I wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Wind blew stray pieces of newspaper to the far end of the platform.

“It’s okay.” She smiled weakly. “This was never any place I was meant to be. This isn’t a place for me.”

This place Japan? This lump of stone spinning around in the blackness of space? Silently I took her hand and placed it on my lap, resting my hand lightly on hers. Her palm was wet.

I forced words out: “There are some things about myself I can’t explain to anyone. There are some things I don’t understand at all. I can’t tell what I think about things or what I’m after. I don’t know what my strengths are or what I’m supposed to do about them. But if I start thinking about these things in too much detail, the whole thing gets scary. And if I get scared, I can only think about myself. I become really self-centered, and without meaning to, I hurt people. So I’m not such a wonderful human being.”

I didn’t know what else to say. And she said nothing. She seemed to wait for me to continue. She kept staring at the toe of her shoes. Far away, there was an ambulance siren. A station attendant was sweeping the platform. He didn’t even look at us. It was getting late, so the trains were few.

“I enjoyed myself with you,” I said. “It’s true, really. I don’t know how to put this, but you strike me as a real person. I don’t know why. Just being with you and talking, you know.”

She looked up and stared at me.

“I didn’t put you on the wrong train on purpose,” I said. “I just wasn’t thinking.”

She nodded.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said. “We can go somewhere and talk.”

She wiped away the traces of her tears and slipped her hands in her pockets. “Thank you. I’m sorry for everything.”

“You shouldn’t apologize. It was my mistake.”

We parted. I stayed on the bench and smoked my last cigarette, then threw the empty pack in the trash. It was close to midnight.

Nine hours later, I realized my second error of the evening. A fatal miss. I’m so stupid. Together with the cigarette pack, I’d thrown away the disco matches with her phone number on them. I checked everywhere. I went to the warehouse, but they didn’t have her number. I tried the telephone directory. I even tried the student union at her school. No luck.

I never saw her again, my second Chinese.

4.

NOW THE STORY of my third Chinese.

An acquaintance from high school, whom I mentioned earlier. A friend of a friend, whom I’d spoken to maybe a few times.