“No, everything's still the same. Nothing has—it's just that I'm . . .” I shuddered at what I'd been about to say. It was something horrible.

It's just that I'm tired of waiting.

“It's just . . . ?”

“That I'm afraid I've been telling him some lies. And we had a bit of an argument because of that, you know, that's all. Nothing's changed. He doesn't like talking about his wife, but it sounds as if having to deal with her relatives is pretty hard for him, and that's only natural, and it seems like he goes to the hospital a lot. But I really don't mind. Not at all.”

“Really? Well then, that's all right,” Shiori said, smiling. “You know, I really hope the two of you stay together like this, on good terms. I was in on this relationship right from the start, after all.”

“Don't worry. We won't break up.”

It's strange, but I started feeling increasingly sure of myself as I said this, so that before long I felt completely carefree. I don't really remember what we talked about after that. That's how casual it all was. Just memories of our life together, stories from work, tidbits about makeup and about programs on TV, that sort of stuff . . . and all the time that hammock was hovering there in the space behind my head. Shiori's white shirt, water coming to a boil in her red kettle, steam rising over the hot green tea we drank, yes, that's all I remember now, just things like that.

“Well, I'm off.” I stood up.

“Why don't you sleep over?” Shiori asked.

It was tempting, but somehow the idea that I'd get to sleep in the bed while Shiori took the hammock made me feel a bit uncomfortable—after all, I was the guest. I decided to go home.

“Do you feel any better?” Shiori asked in the entryway.

For the first time that evening I swallowed my pride.

“Yes, I really do.”

Shiori's eyes narrowed.

“Maybe you need me to come sleep with you?” she said.

Evidently she was teasing me.

“Sure, if you like,” I said.

I laughed and walked out of her apartment.

The door closed. I took two or three steps towards the elevator . . . and then suddenly I felt something tugging me violently back, as if someone had pulled me by the hair. I yearned to see her face once more, but even if I turned around again—she was already on the far side of that iron door, she'd already stepped back into her own time, I could feel it, and besides there was nothing I wanted to say, nothing to say even if I did go back. And so I just walked into the elevator. . . .