There’s a shelf in my head where the afternoon lounges. It lets the sun in. Shows everyone my best side. How good I look in hip-swerving dresses and swinging beads as the subway whooshes up to the Tokyo platform. If other passengers have questions in their eyes the shelf can ignore them. Or daydream about how languorous long legs can be as they stride into the next English class. Hello again.

As the evening walls close in, the shelf turns on the washing machine, irons his shirts, folds another day into the cupboard. But one moment hangs in the quiet. How he smooths his hair back each morning, smiles into the mirror before he leaves. Itte kimasu! (‘Leaving now!) he calls out then vanishes into an office among the glittering mountainsides of Shinbashi windows. The shelf doesn’t ask when he’s coming back, files those questions away.

It had to happen. A wobble. Too many small things jostling for the shelf’s attention. Tissues. Ashtray. The heat of his skin on the futon. His eyes attentive, suddenly there. How was it? She touches the warm cushions of his lips. He’s waiting on her. Too much loud breathing? Always timed to fit his. What if he knows?