Zaregoto

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3

My world is the coolest.

Rokumeikan Private University, located in Kinugasa, in Kita

Ward of Kyoto, has a total of three dining halls. Of the three,

the Zonshinkan Chika Dining Hall (lovingly abbreviated to

“Zonchi”) was thought to be the most lively. This was

probably because it had an extensive menu, and it was right

next door to the co-op bookstore.

That day, since I had no class during second period, I went

straight to the Zonshinkan Chika after first period. I’d had no

breakfast that morning—I’d accidentally overslept by a whole

hour—so I thought I might grab an early lunch.

“Man, it’s empty at this hour. Risky business,” I mumbled

to myself, doubting all the while that I was using the phrase

“risky business” correctly. I picked up a tray.

Now, what to eat?

I’m no foodie, so usually I just eat whatever without much

of a fuss. Be it spicy or sweet, I say bring it on. But lately

things had been just a little different.

It was only a month ago that I’d spent a hell of a week in a

place where I’d been served three gourmet meals a day.

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Now, as an aftereffect, my tongue was still stuck in Snootyville.

It had been a whole month since anything had made me

say, “Wow, this is good.” Every time I ate some-thing, it

always felt like something was missing, like some key ingredient

was lacking.

It wasn’t enough of a problem to merit being called a problem,

but I sure was sick of feeling that way. As far as solutions,

I had already thought of two.

The first was fairly simple: Just eat tasty food.

“Can’t hope for that to happen in a school dining hall.”

But that first suggestion was impossible to follow. Not, anyway,

without heading back to that strange, isolated little island.

I won’t say I was totally against the idea, but I certainly

had my reservations.

“So that’s no good.”

Yes, I was talking to myself.

This left one other possible measure, and it was a strongarm

tactic. It was the “beat the child who doesn’t listen” tactic.

Most problems in the world are solved by either giving or

taking.

I made my way to the donburi corner and placed an order.

“Excuse me. Large kimchee bowl, please. No rice.”

The lunch lady gave me a quizzical expression and said,

“That’s just kimchee, son,” but she dished it out all the same.

As if it were nothing, she plopped it in front of me, displaying

an admirable degree of professionalism.

A big, heaping, mountainous bowl of kimchee. I doubt

there was a single tongue in this world tough enough to chow

all that down and still preserve its sense of taste. I nodded

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with satisfaction, placed the bowl on my tray, and settled the

bill.

The dining hall was so empty that I could hardly decide

where to sit. In another hour, the place would be filled up

with students who had cut out of second period early. I was

never a fan of crowds, so I considered myself under a time

limit. I took a seat in the corner.

“Down the hatch,” I muttered, and took the first bite. . . .

This. Was. Awful.

I really had to eat a whole bowl of this stuff? Wasn’t this

what was commonly known as suicidal behavior? What cruel

fate had brought me to this pass? What had I done?

“Is this divine retribution?”

I guess they also say reap what you sow.

From then on, I wielded my chopsticks in silence. If I kept

on talking to myself, people would start thinking I was a

weirdo. And besides, it’s poor table manners to talk while

you’re eating.

And then, just as I hit my limit—my entire head had gone

numb from the tip of the tongue up, I didn’t know what the

hell I was doing, or, for that matter, who I was, or what the

word who meant, and even what the word meant meant . . .

“Yo.”

She sat in the chair across from me.

“Pull that tray back a little, will you?” she said. Then she

pushed my tray toward me and placed her own tray in the

newly opened space. Her tray was laden with a plate of

spaghetti carbonara, some tuna-and-kelp salad, and a bonus

fruit dessert for a grand total of three courses.

Oh, how bourgeois.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 6

I looked to my right, then to my left. The dining hall was

empty as ever. You could practically call it deserted. So why

had she decided to eat her spaghetti directly across from me?

Probably some kind of dare.

“Oh my God, what is that?! It’s all kimchee!” she exclaimed

at the shocking sight of my lunch. “Wow! You’re

eating a whole entire bowl of kimchee!”

She was wide-eyed, her hands up in the air like she was doing

a banzai cheer. Maybe that was what she was doing, or maybe

she was surrendering. There was also the possibility that she

was just Muslim. Any of these was fine by me, but in reality,

she was probably just surprised.

Her shoulder-length hair had a reddish tint and was done

up in a sort of bob. Her clothes were nothing out of the

ordinary. They were ultra-plain, following the style of so

much of the Rokumeikan student body. All of a sudden, when

she sat down, she seemed much shorter—but then I realized

most of her height had come from her extra-tall London

boots.

She had a young face, so I couldn’t tell if she was my senior

or a peer. Judging by her demeanor alone, it would have

seemed plausible that she was my junior, except that being

that I was a freshman, that was pretty much impossible.

“Hey. Y’know, if you don’t respond, I’ll get lonely and

stuff.” She stared at me with puppy-dog eyes.

“Right,” I finally said. “Who are you?”

I was pretty sure this was our first encounter. But I’d

learned one thing in the past month: This weird little pocket

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 7

of space known as a “university” had an unusually large

number of people who were friendly and genuine. These

strange people would strike up conversations with you like

you had been their close friend for the past ten years—even if

you had never seen them before in your life. For a guy like me

who’s bad at even remembering personal encounters, this made

things difficult from time to time.

And surely this girl was another one of those types. Fearing

the hassle of having to deal with a club invitation or,

worse, some religious thing, I went ahead and posed the above

question.

Doing so launched her into an over-the-top shocked pose.

"Hwa?!” she said. “Oh my God! You mean you forgot? You’ve

forgotten? You freaking forgot?! Ikkun, that’s so cold!”

Huh.

Judging from her reaction, it seemed this was not our first

encounter.

“Ohhh. I am shocked. But what are you gonna do, right?

Yeah, nothing, I guess. You’ve just got a bad memory after all,

right? Well, might as well introduce myself again.” She flashed

both hands at me and gave a full-faced grin. “I’m Aoii

Mikoko!”

This might prove to be a painful encounter.

Whether it was our first encounter or not, this was, to be

sure, my first impression of Aoii Mikoko.

Her story was simple. Mikoko-chan and I were classmates.

Not only were we taking the same core subjects, but we were

also in the same foreign-language class. We had met face-to-

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 8

face a number of times, and were in the same group for the

class training camp before Golden Week. We had even been

paired up before in English class.

“Man . . . from this conversation alone, I must seem like a

total nut for not remembering you.”

“I think you are a total nut!” She laughed lightheartedly.

To be able to laugh so cheerfully after someone had entirely

forgotten her existence took a special kind of vacuousness. I

figured she was probably a pretty nice girl after all.

“Normally, I’d find it pretty disturbing that you forgot me

like that. Or rather, I’d be pissed. But that’s just how you are,

right? Like, you don’t forget the stuff that’s really important,

but you forget normal stuff,” she said.

“Well, I can’t argue with that.”

She was exactly right. One time I had even forgotten if I

was right- or left-handed, and found myself in quite a bind

when I actually tried to sit down and have a meal. To top it all

off, when all was said and done, I turned out to be ambidextrous.

"Okay, and what’s happening with you?” I asked. “Why

aren’t you in class?”

“Class? Well, the thing about that is . . .”

For some reason she seemed abnormally happy. But I got

the feeling that “abnormally happy” was her default setting.

To be honest, even though I’d seen her before, I still could not

remember what she was like normally. But either way, it was

hard to be put off by this smiley-faced girl.

“I’m playing hooky.”

“Freshmen really ought to go to class,” I said.

“Aw, come on, it’s boring. Totally boring. What was it

again? Oh, yeah, my economics class. It’s just a nonstop

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 9

stream of jargon. And it’s like a math class. I’m a humanities

person! And you’re skipping class too!”

“I don’t have a class right now.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Fridays I only have a first period and a fifth period.”

She flung her hands wildly in the air again. “Doesn’t that kind

of suck? That’s like six hours of boredom.”

“Boredom isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“Hm, I thought boredom was practically the definition of

‘a bad thing.’ Different strokes, I guess.” She began winding

the spaghetti around her fork as she spoke. Unable to successfully

get it all on the utensil, it soon became a matter of

trial and error. I reckoned it would be awhile before the food

actually reached her mouth. Before I knew it, she had put the

fork down and switched to chopsticks. So much for stick-toitiveness.

“Say . . .” I said.

“Hm? What-what?”

"There are tons of open seats.”

“Yeah, for real. I think this place will fill up pretty soon,

though,” she said.

“But it’s empty now, right?”

“You said it. Something wrong with that?"

“I wanna eat alone, so let’s move along now, honey,” I

wanted to say. But then I saw her smile—a vulnerable smile

that showed she couldn’t possibly have imagined she was

about to be completely rejected—even I had to take pity.

“Nah . . . it’s nothing.”

“Hm? You’re a weird guy.” She gave me the pouty lips.

“Ah, but I guess if you weren’t weird, you wouldn’t be you.

Weirdness is like your identity, right?”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 1 0

I couldn’t help but feel like I was being inadvertently

insulted. But then again, it wasn’t as bad as completely

forgetting someone you had been regularly interacting with for

a whole month. So I swept the notion aside and switched my

focus back to the kimchee.

“Ikkun, you’re a kimchee fan?”

“Nah, not particularly.”

“But that’s a ton of kimchee. Not even Koreans eat that

much in one sitting.”

