The recipient reached into the pocket of her dark grey power suit and flipped it open. It was a practiced motion--fluid, automatic. But her lips curled with a sardonic expression. "This is me. And you are?"
"YAAAA! Guess who!?!"
Funny how voice patterns never changed in some people. The businesswoman smiled against the pounding headache that came with this sudden auditory intrusion. The babble was incessant. Her stomach rumbled uncomfortably, perhaps in protest to the awful airline food she'd sampled on the way over. She could have gone first-class, but without being able to write it off, it hadn't seemed economical. "Hey."
"So are you going? Tell me you're going."
"I guess. I mean, I'm here, aren't I?" The woman sighed, reached behind her neck, and jabbed at a throbbing kink in her shoulder with French-manicured fingers. "How do you always talk me into doing these things?"
"WHAT things? I never see you! It's been five years at least."
The aging former redhead--it was all grey now--did some quick mental calculations and grimaced ruefully at her passing reflection. Tokyo was as dirty and crowded as ever, but the people seemed younger. Happier. Shriller. "Has it?" She realized dimly that the store she was peering into was a duty-free jeweler's. She smirked at the assortment of cut-glass 'diamonds' on display, and quashed the surge of jealousy she felt seeing a rapturous twenty-something-year-old couple soliciting the attention of the clerk behind the counter inside. Ah, to be young and to think you were in love. Had she really been like that, once?
"YES. Besides, aren't you curious about how everyone has turned out?! And we TOTALLY have to catch up. We can leave early if things get weird. But I don't think they will be. I mean, things should be totally cool. And you can stay at my place tonight if you want. It's all going to be great, I promise."
"You promise, hn?" Mamori didn't believe in promises. And what was she now? A divorced woman with children who were grown and bills that wouldn't allow her to retire. Or perhaps that was a lie. She had enough to retire comfortably, by now--but work was all that kept her going. She couldn't stop; work was her life. Besides, what would she do with her time otherwise? Her existence from the point of entering the job market had been one up-hill struggle after another--from the moment she'd decided that she wanted to go into marketing instead of nursing school, the world of commercial gain had split before her in splinters that had to be pried open with a combination of Japanese business ethic and ineffable female charm. Of course, the detritus of an ambitious life was not always necessarily pleasant. The moment she got home to her empty apartment was inevitably followed by the moment of discovery that there wasn't anything on television worth watching, and nothing in her inbox or phone log worth pursuing besides aggravated customers angling for a better deal, an annoyingly codependent soon-to-be-ex-husband who didn't want to finalize the divorce, and a pair of creatures who apparently were her children and required loans now and again. Maybe she'd used up all of her mothering instincts and tenderness on Sena all those years ago. Who knew? But life had ironically made Mamori into a rather disinterested and laissez-faire sort of parent. She was certain her old high school acquaintances would have been shocked. But things were different in America. Kids rebelled young and liked to be left alone.
Hell, she was alone. Maybe that was the reason the sound of Suzuna's nostalgically teenaged ineloquence almost brought her to tears. They agreed to meet at an American Burger outlet just a block from the airport.
"Oh, and my stupid brother will be coming. I'm sorry about that."
"Who?"
"My brother. You know, the idiot?"
So Suzuna's brother lived with her? Mamori was caught between dreading her stay and looking forward to it. At least she'd be getting a show with her dinner. "Just don't listen to him if he tries to give you directions," she suggested, lowering her voice as she did so.
She shouldn't have bothered. The reception crackled, and suddenly, Mamori was conscious of a third person on the line. "Ah-HAH-hah! Anezaki-san! You forget that I am a master of geographical distinction! I could draw a map of Tokyo from memory, and it would be more perfect than any pamphlet you could find in the office of central tourism!"
"I apologize, Taki-kun," Mamori observed dryly. She didn't correct the use of her unmarried name. She would be returning to it soon enough. As far as her treatment of the guy went, she figured the man was old enough that patronizing him wouldn't be doing Suzuna's brother any favours. "I still remember the boy that managed to misdirect the Shuuhei Elephants, and who led Sena onto the wrong bus and had him miss half of a game."
"Ahhh! IMPOSSIBLE! You must be thinking of someone else!"
