Lacrimo Crystallinus

For the seventh time in the past hour, I glance at my reflection in the mirror, using cautious fingers to arrange huge, voluminous ringlets. It is my own hair through and through, but it still feels strange to me to have curled hair. I hadn’t done it since my sophomore year in high school. I stare at myself, making faces as I find new flaws to obsess over. The dress itself is silk. It is something I brought with me from home. It is a Chinese style dress with gold trim and phoenix patterns. It was always my favorite. A high collar accentuates my thin neck and short sleeves allow for easier maneuverability. The hem falls at my knee. I wonder if it is too revealing for tonight’s dinner, but Satoru assures me that it is perfect. I hope he is right.

When I finally manage to assure myself that I look presentable, I scoop all of the makeup into the small bag before returning to our bedroom to get my purse. Satoru is waiting inside, reading a piece of paper while shrugging on his suit jacket halfheartedly. I smile at the normalcy of this little glimpse of our life together. It feels like something out of a book. When he looks up, my breath is stolen from me in much the same way.

He is absolutely stunning. It is not as though I have never seen him wear formal clothing before, but my adoration is born anew as I see again his handsomeness as well as his natural aristocracy that is accentuated by the expensive-looking attire. He looks as though he is perfect: never late, never worried, never angry… possibly that he is inhuman. I smile and blush. He doesn’t seem to notice the depth of the realization I’m having, but he is smiling too.

“Beautiful,” he says, dropping the paper onto the bed to come toward me. It is enough. I lower my head under his scrutiny and look up at him through thick, mascara-darkened lashes, feeling the flush deepen in my cheeks despite all the times he’s told me I’m beautiful. His smile widens even more and his thumb runs across my cheek as if brushing something away. And then, his warm hand cups my face as he leans in to kiss me. It feels like slow motion. A heart pounding breath that seems to echo in the nearly-silent space and a fast pulse that thrums behind my eardrums. It all feels familiar—like the first time we kissed. This kiss is long and sweet and passionate and meaningful. Each emotion courses through me at once, confusing and thrilling me. I wonder if he feels this too. His lips are soft and sure, gentle and reassuring, and they dance with mine in familiar, comfortable ways. When he withdraws, I can only smile.

“Don’t be nervous,” he whispers into my ear, his lips brushing my cheek as he speaks. His hot breath blows over my face and neck, sending shivers down my spine. “They have every reason to adore you as much as I.”

“I hope so,” I whisper back, clinging to him with shaking fingers. My lips part into a soft, uncertain smile. “Koibito.” His arms tighten around me as he lifts my feet from the floor and I know that the word has made my subtle point.

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“How old did you say that you were, dear?” Satoru’s mother asks, sipping from her teacup delicately. This question is one that Satoru and I both dreaded beforehand, although we both fully expected it to come up sometime. Although he assured me that I didn’t have to answer, I know it would completely destroy any approval they might have of me if I were to deny them such information. Instead, I distract myself by taking a bite of the very expensive dinner that sits before me on an equally-expensive plate.

Satoru’s parents aren’t quite what I had expected. His mother is a thin, frail-looking woman who, though formal, seems to have a potent need for motherhood. She constantly reprimands Satoru for not contacting them beforehand and nearly pleads for him to spend more time with the family, although she seems to overlook the fact that Momo lives with him. While her words are softly spoken, I get the impression that they can also cut deeply if she desires to wield them in such a manner. Over all, I feel somewhat comfortable with her. His father, on the other hand, makes me a bit uncomfortable.

His father is a stern, silent man who asks few questions and makes no comment on most subjects. I do not know what it is that he finds interesting or engaging, and it is very difficult for me to get him to open up. Satoru’s mother doesn’t seem to mind his silence, but she often asks for his opinion to include him in the conversation. He generally responds with either one-word answers or gestures. I wonder for a moment if he is hard of hearing, but I decide that is not the case. His eyes meet mine often, but he seems most put off by Satoru. I get the impression that, even before, their relationship was less than stellar.

“I am eighteen, Mrs. Okabe,” I respond uncertainly, focusing on the swirl of a flower pattern on the plate. There is a bit of awkward silence. I don’t look up from my food, but I can feel her gaze catching that of her husband’s from across the table. I don’t want to speak.

“That’s… quite a surprise,” she says, her voice lacking the harshness I had expected. I look up immediately. She looks neither pleased nor displeased, though her gaze flits to Satoru’s passive face. “You are quite mature for your age, aren’t you?” I say nothing, but I know the question is rhetorical. “I would have never believed you so young, but it’s hard to tell anymore. You have that ageless sort of beauty about you, you know.” Her eyes are twinkling despite the fact that she was taken aback by our age difference only moments before.