“Well, I have my reasons,” I said as I crammed some

kimchee into my mouth. More than half of it still remained in

my bowl. “Not very interesting ones, but still.”

“Reasons?”

“Try to figure it out yourself first.”

“Huh? Oh, right. . . okay.” Mikoko-chan crossed her arms

and began to contemplate my rationale. Of course, figuring

what circumstances could possibly require my eating an entire

bowl of kimchee wasn’t exactly easy. After just a few

moments of pondering, she let her arms drop back down

apathetically. She really was quick to throw in the towel.

“Oh, yeah, by the way, I had a question for you. I thought

this was a good opportunity to ask you. May I?”

“Uh, sure.”

Wasn’t the phrase “a good opportunity” usually used for

something that came up by chance? As far as I knew, Mikokochan

had come here and sat down in front of me of her own

volition.

Or maybe that was beside the point.

She was wearing the same smile when she posed her

question. “Ikkun, you know how you didn’t come to school

for a while in the beginning of April? Why was that?”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 1 1

“Uh . . .” My chopsticks stopped moving. The bits of kimchee

they held plopped back into the bowl. “Uh, well . . .”

I must have had a troubled look on my face, because

Mikoko-chan was quick to start waving her hands around

frantically and say, “Oh, if it’s hard to talk about it, don’t

worry. I was just wondering, that’s all. It’s like, Unsolved Mysteries

Featuring Mikoko-chan.”

“No, it’s not hard to talk about. It’s a simple story, really.

I was just on a vacation. For about a week.”

“Vacation?” She blinked at me like a little forest animal.

Her expressions were also easy to read. It made it easy for me

to talk to her—she was a great listener.

“Vacation? Where’d you go?" she asked again.

“Out to some deserted island in the Sea of Japan, kind of

by accident.”

“By accident?”

“Yeah. A big accident. Anyway, that’s how I got myself

into this kimchee-eating situation.”

She scratched her head, which was probably a natural response.

But I am a fundamentally lazy person, so I couldn’t

be bothered to explain all the details. Or rather, just how the

hell would I?

“Anyway, just a vacation. Nothing particularly deep.”

“Huh. You don’t say.”

“What did you think it was?”

“Oh, nothing . . .” She blushed a bit. “I just thought maybe,

uh, like you hurt yourself somehow and had an extended

stay at the hospital or something.”

How and why such an idea would occur to her was a mystery

to me, but then again, for someone to suddenly take a

week off just after entering a university, there weren’t really

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 1 2

any other plausible explanations that came to mind. At the

very least, it was a more likely explanation than “I was just on

a vacation.”

“I see. Sort of like a delayed graduation trip.”

“Yeah, something like that. I couldn’t get a reservation, so

it ended up eating into April,” I said with a shrug, but of

course the real facts were totally different. The very idea that I

had “graduated from school” was something I hadn’t

experienced since elementary school. I’d certainly never been

on a “graduation trip.” But all of the circumstances surrounding

what had happened would have required a pointlessly

long explanation, and it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing

I wanted to talk about at length anyway, so I just went with

her interpretation.

“Hmm . . .” She gave a sort of half-convinced expression.

“So did you go alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Gotcha.” And then, just like that, the cheerful smile was

back. It was as if all confusion had been cleared. It was like she

really didn’t put on any façades. She was so straightforward

with her emotions that I almost envied her.

Well . . .

Not really.

“So, Mikoko-chan . . . Why are you really here?”

“Huh?”

“You have something to say, I assume? I mean, considering

you came and sat right here when there’s a whole roomful

of empty chairs.”

“Huh.” She narrowed her eyes and lowered her gaze a bit,

down to my chest. “So I can’t sit with you unless I’ve got

something specific to say to you?”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 1 3

“Huh?” This time it was my turn to scratch my head.

She continued talking in the meantime. "I mean . . . am I

bothering you? I just saw you when I was walking by, so I

thought maybe we could eat together.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

So she’d just wanted someone to eat with. I was the type

who preferred doing personal things, like eating, alone, but

there were plenty of people who viewed mealtime and talk

time as one and the same. Surely Mikoko-chan was one of

them. But having unexpectedly decided to skip class, she

couldn’t find a friend to eat with, so she went ahead and

struck up a conversation with the first acquaintance she

happened to see—me.

“Well, if that’s all it is, it’s fine by me,” I assured her.

“Thanks. That’s a relief. I don’t know what I would’ve

done if you had said no.”

“You don’t?”

“Hm? Yeah. Maybe something like this,” she said, pretending

to hold the edges of her tray in both hands. Then she

twisted her wrists in a sudden cracking motion. “Like that.”

“I see . . .” Even if she was just joking, I was a little relieved

I had refrained from saying no. I wouldn’t have put

such a reaction past her, in reality. Someone who expressed

happiness so freely might express anger just as freely.

“Well, I guess I’m free anyway. As long as you just want to

talk,” I said.

"Thanks.”

“So what are we talking about?”

“Oh, umm . . .”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 1 4

As I prompted her onward, she began anxiously scraping

her chopsticks together. She was probably trying to think of a

topic.

I may have forgotten who she was, but surely in the past

month it seemed like she’d at least managed to grasp the surface

of my personality. So just what kind of topic would she

broach with me? Me, who was so ignorant, and so lacking in

common sense, that I used to think soccer was baseball played

with your feet? I was strangely interested to find out, as if I

were watching it happen to someone else.

She clapped her hands as if she had suddenly thought of

something. “Don’t you think the world’s gone crazy?” she said.

“Huh? In what way?”

“I mean . . . er, you know, the prowler. Even you must

know about it.”

Even me.

Even me—the phrase was pretty enraging. Except that it

happened that I had no idea who the hell “the prowler” was.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot! Of course I know!” An

angry outburst like that would have been fairly justified, but

"Shut up! How the hell am I supposed to know what that is,

stupid?!” just didn’t have the same ring of validity to it.

“Hm? What’s wrong, Ikkun?” she asked.

“Ah, nothing. What’s ‘the prowler’?”

Obviously I wasn’t looking for the dictionary definition,

one who prowls. She gawked at me in amazement.

"You’re kidding, right? Is this a joke? Ikkun, it’s been all

over the news. There’s no way you could have missed this

if you live in Kyoto.”

“There’s no TV in my house, and I don’t get the paper

either.”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 1 5

"What about the Internet?”

“Oh, I don’t have a computer. Don’t really use the ones on

campus much either.”

"Oh my God, Ikkun is a caveman!” she said, sounding almost

impressed in a way. “Is it some sort of ethical policy?”

“Maybe it is, in a sense. How do I put it . . . I don’t like

having possessions.”

“Cooool! You’re like an ancient philosopher! Wow!” She

clapped her hands with joy. I seriously doubted I would have

gotten the same reaction if she knew it was actually for a

practical—and completely lame—reason: My room was just

too small.

I mean, newspapers take up a lot of space.

“When you say ‘if you live in Kyoto,’ do you mean this

‘prowler’ thing is going on here?”

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s made a pretty big splash. ‘Panic in

the Old Capital!’ Some places have even called off field trips.”

“Wow . . . too bad for them.”

“Six people have been murdered! And it’s still going on

right now! With no known suspects!” She had become all riled

up, and there was a hint of excitement in her voice. “He stabs

them with a knife and then flings their guts all around and

stuff! Freaky, huh?”

“. . .”

Let’s set aside the fact that we were in the middle of

eating. After all, I was partly responsible for the fact that the

conversation had veered in this direction. But what did it say

of this girl that she was able to discuss the murder of others

with such absolute glee?

It’s scary how detached people can become.

“Six people, huh? Is that a lot?”

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“Yeah it’s a lot! It’s a hell of a lot!” She almost sounded

boastful in a way, as if she were the one doing the killing.

“Maybe not overseas, but serial killings are rare in Japan! It’s

become quite a sensation, you know.”

“Huh. So that’s why there are patrol cars circling around all

over the place.”

“Yeah. There are people from the mobile police force in

Shinkyôgoku. Makes me think of the Gion Festival.” She

chuckled to herself for some reason.

“Wow, go figure. I didn’t know anything about this.”

As I nodded along with her explanation, somehow I knew

Kunagisa would definitely get a kick out of this. Kunagisa, for

those new to my story, is the short version of Kunagisa Tomo,

one of my few friends. That is to say, my only friend. Kunagisa

Tomo was a nineteen-year-old electronic and mechanical engineering

professional shut-in of the mysterious variety, with

blue hair and a passionate interest in collecting information on

just these types of incidents.

Unlike me, she wasn’t constantly in the dark about what

was going on in the world. In fact, she was essentially an

information-collecting expert, and she was probably already

well aware of this prowler case without my having to say anything

about it. In fact, she was probably already taking action.

“So when did it start?”

“Around the beginning of May, maybe? I think that’s right.

Why?”

“Oh, I was just asking.”

I put the last piece of kimchee in my mouth. My tongue,

or rather the entire inside of my mouth, was completely

mangled. I would probably never take food for granted or say

"this tastes bad” again. If you thought about it, the fact that a

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 1 7

single bowl of kimchee could so easily destroy all my principles

didn’t say much for my taste buds. Or maybe it was more

of a stomach issue.

“Well, I’m done. See you again sometime.” I put down my

chopsticks and began to get up from my seat.

