The train rumbles on through the subway as usual. Everything runs smooth, concurrent; just gears in the machine.

Yamazaki is another gear. He lays his head on the back of his seat, the vibrations echo through his skull. He’s too tired for the commotion to keep him awake. A ninety hour workweek has finally come to a close, and he needs to catch up on sleep where he can.

His dark brown eyes stare through his glasses and up at the ceiling of the train as he dozes in and out of slumber. It’s a pale beige color, almost flesh-toned, and the harsh fluorescent lights try to burn his corneas. Along the ceilings are ads featuring beer, swimsuit models, resorts, or a combination thereof. Everyone else in the compartment are suit-clad and as sleep-deprived as him; a common symptom among the salaryman. Work full-time hours, then full-time volunteer hours, then a few extra to truly show dedication to your company. How much longer can Japan last when more people are dying from overwork and less are having children?

The train slows with a heavy whir, then pulls to a stop. A few people collect their items and head to the doors, then once opened, they exit. A hopeful smile tugs at Yamazaki’s mouth; the train is at Kasuga Station. A small wave of people enter, and Curly-Hair walks on. She has tawny-brown skin and similarly colored hair held in tight curls grown a little past her shoulders. She wears a blue knitted sweater, a blue and purple backpack, black jeans, and black running shoes. Her light blue eyes make contact with his, and she takes off her backpack and sits to his right. As she digs through the pack now in her lap, the train doors close, and the machine starts up again.

She pulls out her smartphone and offers a green earbud to Yamazaki, and he takes it and pops it in his ear. She scrolls through her playlist slowly, the screen angled at him, and he chooses a song at random. It’s some mellow English song with an acoustic guitar, and the simplicity relaxes him. Admittedly, he can’t tell if that’s the intention of the song, or if he finds it that boring. His head rests against her shoulder.

One stop passes. She plays an old J-Pop song he listened to back in college.

Two stop pass. He somewhere between conscious and unconsciousness.

Four stops pass. Her elbow presses into his, and he jolts awake.

The light above the nearest set of doors read Higashi-Nakano Station. He pulls the earbud out and tucks her phone back into her pocket. Usually she finishes the song, but maybe she’s finished this time. He takes hold of his briefcase and steps off the train, then makes his way up the subway stairs. He feels someone bump into his shoulder blade, so he turns around to see Curly-Hair standing behind him.

What?

She usually stays after he leaves. But there she is, giving a sort of wanting look in her eyes. She might be trying to ask, “May I?” She probably doesn’t know how to speak Japanese at all.

He doesn’t hate her presence, though. He hopes she understands his intent and gives her a nod.

She nods back.

The two walk back up the stairs, greeted by the night sky and the warm, late-spring air. The street lights keep the pavement illuminated the whole walk down to his apartment. Once he arrives, he heads up the building, all the way up the steep staircase, and at the fifth level. He looks for the door with the number five-zero-eight, and once found, he unlocks the door and enters.

The studio apartment is snug, not cramped, like his previous one. It has sleek white cupboards in the kitchen and a decent electric stove top. He left unwashed dishes and pans in the sink, but they don’t smell, so he can live with it. There’s enough room in the living space for a sofa on one side and a queen-size bed on the other to still have a walking strip in between. It leads to a light oak desk where his laptop sits, and just behind that is a large window covered by milky-white curtains.

Yamazaki pushes his toes from one foot against his heel of the other to force his shoes off, and he shoves it by the countertop. On his left, Curly-Hair is kneeling on the floor to unlace her running shoes and places them on the opposite side of the mat, revealing bright purple socks.

The two stare at each other. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, and he doubts she knows how to ask. Hoping for the best, he points his index and middle finger at her, then to the bar stools. She nods and walks over, sitting herself down at one of two seats. He heads to the cupboard by the fridge and grabs two remaining plastic cups. He fills them with water from the tap, then passes one off to her. She takes a large gulp from her cup but sets it down with a delicate touch. She cleans the corners of her mouth with her thumb.

His instincts tell him to offer her something to eat, but his fridge is next to empty. He has some money to buy groceries, but he can never find the time for it. When was the last time he felt hungry?

He’s so numb.

College was fifteen years ago, when he spent half of the year skipping to go camping and drinking with his friends. He still remembers their names; Nanami, Yuudai, Rikuto, Fujimoto. Everyone dispersed when they entered the job market, but last he recalls, they were excited once. He grew frustrated with the extreme schedule, he wanted to kick and scream and take down the cyclistic system of overwork. He’s become another face in the crowd, and he can’t will himself to care anymore.

One of her hands take hold of his thigh.

His heart jumps and he looks over to see Curly-Hair staring at him, her eyes piercing through his with that same lost, wanting look. Does she want to do this? Does he have the energy? The last time he had sex, or any intimacy, was back in college.

He’s touch-starved.

There’s no one else left to satisfy each other.

The look is in her eyes again.

“May I?”

Yamazaki nods, and Curly-Hair nods back.

He doesn’t know who leans in first, but it doesn’t matter as they’re kissing each other. She presses each of her hands on his cheeks as she stands up from the bar stool, and he’s lead away. They walk around the cupboard wall separating the living space from the kitchen, and he pulls her to his bed. He stumbles back and falls against it, his back pressed into the duvet, and her body weight piles on top of him.

He reaches a hand up her shirt to take hold of her breasts, but his fingertips brush something round and metal. He doesn’t care in the moment. She takes off her clothes to reveal a small chain and two rings around her neck. It’s large enough for her to pull over her head and toss aside.

Once he takes off his glasses, his surroundings turn hazy. It feels like a dream without proper sight. He didn’t need to see her body anymore; it feels so good. His heart hasn’t raced with excitement in years. Trace amounts of anxiety nags in the back of his head; he might have a heart attack, she might not be enjoying it, but the fear and stimulation increase the adrenaline. She rolls herself aside, and he takes place on top.

He remembers that he doesn’t have protection, so he pulls out in the nick of time. He collapses on top of her, recollecting his breath, basking in her warmth. He falls asleep to her fingers combing through his hair.