"Nagano Hot Springs ringing any bells?" Mamori continued, before she realized she was being cruel. She rubbed her forehead. "I apologize, Taki-kun. It's been a long flight."
"Ah-HAH-hah! Don't you worry about a thing! We will be there as soon as possible! Isn't that right, my SISTER?"
"Yaaa! Don't you move, Mamori! And try not to fill up on junkfood! We'll cook for you tonight, okay?"
Mamori's stomach rumbled. She considered telling them that it was fine, that she'd just have a Big Mac or something. But then she thought about the way that greasy burger would taste, and her intestines clenched in premeditated protest. "I'll just have a milkshake."
"Yaaa! We'll see you soon!"
Mamori flicked the phone shut, and switched it to mp-something mode. Most of the songs she had were classical, but there were a handful of pop songs on there as well--a guilty pleasure. She switched to that particular playlist and headed towards the baggage claim area listed on the gigantic monitor that hovered chunkily in the centre of the Arrivals bay. Mamori bit the inside of her cheek, and stole another glance at the slab of levitating metal. Call her old fashioned, but items that large without fixtures holding them in place made her apprehensive. Maybe it was just that she was old, and couldn't handle change. She should fix that. You couldn't stay on top in the business world if you didn't embrace new technology. It was a sure way to fall behind.
She waited and waited, and approached the belt once or twice, but the luggage that she thought looked like hers never was. Half an hour passed, and she began to wonder if she was at the right station. She consulted an attendant, who referred her to the readout on the monitor. It was the right number: belt 63. Eventually the man told her that all of the luggage had been unloaded, and suggested she visit her airline's information centre and fill out a form for misdirected checked baggage.
Mamori clenched her fists and did as she was told. The line was long, of course. When she reached the representative she didn't hold back. The boy stammered, and looked quite put out. It amused her. People in this country didn't know how to handle an angry girl. It gave women like her an edge.
Later, as she checked the time and sat nursing her strawberry milkshake, Mamori reflected that she'd changed a lot from the person she had been at sixteen. She was still driven and organized and hungry for achievement, but her ideals and protective streak had been squashed by a sort of emptiness... maybe even loneliness that she'd felt after the end of all that business during her second year. After the Christmas Bowl, there hadn't been anything. Third year had been so awkward, and such a letdown after that insane comraderie and excitement that came with club activities. It almost frightened her to go back now, and see all of those people again. It would be like savouring the aftertaste of a meal that had gone stale before she'd sampled the parts she'd always wanted to try out. So many deep friendships that she'd allowed to fade into vague acquaintances. So many people that she'd cared about that had become estranged to her. And then, there was...
...well. That person probably wouldn't go to this kind of thing. It just wasn't stylish. Too pathetic, she reasoned. And yet, a sharp thrill went through her all the same.
But what was she now? A stranger to those bright days of glory long past. Mamori rose suddenly, abandoned her milkshake, and went to take a piss. The state of the bathroom was deplorable, but she washed her hands at the dirty sink anyway, and let herself look at the person in the mirror. She lamented once more at her generosity in giving herself up to be a model for her son's latest vocational ambition--hairstyling. It would be too much of a giveaway for her to sport auburn tresses at her age, so she'd gone for black. But then the boy had insisted on bleaching a sizeable chunk just off to the side, and colouring the sizable streak brown with orange highlights "to add a little drama." And of course, she'd reluctantly submitted. The colour had been semi-permanent, however, and was almost rinsed out while the black remained--giving her the look of a lopsided skunk. A radioactive skunk with fluorescent orange undertones showing beneath the strands of white, making her look like a stereotypical Disney villain. She wondered if perhaps she should bother trying to fix it before she went to that thing she'd come for. Or maybe she should leave it. That way people wouldn't feel so bad when she told them what she did for a living. But she definitely needed to have something done before her next business meeting, whenever that was.
Worst of all, she could see some grey roots coming in at the top. Ugh. Being a woman and looking professional was such a pain, but it was necessary. Being the good mother to a desperately closeted son enrolled in a criminally expensive glorified beauty school wasn't as imperative, but she supposed she had some guilt when it came to dealing with the boy. Mamori inspected her nails as she scrubbed her hands. At least those looked nice. The kid was good at something, at least. She sighed and ran them under the lukewarm tap water.