"Ah! Hold on! Hold on, will you?! Where are you going?!”

Mikoko scrambled to stop me. “Wait a minute, Ikkun!”

“What do you mean, Where am I going’? I’m finished

eating so I figured maybe I’d drop by the bookstore.”

"I’m not done!” I took a look at her tray. Indeed, more than

half of her food was left.

"But I am.”

"Don’t make me sad. Stay with me till I’m finished.”

“Why should I have to do a pointless thing like that?” . . . is

exactly the kind of thing I’m not tough enough to say. I’m

more of the go-with-the-flow type.

“Okay. I’m free now anyway.” I didn’t have anything

urgent to do, and it wasn’t like I was full yet, either.

I figured I might as well eat some real food while I was

there. “Wait a minute. I’m gonna go buy something.”

I approached the register from the opposite direction

(which was against the rules) and took a look at the menu on

the wall, pondering whether I should order the beef bowl.

Geez, it was more expensive than Yoshinoya. Maybe something

else was the way to go.

“Kimchee again?” the lady at the counter interrupted

lightheartedly as I was trying to decide.

“Yes.”

Oops.

I had up and said it.

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“No use crying over spilt milk.” Or wait, was this more of a

“hindsight-is-always-twenty-twenty situation”?

A few dozen seconds later, I received another heaping

bowl of kimchee (this time the lunch lady gave me a little

extra) and sat back down in front of Mikoko-chan.

"What the hell? Am I supposed to be following along with

something here?” she said.

“Don’t worry about it. So what were we talking about?”

“Hm? Uh, what was it? I forgot."

“Gotcha. Well, then you want to talk about class?”

She shook her head firmly.

“Why? There were some things I didn’t really get in first

period today, so I was thinking maybe we could go over it

together. It’s a required class for freshmen, so you must have

gone, right? If you ask me, the professor’s inability to explain

things properly is to blame, but what do you think?”

“What do I think?’ I think that there isn’t a boy alive who

brings up something like this to a girl when there isn’t even a

test coming up!”

I was only kidding, but she seemed seriously put off by it.

“What’s the matter? You don’t like studying?”

“Nobody likes studying.”

“That sounds debatable to me. But if you hate studying,

why did you go to college?”

“Ah, that’s a forbidden question. If you ask that, it’s all

over. I mean . . . everyone’s like that, right?”

It seemed I had inadvertently touched a soft spot, and she

suddenly seemed a bit melancholy. Come to think of it, it

seemed to me that someone had once said Japanese universities

weren’t a place for people who wanted to study, and

that college was just a time to prepare for entering society.

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“Heh, that’s one way to put it.”

“Do you like studying?” she said.

I shrugged.

Of course not.

In fact, I hated it.

“But it’s not bad for killing time. Or as an escape from

reality, rather.”

“Usually studying is the reality.” She gave a heavy sigh.

Then, as if shifting her focus back to her meal, she picked at

her salad for a while in silence.

Hmm. Was a plate of spaghetti, a large salad, and a dessert

really a normal-size portion for a girl under the age of twenty?

I didn’t know anybody fit to use as a standard for comparison—everyone

I knew was either incredibly finicky, ridiculously

gluttonous, or always fasting or something—so I had no

standards for judgment. But seeing as Mikoko-chan was neither

too slim nor the opposite, perhaps it was, at the very

least, an appropriate portion for her.

“Umm, it’s hard to eat with you staring at me like that,”

she said.

"Oh, sorry.”

"S’okay.”

She resumed eating. When she was nearly done, she began

looking my way in a sort of probing fashion. Really, she had

been peeping up at me every so often the whole time, but

now she had suddenly become obvious about it, making eyes

at me like there was something she wanted to tell me.

And indeed, that proved to be an accurate speculation.

As if she had at last made up her mind about something,

she placed her chopsticks down without finishing her dessert.

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She gave a bit of a playful smile as she leaned her body

forward, bringing her face close to mine.

"So, Ikkun,” she said.

“Yeah . . . ?"

“The truth is, I may or may not have a favor to ask you.”

"You don’t.”

“I do.” She leaned back again in her seat. “Are you the kind

of guy who might be free tomorrow?”

“If you define free as not having any plans, then I sup-pose

I’m more apt to say yes than no.”

“Yeah, kind of hard to follow you.”

“That’s just how I am,” I responded as I chewed my kimchee.

“To put it more simply—I’m a free dude.”

“Really? You’re free? Oh, good!” She pressed her hands

together in front of her chest with a look of true joy. To cause

someone such teary-eyed happiness just by not having plans

on a Saturday seemed a bit much.

More important, this didn’t look good. I had the distinct

feeling I was about to get dragged into something.

“I see, I see, so if I’m free, something good happens to you,

huh? One hand washes the other. It’s also kind of like the

food chain. A magnificent circuit, if you will,” I said.

She wasn’t even listening. "Yeah. So anyway, if you’re free

tomorrow, I was hoping we could get together!”

Her hands still pressed together, she tilted them to the side

a bit as if to emphasize her request. It was such an earnest,

imploring pose that it almost felt like foul play. There was

scarcely a male life-form alive that wouldn’t have surrendered

to it. They would want to surrender.

Nevertheless, I refused without mercy.

“No,” I said.

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“Wha?! Why?!” she shrieked. “You’re free, right?”

“Well, yeah. But it’s like I said, I don’t dislike boredom.

Sometimes people like to just spend the day doing nothing,

right? Everyone feels like that sometimes. Everyone wants to

escape the hustle and bustle of the world sometimes, to free

themselves of the hassle of dealing with other people.

Everybody has a right to time to contemplate their own lives.

I just happen to have more.”

“But-but-but! How can you just refuse without even

hearing me out?! That’s crazy! It’s like a bunch of eighth

graders forming a band, but they all end up playing bass!”

It was a pretty great analogy.

On close inspection, it was apparent that she was about to

cry. That is to say tears were already brimming in the corners

of her eyes. This was not a desirable situation.

I looked around. It was about time for the dining hall to

start filling up, and students began trickling in, their numbers

gradually increasing. At this point, I wanted to avoid standing

out (by, say, making a relatively hot girl cry) as much as possible.

But come on, who cries just from one little rejection?

“Okay, okay, just calm down. I’ll hear you out. Come on,

have some kimchee.”

“Okay,” she said, sniffling.

Doing as suggested, Mikoko-chan placed some kimchee in

her mouth. “Uwa!” she peeped, and then the tears really

started flowing. It seemed she wasn’t much for surprises

(which I kind of knew).

“Ahh, hot . . .” she cried out.

“Well, it is kimchee. It wouldn’t be kimchee if it wasn’t

spicy.”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 2

They say there’s also sugar-preserved kimchee, but I always

went with spicy, so I had never seen it. I wouldn’t mind if I

never did, either.

“Ohh, you’re terrible. You’re so mean. . . . Now, what

were we talking about?”

“That prowling killer?”

“No! We were talking about tomorrow!”

Bam! She slammed her hand on the table. It looked like she

was seriously a little mad now. Maybe I had gone too far, I

reflected.

“Umm, do you know Emoto-san?”

“Whether I know her or not, I don’t remember her.”

“She’s in our core subject classes. Her hair is like this.” She

stuck her fists to the sides of her ears, but even with this

striking pose, “Emoto-san” and her hairstyle remained firmly

beyond the grasp of my imagination.

“She’s a pretty noticeable girl. She’s always wearing shiny

things.”

“Huh. Well, I don’t really look at people much. What’s her

full name?”

“Emoto Tomoe. That’s the tomo from wisdom and the e

from blessing."

Interesting name. Sounded like it could do a headstand and

start running around upside down. It felt like it rang a bell, but

I couldn’t put my finger on it. I didn’t want to just toss out

some answer like, “Oh yeah, yeah, I know that chick. She’s

the one with the contact lenses, right?” There was always the

chance that Mikoko-chan would throw it right back in my

face, like, “I tricked you! There’s nobody like that in our class!

Ahahaha, looks like the pants are on the other leg now! Nyanya-nya!”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 3

And then the egg would be on my face, my fraudulence

exposed. Not that Mikoko-chan would do something like that.

“Her nickname is Tomo-chan.”

“That’s not gonna work for me.”

“Huh? Why not?”

“No reason. Just my own personal thing.” I shook my head.

“Sorry. I don’t remember at all.”

“Figures,” she said, laughing. “But if you didn’t remember

me, I guess it goes without saying that you wouldn’t remember

her. If you did remember her, I’d be a little shocked.”

I didn’t quite follow her reasoning, but as long as my lack

of memory made her avoid feeling terrible, I guessed it wasn’t

totally worthless. Something definitely seemed off with the

logic there, though.

“Well, okay. How about Atemiya-san? Atemiya Muimisan?

I call her Muimi-chan.”

“Another classmate?”

She nodded. "Then there’s Usami Akiharu-kun. Akiharukun

is a guy, so you must remember him, right?”

“My memory functions in a gender-neutral environment.”

“But you sure don’t seem like a feminist.”

She let out a big, unintentionally exaggerated sigh. It was

like I had done something wrong. But it was my memory’s

fault, right?

“Anyway, so Tomo-chan, Muimi-chan, and Akiharu-kun.

We’re all going out tomorrow night for a little drinking.”

“Huh. What’s the occasion?”