“How did you meet?” Satoru’s father asks. I am surprised for a moment—it is the most he has said all evening. I look to Satoru to answer this question.

“After a live, we bumped into each other and talked for a bit. I wanted to learn more about her, and she was willing,” he says after a moment, a smile touching his eyes although his lips move only to form the words through which to tell the story. “And here we are.” His father nods, accepting the explanation, but making no particular comment. I halfheartedly focus on my food, finding it difficult to keep my hands steady. His father seems much like mine, I think as I dab my lips lightly with the violet napkin. Beside me, Satoru appears politely disengaged from the situation, but I know he must be as nervous as I, if not more. These are, after all, his parents.

“Am I correct in assuming that you are living here in Japan now?” his mother asks.

“Yes.”

“And you come from China?”

“America, I’m afraid,” I reply with a small voice. She laughs, using a hand to cover her mouth politely as if embarrassed to do so. The gesture reminds me so much of the man beside me that I feel my heart warming to her already.

“America is not so bad, I think.” She takes a sip of tea. “In fact, I am curious as to why you moved here. Is it merely to be closer to Sato-kun?”

I flush deeply, making the answer quite obvious. “Y—Yes, that was one reason.”

“And you are attending college here, too, is that right?” she asks, smiling despite the fact that I am acting like a shy child. I nod. “It is good of Satoru to be with someone as reasonable as you, Bao. I am pleased to see that he is treating himself better than before.”

I catch a quick glimpse of Satoru’s face before he pokes at his food to shield his face from me. Although his expression, to most, would appear blank, I see a flash of annoyance and pain in his eyes. It is gone almost too fast for me to see, but I log it away to remember for later, and turn back to his mother.

“Although, I admit I am a bit surprised with his choice. After all he said on TV…” she says, her smile disappearing as she tries to make light of something that obviously perturbs her.

“Mother,” Satoru says with a warning tone thinly masked by a plastered-on smile, “she has already heard enough of that nonsense. Please spare us further indignities.”

“Of course,” she says stiffly, “and I’m sure you’ve told her all about Carrie Ann and Jae Minh?”

His eyes regard her with contempt, but his silence is icier than any words one could speak. I shift uncomfortably, recalling the former name distinctly. He seems not to notice my movement, instead focused on boring holes through his mother’s wizened face. The moment of tense silence seems to extend into eternity, wrapping around me and constricting. I want to say something, but I know not what to say.

“I’m sure it’s time we left. Don’t you think so, honey?” Satoru’s mother asks her husband, who says nothing although it is clear his wife is giving voice to a desire that he had been keeping silent this whole time. Without saying farewells, she slaps a hundred dollar bill on the table, accepts her husband’s arm, and walks out of the restaurant. We are left picking at half-eaten, cold dishes of otherwise exquisite dining. It tastes like ash in my mouth, and I set my fork aside, unable to bring myself to attempt another mouthful. Even the beauty of the curling petal patterns on my plate seem less attractive.

Satoru halfheartedly chases something in red sauce on his plate before dropping the fork and cradling his head between his hands. I ease my fingertips onto the sleeve of his jacket, soothing him quietly. He doesn’t look up for some time and it causes my heart to nearly stutter. When he does, however, it only makes my heart wrench and twist. There are tears in his eyes.

“Satoru!” I gasp, turning his face toward me from the crook of his arm. He doesn’t fight me, and I brush the tears away. New ones spring forth to replace the old, however, and I’m left brushing tear-moistened cheeks with shaking fingertips. I look around, noticing the stares of the other customers and slide another hundred dollars on the table, not bothering to wait for change. Instead, I usher him out of the restaurant and toward a late-night train. There is no one on this particular one, and we sit together alone in the fast-moving train car.

“I’m sorry I ever brought this up,” I murmur despite the lack of necessity. He shakes his head and his hand clenches mine. I touch his face, trailing my thumb across his jaw line. It is soft, smooth, and perfect. I feel tears prickling my own eyes, and I brush them away quickly so that I can tend to his sorrow. “I’m so sorry, Satoru.”

“No, Bao. Don’t be sorry.” He clears his throat to rid himself of the croaking that comes with crying. “It was something I should have done when you first visited, but I didn’t. I’m sorry….” His head dips down again and he looks away from me. I want to touch his face, to promise him that I hold no grudge, but he doubtless already knows that. Instead, I trace circles on his hand and let him take all the time he needs, even if it means not being able to show me the pain in his eyes. I know it will make him feel stronger in the end.

“Satoru,” I murmur into his ear. He makes no indication of having heard me, but I know that he has. I pull him into my arms, cradling his cheek against my chest as I stroke his hair. “I love you, and your parents will never change that. If you can love me for my father, I can love you for yours.”

I feel his hot tears sliding down my skin and I hold him tighter.