Birds chirping; gentle breezes caressing the sides of a house; early morning sunlight casting warmth against window panes as they release the chill of the fleeting night. All these things combined make the flora outside seem much closer, as if the tree line of the forest was at the foot of the bed, its furry and feathered inhabitants scurrying about their meticulous morning routines.
Take in a deep breath... No, even deeper. Not just the trees, but their roots. Breath in deeper with your lips parted and swallow the dirt as you dive farther.
No, even farther —
"Shit."
I'm barely finished rubbing the sleep away from my eyes when the concept of time crosses my groggy mind. The same sensation that had woke me from my dreams struck when I realize I'm already late for work. A noise of dismay sounds from my throat, fingers slipping through my hair in a habit I had gained only after moving to New York. The endless stress of publishing a volume of manga monthly has affected me in ways that even I hadn't noticed until Shihodani had brought them to my attention.
Stumbling through my studio apartment to get ready for work, I'm aware of how different the mornings are here, so deep in the heart of the city. The first few months felt like this, but the dreams started six months ago. By then I had gotten used to it. The sound of constant traffic, the mumble of humans as their feet walk and mouths talk; I had grown to live with the pulsing heart beat of city that never slept. Despite working in Tokyo for five years, and living on its outskirts, New York City was truly something else to behold.
I don't know why the dreams speak me to me now. The mornings they wake me, they occupy my mind as I prepare for the day and head to work. It's not like I'm that much of an outdoor-sy person, and I often return to Japan — to the very room in which I find myself during my recurring dream. Over and over, I try to decipher its meaning. Over and over, I come to the same san-answer conclusion.
The dream weighs heavily on my shoulders as I depart from the apartment building and onto the city's streets, already teeming with hurried footsteps. I slip into the current, fluidly, with a grace that almost reaches the league of Shihodani's own. This, however, he refuses to acknowledge, and insists on reminding me of the first few weeks after my arrival.
"Hey dickweed, watch it!—"
Swivel, search, a look of confusion—
"... excuse me—!"
Bump, stumble, strong fingers encircling my arm and steadying me. Shihodani's confidence pulls us through the murmuring stream. There's an amused look curving the corners of his lips and turns the corners of my own into a childlike frown.
"You'll get used to it, Tocchan," he speaks in a tone easily mistaken for condescension. Or maybe that's exactly what it is.
Looking back now, it makes me chuckle. I was embarrassed to seem so foreign, to not be a part of the pulse that was New York, but the attitude was different from that of Tokyo. The crowds here were not nearly as polite. Then again, I had been a stumbling idiot those first few weeks. Can I really fault them for letting etiquette slip?
The screeching halt of the subway pulls me back from my thoughts, and I join the influx of passengers, securing myself a seat not far from the doors. A yawn escapes me as I take the time to text Shihodani an apology for my lateness. Thirty minutes past nine, and I'm still 20 away.
Make that twenty-five. I better get coffee or I may not make it to lunch with a pulse still in my throat.