“It’s Tomo-chan’s birthday!” For some reason she seemed a

tad boastful. It was hard to deny her adorableness as she sat

there with her hands on her hips, chest stuck out. “May fourteenth!

Happy twentieth!”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 4

If this Tomo-chan was a classmate, that meant she was a

freshman. Maybe she had entered college a year late. Or

maybe she was a returnee like me. It didn’t really matter.

“I’m only nineteen, by the way. My birthday’s April twentieth.”

“Huh,” I said.

I didn’t really care.

She continued. “Umm, so anyway, tomorrow’s Tomochan’s

birthday, so we figured we’d throw a really light, casual

kind of party.”

“Huh. Seems like an awfully intimate group for a party.”

“Yeah, well. We all like the rowdy atmosphere thing, but

nobody wanted there to be a ton of people, so what are you

gonna do?”

“Ah. Then four people is pretty appropriate, huh.”

“Huh?” She looked surprised.

“A fifth person would throw off the balance.”

“Huh? What?”

“Well, say hi to everyone for me. And happy birthday to

you.”

“It’s not my birthday! Hey, wait, I mean don’t just get up

and leave! You don’t know the other half of the story yet!”

“Well, they say knowing is only half the battle,” I said.

“That’s not what that means!”

She grabbed me by the sleeve as I started to leave and

forced me to sit back down. But even if the conversation was

only half-over, I could more or less tell what was coming next.

“Okay then. So now you’re going to tell me to partake in

this drinking party . . . or birthday party, rather. Right?”

“Gah! Wow, that’s exactly right.” She flung up her hands

in surprise, but this time it reeked of phoniness. Maybe it

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 5

wasn’t that she didn’t put on any façades; she was just a lousy

actress. “Amazing, it’s like you’ve got ESP or something,

Ikkun.”

“Let’s not go there. Not a good subject.” I let out a light

sigh. “How did all this come about? I don’t even know these

people, right?”

“Yeah you do. They’re your classmates.”

Ah, right.

Maybe I had amnesia. I was never good at remembering

people, but lately it had gotten particularly bad. These three

classmates aside, there wasn’t a single person in all of Rokumeikan

University whom I had a clear picture of.

But there was a more likely explanation: that it was simply

the result of my apathy toward other human beings. It had

nothing to do with my mind’s functionality. It wasn’t a defect.

It wasn’t that some essential part was missing, either.

It was just that I was, from the very start, a broken thing.

“Could it be that I’ve just forgotten, and that I’m actually

good friends with these three people? Even I wouldn’t forget

something like who my friends are, I think.”

Mikoko-chan’s expression grew a little sad. “I don’t think

that’s the case,” she said. "You probably haven’t spoken much.

I mean, you’ve always got this narrow-eyed scowl as if you’re

thinking really hard about something or filled with contempt.

Even now. It makes you kind of hard to approach. It’s like

you’ve got a wall in front of you. Or your AT field is fully

operational. And in spite of all that, you always sit directly in

the middle of the classroom.”

I wanted her to leave me the hell alone. I wanted to tell

her not to bother talking to me if that was how she felt. But I

didn’t.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 6

I finished my kimchee. As it turned out, two bowls ended

up being pretty excessive, and I felt dreadful fullness in my

stomach. I probably wouldn’t be having kimchee again for a

long time.

“But you and I are friends, right?” she asked.

“Are we?”

"Yes!” She slammed both hands on the table again. It

seemed she had a habit of hitting nearby things when she got

emotional. I’d have to remember to stay out of range of those

slender arms if I was going to make fun of her. That is to say,

I’d have to stay out of range when I made fun of her. Maybe it

was better to pick on her over the phone.

Er, I mean, why was I planning ways to harass her?

“And, so, naturally, I tell my friends about you sometimes,

right?”

“I guess.”

"And then my friends think, ‘Man, for a guy who’s always

got such a crummy face, he seems kind of cool,’ right?”

“I guess it’s possible.”

“So it’s not so strange that they would want to try being

friends with someone who seems kind of cool, even if he is a

weirdo. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess we all have temptations.”

“So that’s what I’m saying,” she said.

“What is?”

“That.”

She peered up at me with eager, expectant eyes. I pretended

I was drinking tea in order to escape her gaze. But a single

cup of tea sure wasn’t going to be enough to revive my

paralyzed mouth.

"Huh. I understand,” I said.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 7

“You do?”

“It’s a good opportunity and all, so I think I’ll go spend the

night at my parents’ place tomorrow.”

“Don’t make plans’ You didn’t even go home during

Golden Week!”

She slammed the table again. I was a little disturbed that

she knew what I had been doing during Golden Week, but

then again, maybe I had told her and forgotten.

“But you know . . . it’s almost Mother’s Day and stuff.”

“That was last week! And besides, you’re not the kind of

guy who would go out of his way to show devotion to his

parents!”

That was rather harsh. And even if she was right, did she

believe that a seventeen-year-old guy who wouldn’t even go

out of his way for his parents would be any nicer to someone

who was just a classmate? Maybe she was so worked up she

didn’t realize what she was saying anymore.

“Come on, I’m begging you. I already told them I’d bring

you. I’ll lose face.”

“It seems like there’s a misunderstanding here, so let me

clear things up—I’m not the kind of guy you can have fun

talking to. They say I’ve got about as much pep as a storm

cloud.”

“Wow, that’s as disappointing as hearing about two budding

young authors, only one’s poison ivy and the other got

eaten by tent caterpillars." She looked a little somber as she

chewed her lip. “Come on, Ikkun. Do it as a favor to me. I

know it’s selfish of me, but hey, I’ll even pay for drinks.”

“Sorry, I’m not a drinker.”

This was true.

“Why not?”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 8

“I once drank a whole bottle of vodka in one go.” I didn’t

dare tell her how things ended up after that, but at any rate,

ever since then I had sworn off alcohol. I may not be such a

smart guy, but I’m not so dumb that I don’t learn from my

experiences either.

“Wow, not even the Russians do that.” She was truly surprised.

“I see. . . . So you can’t drink. Hm, now what?”

She immersed herself in thought once again. It seemed she

had a firm understanding of what it was like for a non-drinker

to show up at a drinking party. Perhaps she was a lightweight

herself at least to some extent.

Nevertheless . . .

I wasn’t so cold-blooded that I felt nothing for this girl sitting

before me, looking so deeply troubled.

Dammit . . . I get dragged into things so easily. Going along

with something out of pity was one thing. But getting dragged

in just because the situation presented itself was totally lame.

“Okay, okay. As long as you’re okay with me just sitting in

the middle of the room scowling.”

“Hmm, I guess that would be an awful bother for you, but

you know, I think . . . Wait, you mean you’ll go?” she said.

She shot her body forward. Maybe it’s a rude analogy, but

she was like a dog who had just had food tossed in front of it.

A cat would have approached it with some caution, suspecting

the possibility of a trap, but Mikoko-chan was completely unguarded.

She may have physically resembled a cat, but she

was definitely more like a dog in personality.

“Is it really okay? Will you really come?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m free anyway.”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 9

Even I was a little appalled by my own bluntness and

wondered if I couldn’t have put it a little more nicely. All the

same, she shrieked with joy.

“Waaah! Thank you!” She smiled innocently.

I replied by downing the rest of my tea. At some point she

had finished her dessert as well, so it was time I really should

start to leave.

“Ah, wait a sec. Let me know your phone number. I’ll call

you.”

“Hm? Ah . . .” I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket.

“Okay, it’s . . . uh, I forgot.”

“Figures. Okay, then I’ll give you mine, so dial me.”

I entered her number as told and sent it. A ringtone

emerged from her little bag. David Bowie. She had surprisingly

great taste.

“Okay, got it. Hey, Ikkun, your phone doesn’t have a

strap.”

“Ah, yeah. I don’t like that girly stuff.”

“Are straps girly?”

“Well, I’m no expert or anything, but they’re definitely not

very manly.”

“Mmm, guess not,” she said with consternation.

“Well then,” I said, stepping away from my seat with my

tray. “See you tomorrow, Mikoko-chan.”

“Yep! Don’t you forget about me again!”

She gave me a big wave, to which I responded with a small

one as I made my way out of the dining hall. After returning

my tray and silverware, I headed straight to the co-op bookstore.

Of course, being a university bookstore, its main selection

consisted of academic texts, and its recreational reading

selection was fairly limited. But on the plus side there was a

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 0

10 percent discount on everything, and for some reason (I

wonder why) this particular bookstore had an unusually large

selection of magazines, so it got fairly crowded.

I made my way to the novels section and picked one out.

Wait. Huh? Something had occurred to me.

"Wait a minute. Did Mikoko-chan call me ‘Ikkun’?”

Now that I looked back on our encounter, that nickname

she used seemed to stand out. I hadn’t even noticed when

she’d used the nickname—but I didn’t think anyone had ever

addressed me with such an overly familiar nickname in the

past. I thought about it for a moment, but I couldn’t remember.

I had no specific memory of her calling me that before,

but then again, I didn’t remember her not calling me that,

either. After all, I hardly have any memory of Mikoko-chan

herself, much less a trivial thing like what name she called me.

“Eh, whatever.”

Either way was fine by me. Satisfied with that notion, I

began reading the novel inside the store.

Yup.

No big deal.

Hardly a life or death situation.

All was well with the world.

Even if Heaven was empty.

