One Hot Summer in Kyoto. John Haylock

my vanity.

      The wretched drama begins again.

      I slip off the bench onto the floor, brushing my hand against the arm that is supporting her head. She moves her arm slightly.

      The drama continues. The family are still on the floor of the same room, but now they are eating at a table similar to the one in my dining recess, and their legs are tucked under them, not dangling into a hole.

      Suddenly, I get up and stand between her and the screen, bend over, and kiss her on the mouth. She responds, but with her teeth clenched, and then sticks out an arm for me to move aside.

      “Excuse me,” she says.

      “I am going to bed.”

      “Oyasumi nasai,” she replies, her eyes on the screen.