D4T3

We matched on Tinder. Her profile only inferred she lived in Tokyo, and the only picture was shot from behind. I don’t think I was paying much attention when I swiped right. But somehow a few days later I get some notification that she did the same. I had recently read some highly pedantic articles on psychology on some blog, so as I opened the messaging part of the app, my language was probably just as arrogant, except in Japanese. I played the educated hipster, while she asked about the French concepts of love. Somehow we both keep sending messages, instead of just giving up after 2 days. This went on for a week, before I finally decided to ask her for a date. She replied with a heart emoji. « Gniii », I thought, picturing an old meme. We switched to Line to figure out the details of when and where. I spend the next two days looking forward to this schedule I duly marked on Google Calendar. Then finally it’s Friday and we’re meeting in one of the fancy areas of Tokyo. The Tokyo Metro app kind of said it was at a convenient intersection from our workplaces.

She waited for me at a bookstore chain near the station. She immediately recognized me, despite the headphones I was wearing. She looked gorgeous in her black dress, the short sleeves letting her arms breathe to the warm air of the Japanese summer night. We had decided to try out some highly-praised tonkatsu restaurant we found on Tabelog, and the GPS quickly led us to the way. The food was so good I almost cried. We talked for so long we lost the sense of time there. We talked of our lives, our dreams and experiences. We talked of some future, one which neither of us knew whether it would be realized. The shop was run by some old lady who looked at us the whole time, and she must have seen some sort of youthful energy in us that brought her some smile that couldn’t be hidden in her wrinkles. I thanked her for the excellent meal as I covered the expense, and I took my date to a walk by the river. I had my camera, so I wanted to try to snap some shots of her. She let me take some as she was looking down from a bridge.  Her hair, dyed brown, shone with the yellow cast from the street lights. It seemed none of us wanted to leave, but it was really getting late. Before parting ways, we decide to meet again on the coming Sunday. In the train, my heart beats a bit faster as we exchange some more messages thanking for the night.

Once at home, I see that she followed my Instagram. I follow her back, and inevitably start stalking some old pics. There aren’t many selfies, which is both reassuring, and disappointing. There are still a few cute pictures of her, and some people I don’t know, which I can only assume are her friends. They seem like fun people. But everyone seems like fun people on Instagram.

Sunday. At Ikebukuro. I’m a bit early this time. As I wait, I take some time to listen to the political rally that had gathered just in front of the station. Some guy on top of a truck equipped with speakers like cannons talks about how he wants to make Ikebukuro a better place. District elections take place soon, and he’s probably the favorite for this major area. Twitter is raging with pictures of his appearance. Meanwhile, she texts me that she’ll be there soon. I find a hidden place close to the exit to wait for her in ambush. I notice her as she arrives and tries to look for me in the crowd of people listening to the candidate’s mantra, and swiftly slip behind to surprise her. That made her laugh at least, for the lame trick. We saw the place I looked up was kind of shabby when we arrived near, so we asked Google for something a bit more fancy in the area. It’s Indian today, and we get a nice table for two with the view over a popular crossroad. We really do get along so well, we stay there talking long after the sun sets. She laughs at me dying from the curry I ordered too spicy. I laugh at her unchanging black dress. My mouth is still on fire as we head back to the streets. Regardless of the hour, Ikebukuro is always crowded. To make sure we stay close, I grab her hand, for the first time. It’s always hard to pretend that it’s cool. I can’t. Seems she can’t either. We remain silent for a while, as we walk towards nowhere. On our way there, we drop by some store to look at laptops, since she’s considering getting a new one.

We’re working the day after, so we should try to not stay out too late this time. She tells me it’s better I don’t stay at her place today, before I even ask. So we hug for goodbye near the train entrance, our eyes looking for more. As the week went on, we kept messaging, and miss each-other attempts at a call.

We manage to plan another date, two weeks weeks later. In the midst of the summer, with heat reaching its utmost highs, we get a whole afternoon together, to look around street art in museums and eat Bretagne-style crepes as snacks. As we keep walking forever aimlessly, her hand tightly in mine, and finally reach the fancy fashion district of Shibuya. There, paying no attention to the giant screens lighting the streets up with advertisements, she introduces me to some secrets of the fashion industry, wonder at abstract art in a temporary Vuitton exhibition showcasing futuristic drawings. We take so many pictures together it gets embarrassing. She takes a rest on my shoulder as we head back home on the train. And says that we really should not get separated, next time.

It becomes harder and harder to meet however, as her job keeps her late, and she gets exhausted. We do our best to keep in touch when we can’t see each-other. But as much as we know we have a lot of fun together, neither of us feels truly attached either. Sweet messages get replaced with just vain efforts to ask how life’s going, and the latest smartphone releases. Life’s going busy. Soon enough, we barely exchange a message a week, to confirm that we can’t meet.

Then nothing.