What is a fatal wound?

Cutting off someone’s head.

Yeah, obviously that’s one.

Crushing someone’s heart.

Again, obvious.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 1

Destroying someone’s brain.

Naturally.

Stopping their breathing.

That’s another good method. Pretty final, too.

But when I say "fatal wound,” I’m not referring to these

trivial sorts of things.

I’m thinking of something else. A fatal wound is an impact

so intense, so devastating, that you fall into a state where

you’re no longer a human—even though you are. You’re no

longer able to lead a life even though you’re living. It means

being ground to bits after falling victim to a relative paradox

created by reason itself.

That is a fatal wound.

In other words, failure.

The key here is the fact that even after a profound failure,

we go on.

The world is brutally tepid.

It’s so kind that it’s cruel. It’s a devil’s Heaven.

To put it plainly, you don’t die by making a big mistake.

Or maybe I should say you can’t die.

Yeah, you don’t die.

You just suffer.

You simply suffer in agony.

And you go on. Forever, wherever.

Meaninglessly, you just go on.

Life isn’t a video game, not because there’s no reset button,

but because there’s no Game Over. Even though it was

"over” long ago, tomorrow shows up anyway. Even when night

falls, morning comes again after it. When winter ends, spring

rolls in. Life is wonderful.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 2

It’s an absolute paradox—even though you’ve taken a fatal

blow, you can’t die. It’s like asking what a person sees when

he looks backward while traveling faster than the speed of

light. An unthinkable question.

Even though the potential to be you has long since been

cut off, you go on. You do it all over, again and again. You

redo your life again and again.

But it’s like making a million crappy copies, and each time

you make one, your “self” gets a little bit shoddier.

And eventually you get to thinking . . .

Am I really me, or . . .

. . . did I become something else

long ago?

Have I devolved?

Just as the central figure in an incident can’t all of a sudden

become just a disinterested bystander, you can’t become your

own spectator.

And that, my friends, is what’s truly fatal.

“In other words, it’s like mind over matter . . .” I muttered.

As I pondered these fruitless ponderings, I was trying the new

McDonald’s burger. The five hundred twenty-five yen value

combo.

The kimchee must have worked, because my sense of taste

had returned to normal. A McDonald’s hamburger tasted

pretty luscious again. After all, as a Japanese person, there was

no way I could have gone on with my life if unable to enjoy

McDonald’s.

The time was 7:30 in the evening.

The place: Shijôkawara-machi, Shinkyôgoku Street.

After fifth period had ended, I decided I wanted to see

those mobile police Mikoko-chan was talking about for

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 3

myself, and my feet had taken me this far in an effort to kill

time.

Next to the tray with the hamburger on it was a single

magazine. What they call a “weekly infozine.” I had bought it

at the co-op, and on the cover it said, “Feature Story: Jack the

Ripper Resurrected in the Devil’s City!”

“Pretty tasteless.”

The ridiculously apocalyptic feel of the magazine was

actually the second reason I had bought it. The first was that it

featured a big story on the “prowler” incidents Mikoko-chan

had been telling me about.

I shoved two fries in my mouth, added a straw as well, and

sucked down some cola. I started flipping through the weekly.

The first page was set with an all too vivid picture of a corpse

as the background, and in big, Gothic letters, it read: “The

Homicidal Monster Who Shook Kyoto!”

Ominous indeed.

“So they let you show photos like this . . .” I muttered as I

flipped through the pages. I had already scanned through the

details of the articles, so I at least knew something about the

incidents now, if not everything.

The media had dubbed the crime spree the “Kyoto Prowler

Serial Killings.” Not the most imaginative name in the world,

but then again, maybe a case like this didn’t need one. Still,

the word prowler hardly seemed to be an accurate description

of the criminal. I always thought of as a prowler as a sort of

stalker, someone who stalks people on the street and causes

them harm. But in this case the culprit was luring the victims

into desolate areas, killing them with a sharp blade, and finally

dismembering the corpses. It seemed like maybe “serial killer”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 4

was a better description than prowler. And you could definitely

make an analogy with the Jack the Ripper murders.

“Six people now, huh? Not bad,” I muttered as I stuffed

the magazine back into my bag.

Yeah, six people. Just as Mikoko-chan had said, six people

in less than two weeks’ time was quite a death toll. It was

probably unprecedented. By the third murder, the police force

had been dispatched all over the region for surveillance. Even

the riot police had been dispatched, and yet the murders went

on, as if the killer were laughing at them.

The victims had no apparent connections. They were

young and old, male and female: The killer showed no mercy

to anyone. The police (and everyone else, for that matter) had

deemed these incidents merely a series of acts of random

violence.

Therefore the sixth victim probably wouldn’t be the last.

The killings would go on. As long as this monster remained on

the loose—or until he decided to stop of his own volition—

there would be more murders. Perhaps even tonight. Perhaps

even right now.

“It’s all nonsense in the end, huh?” I stared out at Shinkyô-

goku Street from the entrance of McDonald’s.

It was the same scenery as always. Fewer tourists and students

on field trips, but it was still pretty crowded—a lot of

kids with dyed hair were milling around. I suppose you could

say that this was when they came out to mark their territory.

Nobody, absolutely nobody walking along this street right

now was seriously considering the notion that they could be

the next victim.

Of course, everyone was still being a little cautious. Some

were visibly unsettled by the mobile police units scattered

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 5

here and there. “What a mess,” they might think, but that

about covers it. At most, they would go home a little earlier

than usual.

But deep in their hearts, everyone believed they would be

going home.

That’s how it is with these things. There are very few

people who can accept as a hard reality the possibility that

they might be the next to die.

It was true that the probability of becoming the next

victim was negligibly low: “Those victims must’ve had been

really unlucky.” A terrible thought, but what else could

people think?

Anyway . . . perhaps I should go ahead and mingle in with

this unguarded crowd? With that in mind, I got up from my

seat only to feel my phone vibrating in my right pocket. I

wasn’t familiar with the number on the display. But I didn’t

want to just ignore it. I went ahead and pushed send.

“Ciao! Mikoko-chan here!”

Hyper from the get-go. It was easy to imagine her giving

me the thumbs-up on the other end, even though I guess she

probably wasn’t actually doing that. But without even knowing

who she was talking to, she was so bubbly and friendly.

What would she have done if this was the wrong number? A

small fire ignited in my inquiring mind.

“Eh? Hey, it’s Mikoko-chan. What’s wrong?”

I didn’t reply.

"Uhh . . . This is Ikkun, right?”

Again, I was silent.

“Hellooo? This is Ikkun, right?”

I persisted in not replying.

“Did I mess up? Huh? I messed up!”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 6

I kept up the silent treatment.

“Gahhh! It’s like getting all prepped for the next radio

calisthenics session—you know, that exercise show broadcast

over the radio—only to have them go ‘We’re outta time, so

just do the chicken dance’! I’m sorry, I dialed the wrong

number!”

At that, I finally said something: “No, this is right. What’s

up?”

“Uwa!” she shrieked in surprise when I spoke. “Huh?

Wha?” she sputtered, confused. Eventually, she let out a sigh,

so I figured she had calmed down a bit. I also figured that it

was only a matter of seconds before her relief turned to anger.

"For crying out loud! It’s the phone! You have to say something!

I’ll freak out if you don’t! Ikkun, you jerk! You snake!

You . . . you monster!”

I didn’t think I’d done anything that bad.

"Sorry, sorry, I was just kidding around.”

I hadn’t meant to stay quiet for so long, but I also had

never expected she’d provide such a hilarious response either.

Before I knew it, my timing had been thrown off.

“God . . . It’s fine, I guess. Since it’s you and all.”

She let out a moan. It was hard not to feel a little sorry for

her. “Umm,” she started again, back to her normal self. “This

is a business call! Regarding tomorrow’s business!”

“You know, you don’t have to yell. It’s quiet here.”

“Hm? Where are you now?" she asked.

“Ah, uh, I’m at home. At the boarding lodge.”

“Oh. I’m still at school. I had to talk to Inokawa-sensei

about something, so I just got out of the research room. Isn’t

that place incredible?! Books everywhere!”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 7

Inokawa-sensei led the general-education class. A slightly

eccentric assistant professor, he was popular enough with his

students if you were willing to set aside the fact that he was

way too strict about punctuality. (If you weren’t in your seat

by the time the bell started ringing—even if you were in the

classroom and were in the act of sitting down while it was

ringing—he marked you absent).

“Umm, right, so about tomorrow. Will you be home tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Are we meeting somewhere?” I asked.

“Uh-uh. If we set a meeting place, we might miss each other,

right? That’s no good, so I’ll come meet you at your boarding

lodge. I bought a scooter and I kinda wanna take it for a spin.

So, let’s say four o’clock. Can I go to your place at four?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, but . . . you know where the boarding

lodge is?”

“Huh? Oh, no problem there.” She seemed flustered. “I

mean, because we made that address list when classes first

started, so I know it.”

“Is just the address enough?”

"I know Kyoto well, so we’re a-okay. You’re at Senbon

Nakadachiuri, right?”

“Huh?” I asked. There was something suspicious about the

way she was acting, but if she said she knew it, I figured there

was no problem.

“Fine by me,” I replied.

“Okay. That settles that, then. Hmm, I’d like to talk more

since I went to the trouble of calling, but I’ve got to go to

driving school from here. I made an appointment, and if I

don’t go now I’ll be late.”

