m hearin’.”
“I doubt the village is gonna have a mall.” Majima laughs at Saejima’s comment. “But… Yeah. Maybe one last time, in case I change my mind.”
It’s awkward dressing up. Even though Saejima’s seen him in various states of undress thousands of times, it’s never been for something so vulnerable. Besides, they’re both getting old. They’re not as young and strong as they used to be, soft fat has started settling around his stomach and his chest isn’t as firm as it was. At least his feet are the same and his legs are still strong, the fishnets and shoes feel so right to wear. It’s a chore to zip up his favourite dress, a short, sleeveless custom pink snake-print one, and the belt that comes with it is a bit tighter than it used to be. Saejima watches silently as Majima pulls on the wig and does her makeup. He’s a bit awestruck by how fluently Majima does it, the hard yet graceful angles of her face soften into a feminine beauty with what seems like just a few brush strokes.
“This outfit doesn’t even suit me anymore.” Majima grumbles, studying himself in the mirror.
“I think it does. Ya look sexy.” Saejima stands next to Majima, eyes glued to her reflection.
“Of course ya do,” Majima scoffs, turning to the side. He hates how the dress strains a bit when he moves, he really should lose some weight. “You’re just bein’ nice.”
“Nah, you’re gorgeous.” Saejima hugs her from behind, meeting his reflection’s gaze before looking at Majima’s reflection. He smiles.
“You’re just sayin’ that because ya don’t wanna hurt my feelings.” Even now, Majima is still reluctant to accept a compliment. It feels strange to hear that Saejima likes him as her, in the gaudiest, loudest outfit she owned.
“Seriously, you’re hot like this!” Saejima’s hands go to her sides and squeeze. “Look at yer waist, it’s small and perfect for holdin’.”
“Your legs are nice and long too, ya look way too good in heels.” Saejima chuckles. “I’d be stumblin’ over myself if I tried walkin’ in those, but ya walk like a natural in ‘em, like some model on a runway.”
“Yer face is beautiful too, not that the rest of you isn’t already amazing,” Saejima kisses Majima’s cheek and a natural flush appears beneath her pink blush. “I’d be smilin’ like a damn fool if I had a lady like you hangin’ off my arm if we went out together.”
“You’d want to be seen with me even if I’m like this?” Majima frowns. What was he thinking when he bought this wig? It’s way too bright for his skin, a less saturated blonde would suit him way better.
“Why not?” Saejima kisses her other cheek. “I love ya, I wouldn’t be ashamed or scared of takin’ ya out, we’ve been together for decades as boyfri- Sorry, wrong, uh, word.”
“Nah, don’t worry,” Majima laughs, understanding what he meant. “I get what ya mean. I love ya too.”
“Would ya take me out like this even in the village?” Majima asks. Maybe they’d be able to buy clothes and makeup there, they’d just have to wait ages to get it delivered. With Saejima, maybe he’d feel brave enough to go out like he used to.
“Hell yeah, I would. You’d be the prettiest woman there, I guarantee it.” Saejima pulls away and stands in front of Majima. He kisses her. There’s lipstick on his lips when the kiss ends. It’s a pretty reddish mauve.
“Bet I’d make ya feel like the luckiest man in that whole ghost town.” Saejima laughs heartily.
“Nah, I’d feel like the luckiest man in the whole world. I’m honored to call ya my woman…” Saejima trails off. “Sorry to ruin the mood, but what do ya want me to call ya? Still Majima? Or something else?”
“Call me Goromi.” She says. Goromi looks up at Saejima. She's a woman and she's happy.