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Summary
Does it make him lesser, that these advances don’t ignite hunger and flattery but revulsion? That the heat curling in his belly isn’t desire but disgust? Or does it make him greater, that he does not stoop, does not prowl, does not take, like a less scrupulous man might?
But what does it matter—lesser, greater—when the result is the same? When he is still here, nursing a drink in the dim fugue of a bar too loud, too young, too dizzying with its perfume of cheap liquor and cheaper thrills. When he is still a man past his prime, not the wolf but in fact seated among them, and though he does not salivate, does not sink his teeth into the softness offered up to him, the very fact of his presence damns him all the same.
Because what else could a man like him be doing here, if not waiting to be fed?
And then there's you.
OR
Desire, when denied, does not disappear. A chance meeting with a stranger becomes an unscratched itch, and Higuruma is nothing if not a man who will torture himself about it.