“Huh. You’re going to driving school.”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 8

“Yep. How about you? Got a license?”

“I do. Just for automatic, though.”

If it wasn’t such a big hassle to get a license, I could

actually drive anything, but that was a secret.

“I see,” she said. “I’m going for a manual. I’m reaching that

age where I want my own set of wheels, you know? My dad

said he’ll get me a car once I get my license. Yup. Anyway, see

ya tomorrow. B-b-b-byeee!”

She giggled and hung up. I stared at the phone for a while

before putting it back in my pants pocket.

Right. We did have plans tomorrow, didn’t we? It hadn’t

completely slipped my mind, but it was close enough. At this

rate, I might forget again by tomorrow. Maybe it would have

been best to write “Plans with Mikoko-chan tomorrow” on the

palm of my hand, like an unusually dim-witted elementary

school student.

Oh, but if she was coming to meet me at my house, it

didn’t really matter if I remembered or not, I thought. I was

just going to be there all day anyway. I returned my pen case

to my bag.

This time I really did actually walk out of the McDonald’s.

It was already almost eight o’clock, and the shops outside

were preparing to close. Suddenly something occurred to me.

“Ah, that’s right. It’s a birthday thing.”

In that case, I should probably take the opportunity to buy

a present while I was out and about. It was only common

sense—not that I ever thought of myself as someone with a lot

of common sense.

Then again, I’d been sort of half-forced into going. Maybe I

didn’t have to go out of my way to be a good guy or anything.

As I thought it over, I peeped into a nearby souvenir shop.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 9

Emoto Tomoe. Now, what kind of a character was she? I

didn’t have a single memory of her. Once I actually saw her

face, I might remember her. But no matter how hard I

thought about it, I couldn’t remember a single thing about

her. Which meant she probably wasn’t a particularly eccentric

or remarkable person. Maybe she was a little more subdued

than most. The kind of person who reads a book before the

start of class instead of messing with her cell phone.

Wait . . . but hadn’t Mikoko-chan said she was a striking

girl who always wore shiny things? Huh. I had no idea after

all. Not even a vague image.

Then there were those other two: Atemiya Muimi-chan

and Usami Akiharu-kun, right? I tried to recall them as well,

but with no success.

“Eh, I guess if they’re Mikoko-chan’s friends, they can’t be

all that weird.”

“Tell me what company thou keepst, and I’ll tell thee what

thou art.” Cervantes said it, but surely you could’ve switched

it around and it would still make sense. Nothing to worry

about too much.

As my mind wandered, I picked up a box of snacks from a

display. They were yatsuhashi cinnamon cookies folded into

triangles and stuffed with red bean paste. A wholly

conventional Japanese snack. Thirty pieces, one thousand two

hundred yen.

"Hm . . .”

Kyoto and yatsuhashi—a confection made from rice flour,

cinnamon, and sugar—were synonymous with each other. If

there were no yatsuhashi, it wasn’t Kyoto, which meant that if

there were yatsuhashi, it was. Compared to yatsuhashi,

Kiyomizu Temple, the Daimonji Fire Festival, and the Big

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 4 0

Three festivals didn’t even matter. Shrines and Buddhist

temples were irrelevant. If you didn’t eat yatsuhashi, you

didn’t know 80% of Kyoto.

Okay, then, I thought.

And so it was settled that Tomo-chan would receive snack

food for her birthday. I didn’t want to burden her with

something nondisposable, and I figured it would be the perfect

thing to eat while drinking. Or wait, did sweet stuff go

with alcohol? I didn’t drink, so I didn’t know. At any rate, it

wasn’t like they would be inedible.

And then my back shivered.

It felt as though liquid nitrogen had been poured into my

spinal cord. As if my entire body had been frozen to absolute

zero and the heat of the outside air was about to scorch me.

Only a basic level of brain functionality remained. And then I

felt an intense pressure crushing me. If I couldn’t maintain my

composure, surely I would be pulverized.

But I didn’t look back. I just tried to collect myself as

coolly as possible, and thrust the box of yatsuhashi at the store

clerk. The clerk had a brown earring, a brown ponytail, and a

smile that wasn’t very professional.

"Welcome, now.” The clerk wrapped up the treats for me,

which I accepted as I fished for the exact change. “Please

come again there, now,” the clerk said cheerfully with a little

head bob. Surely it was this kind of heartfelt service that captured

the hearts of tourists, I thought, a little irrelevantly, as I

left the store and began on my way to Shijô Street.

And then I felt it. A gaze so intense it couldn’t be ignored

once detected, a gaze so ferocious there was no way not to be

aware of it. No, this was more than a gaze.

This was the intent to murder.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 4 1

It was a 100 percent pure murderous desire. Nothing—not

one of a million emotions; not animosity, aggression, or a

sense of mischief—diluted the purity of this desire. My entire

body ached with a terrible feeling. This feeling was long past

the point of unpleasant or unsettling.

I walked.

The feeling followed me.

I walked some more.

The feeling still followed.

“In other words, I’m being followed,” I muttered to myself.

Since when? From where?

I had no idea.

It was so blatant that I didn’t even need to look back.

It was so blatant that I didn’t even need to sense it.

That meant that whoever it was had surely noticed that I

had noticed. The fact that they continued to tail me anyway

was the most blatant thing of all.

“This ain’t good,” I sighed as I weaved my way through the

crowd. It was strange. I really thought I’d left all danger

behind me . . . back on that island on the other side of the sea.

Being tracked all the way to this country, to this city, no less,

seemed unthinkable, much less being killed. I had already

employed Kunagisa’s skills to confirm that.

In which case . . .

This was a random act.

The first thing that came to mind was the feature story

from the magazine in my bag.

The slasher.

“Aw, hell no,” I said to myself. What cruel fate had

brought me to this pass? If I were to put it like Mikoko-chan, I

might have said something like, “It’s like forming a second

Onyanko Club, but everyone’s a backup dancer.” On second

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 4 2

thought, I have no idea what that means. I guess you

shouldn’t try to be something you’re not, I thought. Clearly I

was panicking.

But even supposing the person one thousand feet behind

me right now was the famous prowler, or even supposing it

was just your run-of-the-mill psycho killer, or even supposing

that it was someone with a grudge against me . . .

Something was off. This just didn’t make sense. It was unfathomable

and absurd.

What I felt was uneasiness. Yes, like the uneasiness you

feel when you notice that reflection in the mirror is looking

back at you, that kind of absolutely mistaken textbook

explanation. I had now confirmed that that red line that’s

usually in front was, suddenly, behind.

“More nonsense?” Of course this was an illusion.

What mattered right now was that someone was following

me. This much was certain. That and, sometime soon, I would

be killed. This much was also certain. With these two

essentially definite facts in mind right now, I had no leeway to

be distracted by any other sensations. Ultimately, my options

were limited.

Give, or take.

“Ahhh, this is becoming a freaking hassle,” I muttered.

I made my way from Shinkyôgoku Street onto Shijô Street.

On the other side of a cluster of cabs was a long line of cars.

Shijô Street was extremely congested at this time of day, to

the point that it was actually faster to walk than to drive. In a

town like Kyoto, which had so many traffic lights it wasn’t

even funny, a bicycle was by far the number one most

effective way to get around.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 4 3

Number two, incidentally, was by foot. Maybe number

three was a boogie board.

I had come to school by bus, so number two was my only

option. I debated for only an instant about which way to go

before heading east.

After a pause at a red light, I crossed Kawara-machi Street.

If I kept straight on this road, it would take me to Yasaka

Shrine. From there, if I broke south, I would reach Kiyomizu

Temple. It was a textbook route for the Kyoto temple sightseer.

But I was no sightseer, and I had no intention of going as

far as Yasaka Shrine.

I was on pins and needles. I felt that high-pressure gaze

edging ever closer. And if it ever caught up to me, that pressure

would erupt into plain, simple violence.

“Ah . . . this is gonna be close." May already and here I was

in a cold sweat. Just how long had it been since I had been this

nervous? Surely not since I’d left that odd little island. Yet at

the same time, what I felt now was somehow distinctly

different from what I had felt back then.

I am nervous, therefore I am at peace.

I became aware that, for me in this nervous state, failure

was something wholly improbable.

“Phew . . .”

And so I arrived at Kamo River. Instead of crossing the big

Shijô Bridge, I made my way down the staircase beside it and

emerged on the riverbank. Whenever the sun came out,

countless young couples would start crowding the riverbank.

In my personal opinion, this riverbank, lined with perfectly

spaced out boy-girl pairs, was one of the top three must-see

attractions of Kyoto. When the moon was out, the riverbank

offered itself as an after-bender hangout for drunks. After

drinking the night away, they could come here to sleep it off.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 4 4

The drunks ranged from college students all the way up to

salarymen.

The drunks and lovers had one thing in common: They

were both complete nuisances who went around shoving their

happiness in other people’s faces. But there was no time to

wax philosophical about. No matter what I thought about the

drunks and young lovers, only one thing mattered right now.

It happened to be that one brief moment of the day when the

riverbank was empty. The lovers had already gone home, and

the drunks were still getting drunk.

In other words, it was a perfect situation.

And being underneath a bridge made it even better, right?

