Last night, a party, a very drunken party. I met someone there and we exchanged numbers. This morning, an unread message. I reread all what I had sent that person and was embarrassed, yet unsurprised, to find that in my first message I called them a piece of trash. It must have been out of affection.
To soften the blows of the hangover, I opened a book on the origins of Japanese surnames. There are so many surnames. Enough to write a book about, enough to last an entire hangover. One surname literally translates to “alcohol well” – which is what I fell down last night.
I caught the 1pm ferry into town to meet a friend for lunch. Read Diary of Lady Murasaki on the way over, written at a time before Japan had as many surnames as it does now.
Two things happened behind me. First, a couple were speaking Russian. Then, after I got off the ferry, a man walked very closely behind me all the way along the waterfront. I don’t think he was doing it to be sneaky. He was wearing neon orange shorts. The color of the yolks you get in tea eggs. I decided to treat it as if it were a rare occurrence, like an eclipse or shaking hands with a president. How I was looking forward to lunch.