“A full stomach makes you sleepy,” Sensei said to me as I poured barley tea into his glass. I was indeed sleepy. I was going to comment on how lively the cicadas were, but I found it hard to open my mouth to speak. I realized that Sensei was lying down.

“You should have a nap too, Tsukiko,” Sensei recommended drowsily.

“I couldn’t do that,” I replied, but Sensei sounded as though he was already half asleep. By the time his breathing had become quite regular, I found that I too had lain down. The cicadas sure are lively. This time I managed to get the words out, but now that Sensei had fallen asleep there was no one to hear me. The cicadas are lively. I murmured this to myself once more, and closed my eyes. For a while, I was still awake, but sooner or later I must have dozed off. Even within my slumber, the persistent drone of the cicadas resonated faintly in my ears.

IT FELT AS THOUGH I HAD BEEN ASLEEP FOR a long time, but about thirty minutes later I found myself awake. When my eyes opened, they met Sensei’s gaze on the other side of the low table.

“You’re awake,” Sensei said languidly.

“I fell asleep.”

“I did too, so it’s okay.”

“Is it really?” What, exactly, was okay? Sensei and I remained where we were, lying down. A torpor lingered within my body.

“The weave of the tatami is imprinted on my arm,” I said.

“Where? Show me,” Sensei said, and he stretched out his arm under the low table. I leaned mine up against Sensei’s, and he propped himself up on his elbow to examine it, seeming to duck his head under the table to do so.

“Well, look at that. The tatami print is quite clearly marked on your skin.”

“Isn’t it?”

“On a much younger person, the marks would quickly disappear, but not on you, Tsukiko.”

“That’s a rude thing to say.”

Sensei continued to stare at my arm, all the way down to my palm. His eyes on my palm, he murmured something about me not having any wit lines, even though I had several affair lines. The vertical lines that stick out above your heart line are your wit lines, and your affair lines are the ones that run parallel to your life line, along the base of your thumb. Look, I have many wit lines, he said.

“Tsukiko, tell me a story from long ago,” Sensei said as he tapped on my palm. Sensei’s hand was warm. I remembered the feeling from when I was young, of always wanting to hold someone’s hand. But I did not feel the urge to hold Sensei’s hand. I did not want to feel his warm hand against my own. Sensei was still tapping my palm. It was the same kind of tapping that one might do while singing a lullaby. A certain warmth spread through me from the spot where he was tapping.