I entered the shadow of the bridge as soon as I had

descended to the riverbank. The sounds of passing cars rushed

overhead. The chatter of people crossing the bridge. It was

one hell of a ruckus. But it wasn’t enough to cover this guy’s

footsteps.

Shuffle.

The sound of scraping grit.

I muttered something and turned around.

He made an incoherent noise as he faced me.

My feelings at that point were probably pure and simple

confusion. Ordinary, everyday confusion and nothing more.

There was a mirror in front of me.

Or so I thought.

His height was a bit under five feet, and he was longlimbed

and slender as a flower stem. He wore tiger-striped

shorts; nonskid rustic boots; a red, long-sleeved, hooded parka;

and a black tactical vest. Both hands were clad with gloves,

but they obviously weren’t for something as cowardly as covering

his fingerprints, as they were fingerless gloves. It was my

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 4 5

guess that they served a much more sinister purpose—to stop

the knife from slipping on sweat.

His long hair was tied up in the back and buzzed on the

sides as if he were a dancer. His right ear had a triple piercing,

and two straps that looked like they belonged on a cell phone

dangled from his left ear. His stylish sunglasses rendered his

expression unreadable, but the sinister-looking, obviously real

tattoo running down the right side of his face communicated

this person’s eccentricity loud and clear.

He was unlike me in almost every conceivable way. Our

similarities ended with age and gender.

And yet I felt like I was looking into a mirror.

So naturally I was confused.

And my new friend appeared to be just as confused.

Still, he made the first move. He inserted his right hand

into a pocket of the vest, and an instant later he was

brandishing a small, five-centimeter-wide knife. He made not

a single wasted motion. It was as if he had surpassed the limits

of the merely human. Light and sound seemed distorted

around him.

Even supposing I had been observing all this from the point

of view of an uninvolved bystander, even knowing that this

was a murderer, his technique was so perfect that I could’ve

only described it as artful.

There was no escaping it. There was no accepting it.

But I managed to dodge the knife by pulling my upper

body back. Of course, normally this would be impossible. I

wouldn’t say I’m any less athletic than average, but I’m

certainly no Mary Lou Retton either. I had neither the quick

eye nor agile body needed to elude a plausible contender for

the title of the world’s fastest knife fighter.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 4 6

However, supposing a dump truck was coming straight at

you at a hundred miles an hour, but you became aware of this

when it was a few miles away, I think we can all agree that

dodging it would be a simple task.

Likewise, I’d been anticipating my assailant’s slash attack.

It was so obvious that it was coming that it was if I had been

expecting it for the past five years.

I groped wildly for my bag, then swung it around, hoping

to smash him in the face. But with no more than a simple

motion of the neck, he managed to dodge my attack as if he

had been expecting it for ten years.

Because I had strained to dodge his attack, I tumbled

backward. Of course, I didn’t do anything as foolish as try to

roll back to my feet. Even a single arm wasted on such a

maneuver would surely have created a prime opportunity for

the killer. Just as I feared, he wheeled back from his initial

miss and came straight for my carotid artery. Not good. There

was no way to dodge from this position. I guess I could have

theoretically performed a stupid-looking roll and dodge this

one attack. But the next moment, or the moment after that,

regardless of how pathetically I scrambled around on the

ground, he would plunge that knife into my spine. I could

imagine it so clearly that I felt like a certain clairvoyant I once

knew.

In which case, dodging was beside the point. The key was

simply taking it. I swung my right elbow up at the knife.

My opponent twisted his wrist, altering the direction of his

swing. Consequently, the excess momentum from my elbow

had me swinging at nothing. This left my entire front side,

including all of my organs, not least notable of which were the

heart and lungs, completely exposed to the enemy.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 4 7

Behind the sunglasses, his eyes seemed to smile ever so

faintly.

With another twist of the knife, he aimed it directly at my

heart.

A moment’s pause.

And then the tactical knife swung down at double speed.

So strong was his will to destroy human life that it made his

body move at speeds that couldn’t be detected by the human

eye.

He left me not even time enough to gasp. That’s right: I

didn’t even have time to gasp.

But I had known this one had been coming before I’d even

been born.

!

!

The knife tore through a single layer of my clothing and

stopped. My left index and middle fingers had stopped it—by

pushing up my assailant’s sunglasses.

A stalemate.

He had my heart and I had his eyes. If you put the two on

a scale, their weights obviously differed, but this was no

matter to be weighed on a scale. For my opponent, tearing

through my flesh and bone to demolish my heart was simpler

than taking candy from a baby. But it would leave just enough

time for me to pulverize his eyeballs.

The opposite was also true.

I could sacrifice my own heart to destroy his eyeballs, and

he could sacrifice his eyes to obliterate my heart. Hence, a

stalemate.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 4 8

We stayed that way for as long as five hours, or maybe it

was five seconds, and then: "This is a masterpiece,” he said,

tossing his knife aside.

“It’s nonsense is what it is.” I retracted my fingers.

He backed away from me, and I rose to my feet slowly,

shaking the grit off my clothes and slowly straightening out

my posture.

Our fight had been a farce—but it had gone so harmoniously,

it was as if it had all been predestined. I felt overcome

by an incredible faintness.

“I’m Zerozaki,” my opponent said as he straightened his

crooked glasses. “Zerozaki Hitoshiki. So who the hell are you,

Mr. Doppelgänger?”

The question left a sour taste in my mouth. It was like

seeing myself asking someone else for my own name.

And that—that was the first encounter between the passive

onlooker and the homicidal monster.

Strangely enough, it was Friday the thirteenth.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 5 0

Misfortune and misery are underplayed.

Give me more despair. Give me more darkness.

Give me wholehearted depravity.

The thirteenth of any given month, by the way, is more likely

to fall on a Friday than any other day. Friday the thirteenth

occurs once a year at least, and three or four times a year on

average. But for a guy like me who wasn’t Christian—I don’t

even understand the difference between Catholic and

Protestant—Friday the thirteenth meant little more than that

the next day was Saturday the fourteenth.

Now, then. The next day was Saturday, May fourteenth. I

awoke inside my one-room Senbon Nakadachiuri apartment.

I looked at my clock to discover that it was about ten until

four p.m.

“Seriously?”

I was a bit . . . that is, fairly—nay, insanely—surprised. This

was a whole new oversleeping record for me. How many years

had it been since the last time I slept until the afternoon? And

it wasn’t only the afternoon—the p.m. was a third over

already. This would probably remain as a stain on my memory

for the rest of eternity.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 5 1

“But then again, I want to bed at nine in the morning, so

it’s only natural.”

Finally shaking away the sleepiness, I returned to my sense

and rose from my bed.

The room had four straw mats of floor space and a naked

lightbulb. This little pocket of space was unbelievably classic,

and so full of anachronisms that it made you wonder if it had

been around since the olden days when Kyoto was still our

capital. Naturally, the rent was deathly low. Deathly to the

landlord, that is.

I folded up my futon and stuck it on the closet. There was

no toilet or bath, but there was a washstand of sorts, so I used

it to wash my face, then got dressed. My wardrobe wasn’t

exactly jam-packed with options, so all of this took less than

five minutes.

I opened the window and let in the outside air. Kyoto is an

incredible place, in that once you’ve passed Golden Week,

you’ve already entered summer. It’s as if life is still being run

according to the old Chinese calendar—or as if fall and spring

don’t even exist.

Then there came a knock at my door. This apartment

wasn’t equipped with such modern amenities as telephone

intercoms. It was exactly four o’clock. Mikoko-chan was certainly

a punctual one. I was just a little bit dazzled by this.

People who were as anal about time as Inokawa-sensei were

just annoying, but I figured that if you really wanted to refer

to yourself as a human being, you had to be at least as punctual

as an analog clock. In that sense, Mikoko-chan passed as a

human.

“Yo, I’m coming.”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 5 2

I unbolted the lock (now that’s what I call radically retro)

and opened the door. But to my surprise, it wasn’t Mikokochan.

“Sorry.”

It was Asano Miiko-san, my neighbor. She was twenty-two

years old, making her my senior, and she was a seasonal

worker. There was something strangely Japanesey about her

style, and even right now she was dressed in classic Japanese

summer casual wear. It was black cloth, with the word

Carnage printed on the back of her top in white letters, and

she had a distinctly samurai-esque ponytail. At first she

seemed unapproachable, but after you talked to her for a bit,

it quickly became clear that she was a pretty decent human

being. Maybe a little on the mysterious side, but that just

added to her charm.

“Miiko-san . . . right? Good morning.”

“Yeah. Were you sleeping?”

“Yeah, I actually overslept a bit, so . . .”

“If you slept this late, I don’t think it still qualifies as ‘a

bit,’ ” she said drably. With her subdued demeanor, it was

often hard to guess what she was thinking. It wasn’t that she

was completely expressionless. Instead, her default expression

was a glare, with changes so subtle that she might as well have

been expressionless.

“Oh, please come in. As usual, there’s not much to see,

though,” I said without a hint of false modesty. I stepped aside

to make way, but she shook her head.

“Nah, I just came to give you this.” She passed me a flat

box. It was wrapped in paper with the word Snacks written in

big letters.

“. . . .”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 5 3

“They’re yatsuhashi. They’re a Kyoto favorite.”

“I know them, but—“

“They’re yours. They’re good, you know. Well, see ya . . .

I’ve got to get to work.”

She spun around, flashing the word Carnage at me. The

fact that she had offered no explanation as to why she had just

given me a box of yatsuhashi was hardly unexpected. She was

a woman of few words, and when you thought about how

much effort you would have to exert just to fish an answer out

of her, it was easy to justify leaving things unexplained. And

so I send her off with a simple “Thanks very much, I’ll definitely

enjoy them,” and nothing more.

She stopped in her tracks.

“Sounded like you got back just this morning,” she said

without turning around. “So, what’s the story?”

“. . .” Damn these thin-walled apartments. Actually I suppose

they do have their perks.

“Oh, I was just hanging out with a friend all night. Nothing

shady. Nothing exciting either.”

“A friend, huh? Wouldn’t happen to have been that

colorful blue-haired girl who came by around February, would

it?”

“Actually, Kunagisa’s an extreme shut-in. This was someone

else. A guy.”

She nodded with a look of complete and utter disinterest,

but I wondered if she would’ve perked up a little if I had said

“I was schmoozing with that killer everyone’s been talking

about under the big Shijô Bridge.” Then again, Miiko-san

being the way she was, it was entirely possible that she

wouldn’t have given me more than a “huh,” even if she knew I

wasn’t joking.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 5 4

She nodded, seemingly satisfied, and proceeded on her way

down the planked hallway. She was headed to her part-time

job. When I first discovered those weren’t just her indoor

clothes, even I couldn’t help but vocalize my surprise.

I shut the door and returned to the middle of the room.

But why did it have to be yatsuhashi? Come to think of it,

these were the exact same yatsuhashi I had picked up the

previous day for Tomo-chan’s birthday. It was a terrifying coincidence,

but there it was.

“Well, whatever.”

I stacked the two boxes and stuck them in the corner of

the room.

Looking at the clock, I discovered is was several minutes

past four.

Thirty minutes later, it was past 4:30.

“Well, duh,” I said aloud and lay down on the floor.

Well now. Wasn’t Mikoko-chan coming to pick me up at

four? Of this I was certain. I may forget things, but I never

misremember them. This meant Mikoko-chan had either

gotten in an accident, gotten lost, or was just a sloppy person.

But no matter which it was, there was nothing I could do right

now.

“Time for some Eight Queens?”

Of course, there was nothing as extravagant as a chessboard

in my room, so I’d just have to play it in my mind. The

rules to Eight Queens were simple, and concise—just place

eight queens on a chessboard so that none of them can capture

any other. It’s one of those “brain exercise” routines. I’d

played the game quite a few times, so I basically knew the

solution. But with my poor memory, I always forgot the exact

arrangement, so I was able to enjoy the game every single time

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 5 5

I played it. Okay, not that it was really all that enjoyable. But

it was a good way to kill some time.

I started strong, but the trouble set in around the fourth

queen. The game was starting to lose its consistency. Queens

just don’t get along with other queens. There should never be

more than one party in power. Moreover, if I allowed my

thoughts to wander like this, I’d lose track of where I had put

all the pieces up until now, and I’d have to start all over.

The thrill of sectioning off your mind like this was indescribable.

You could say it was something like the feeling of

walking on a balance beam, only the more pieces you placed

down—that is, the closer you got to a final solution—the

harder it became. In that sense, it was very much like a game,

and great in that sense. In the case of failure, there was no one

but yourself on whom to vent your anger, and herein lay the

real thrill.

And just as I was trying to find the place for the seventh

queen, there came a knock at my door and a cry of “Ikkun!”

The chessboard went flying. Queens everywhere.

For an instant, my heart, not to mention my thoughts,

stopped.

I approached the door and swung it open. This time, it really

was Mikoko-chan. She wore a pink camisole with a red

miniskirt, exposing a healthy and refreshing amount of skin.

“Morning!” she said with a wave. Then came the full-faced

grin. “Ikkun, guten morgen!”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“. . .”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 5 6

“Morgen . . . gen . . . gen . . . It’s like the Doppler effect or

something.” She was as spastic and smiley as I’d come to expect

her to be. Her eyes drifted away from me off into space.

“Umm, I was just wondering, and I know this isn’t the kind of

thing you would do, but . . . Are you mad or resentful or hatefilled

or cursing my name or anything? Actually, cursing my

name does seem kinda like something you’d do.”

“. . .”

“Come on, let’s communicate! Hey! Don’t be so quiet!

When you get all quiet I feel like I’m about to have something

terrible done to me!”

“Your palm,” I said.

“Hm?”

“Hold the palm of your hand in front of your face like

this.”

“Okay . . .”

She did as told.

Smack! I smooshed her hand into her own face.

“Gwah!” she shrieked in unfeminine fashion. Satisfied for

the time being, I went back inside to fetch my bag. Now

where had I put those yatsuhashi?

“Uwa! You’re terrible!” she said as she came into my room

for some reason. “You’re being violent with me just for being a

little bit late? That’s abuse, you know. It’s like forming a jurybased

judicial system, only all the jurors are O. J. Simpson!”

Apparently forty minutes late was only “a little bit late” in

Mikoko-chan’s mind. Without waiting for an invitation, she

came into the middle of my room and took a seat on the floor.

Plop. She scanned her surroundings with a look of true curiosity.

“Oooooo,” she sighed in awe. “Wow, there’s nothing

here. Amazing!”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 5 7

“You know, that kind of compliment isn’t particularly

flattering.”

“You really don’t have a TV! You’re like one of those

struggling students from the good ol’ days. I bet you study by

the light of fireflies! Does anyone else live in this apartment?”

“Uh, well, there’s one swordsman freeloader, one hermit,

a fifteen-year-old and thirteen-year-old brother and sister currently

running away from home, and then there’s me, so that’s

four rooms and five people. Up until recently there was an

aspiring singer here too, but she went to Tokyo to launch her

major-label debut.”

“Wow, so this place is kind of prosperous. Kind of a surprise.

So I guess that means there’s an open room here? Hmm.

It does have a certain ambience, huh? Maybe I should move

in!”

What could she have possibly seen in this apartment, in

this room, that would’ve given her such an idea? “Better not,”

I said, giving her the appropriate advice. “Well, let’s get going,

huh?”

“Ah, not yet. It’s still too early,” she blurted out.

“But won’t it be bad if we don’t leave soon? We’re already

pushing forty minutes here.”

“No, we just have to be there by six. Tomo-chan’s apartment

isn’t far from here, so even if we leave at five thirty we’ll

have plenty of time to get there.”

“Oh really?”

“Really,” she said with an index finger thrust skyward. It

was hard to deny the adorableness of her grandiose gesticulations,

but it didn’t seem like the thing I needed to go out of

my way to mention, so I didn’t. I didn’t want to get her all

excited.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 5 8

“Then why did you say four o’clock?”

“Huh? Oh, that. Well, you know. Ehh, I’m not so great

with time. It was just in case, just in case.”

“You mean there was a chance you might have been an

hour and a half late?”

Just thinking about it made me feel like blood might shoot

out of my ears.

“Huh?” she said, peeping at my face to catch my expression.

“What’s the matter?” she asked cheerfully.

“Nothing. I’m not thinking about anything. I’m definitely

not thinking about how you should maybe consider the feelings

of the person waiting for you to arrive. Or how you

should stick to the time that you designated. Or how you

should at least call if you’re going to be late. Or how you

should take better care of chessboards.”

“Chessboards?” She scratched her head.

Naturally she wasn’t supposed to understand that.

I found the yatsuhashi lying in the corner of the room and

cut the seal on one of the boxes. I placed it in front of her.

“Can I eat ’em?”

“Sure.”

I stood up and made my way over to the sink. I thought to

boil some water for team, but I didn’t have a kettle. I thought

of using a hot pot, but I had no burner in any case. So I just

poured her a cup of tap water and placed it in front of her.

Looking thoroughly baffled, she glanced at the liquid

thrust before her, but then pretended not to see it and didn’t

bother touching it.

She chowed down enthusiastically on the yatsuhashi.

“Asking this might be one of those things and all, but are you

poor, by any chance?”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 5 9

“No, I’m not particularly strapped for funds.”

Living in an apartment like this, I had no evidence to support

this statement, but it was the truth. At the very least, I

had enough money saved up to pay for your years of college

without lifting a single finger. Technically it wasn’t money I

had earned personally, but it was in my possession.

“I guess you’re sort of an economist then, huh? Or is it a

philosopher?”

“I’m just bad at spending money. Sort of the opposite of a

shopaholic.”

I helped myself to some yatsuhashi as I spoke. She gave me

a halfhearted nod of comprehension.

As she knelt on the straw-matted floor of my room, I

stared at her from top to bottom. Huh. Not that I was thinking

anything in particular, but there was something very

awkward about having her sitting here in the middle of my

room. I don’t know if you would call it unnatural or risqué,

but something about it felt incredibly iffy.

I stood up.

“Huh? Where ya going? We’ve still got an extra forty minutes.”

“Forty minutes is just a ‘little bit,’ right?”

“Ahh! Ikkun, that’s the kind of thing a big jerko would

say!” she said, recoiling overzealously. “You don’t have to hold

it against me forever!”

“I’m just joking. Let’s go get a light lunch somewhere. It’s

no fun just picking at each other in this empty room.”

I hoisted my bag over my shoulder and headed toward the

door.

“Aww, that’s not true,” she mumbled as she followed me.