Man proposes. God deposes. I am a man that proposes. But, in the end, that means nothing to God. All of us spend our every waking moment building a tower up to the sky. Whether we know it or not, our lives are spent in pursuit of hope and happiness, labouring with shaking hands to build for ourselves these blessings that only God can give. We can stack our bricks to the very heavens should we wish, but there comes a time, for all of us, where God looks upon our labour and, with a contemptuous flick of His hand, topples it. And it is in this place that I find myself, surrounded by the overpowering drumming of brick after brick breaking to dust around me.

It occurs to me, as I look across the living room at my wife, that this may be the last time I am inside this house that I worked so hard for. This beautiful house, on the outskirts of Tokyo, was clawed from the talons of one of the craftiest property lawyers in Japan, in the greatest victory of my now-extinct career; furnished with care and an exorbitant amount of money. I am quite fond of it. Yet despite this, everything that I own within this house is packed into bags and shut away in the spare room, as they have been for the past three days that Fujiko has been away. I may not like it, but I have accepted my fate. I am prepared for whatever comes.

"Has Katashi had any luck letting his apartment?"

Fujiko takes a deep breath at the realisation that I am now making conversation, but doesn't say anything until she's lit a cigarette.

"Very good luck, which shouldn't surprise you; he's a Sagittarius. They've signed a deal for sixty-thousand yen per month above the asking price, and the new tenants move in six weeks from Wednesday."

She seems surprised that I asked, and it's thrown her off balance. It says a lot that my asking any kind of question about her life is a shock to her; I can't remember the last time we had a proper conversation. What shocks me more is the smoking. We both smoke; I have done since I quit the University basketball team, and she's smoked for as long as I've known her, but for the eight years we've been married we've never smoked in front of each-other. In doing so, we've been able to pretend to each other that we've quit. Smoking in the house is the single biggest indicator that at the end of this conversation, this won't be my house.

"I'm glad to hear that. It's a nice apartment; if I had that kind of money, I'd snap it up. Does he have plans to buy another house?"

Fujiko looks at me the way she did when I promised her that there wasn't a surprise party behind the door that I'd led her to, blindfolded, on her twenty-fifth.

"Shintaro…"

We both know exactly what's going to happen, and I've lost so much recently that I've given up on trying to keep a hold of anything. What irks me, however, is that she hasn't once asked me to give her the house. It is simply assumed that I'll take the path of least resistance and let another man take my place. In truth, it'd be for the best at this point. My wife has been sleeping with another man for the last year and a half, and now wants me to give him my house, and the only thing that I'm getting worked up about it the fact that she hasn't asked me… I really am a bad husband. Not for much longer, however. I guess there's that.

"I'm allowed to be concerned for him, Fujiko. I won't hate him because of something you've done."

I'm very careful, as always, to say this without any hint of accusation; I've been non-confrontational for the entire duration of my marriage, and I don't intend to stop that now.

Fujiko, on the other hand, sighs and looks away from me.

"You should, Shintaro… You should hate him for taking me away from you. You should hate him for sleeping with me, and for getting on so well with Hiro, and for driving that stupidly loud car…"

A harsh chuckle racks her body, and I'm mildly surprised to see that she's started to cry. She knows it's goodbye as well.

"I know I'm one-hundred percent in the wrong here, I know that… But that fact that you've just let me leave you… it hurts, Shintaro. It does hurt. You haven't shouted at me once in the months since you found out, you haven't once said an unkind word to Katashi… you haven't made any kind of effort to convince me not to leave you, and you haven't even tried to fight me for custody of Hiro! I…"
She takes another drag on her cigarette, and I breathe a sigh of relief as her emotional outburst fizzles out. We're both in control now, as we always have been around each other.

"It's like you never loved me at all. It's like you don't love our son. Your entire world is being ripped apart because of me, and you smile that dead-man's smile of yours and ask if Katashi's let his house… Do you even care about anything?"

Inter-high Semi-Final

Rakuzan High: 103

Shutoku High: 101

It's nearing the end of the final quarter, and Akashi's finally decided to switch and mark me himself. Mibuchi has improved a great deal since last year, it's true, but Akashi must have a lot more faith in his team than I thought if he genuinely believed anybody other than himself would be able to mark me. In truth, I'd planned for this to happen from the very start, because this means that Takao is free to do what he does best… Before anyone can react, he's crossed over his mark and snapped a pass off to Miyaji, following up with a screen to create him some space. This play would normally end with Miyaji drawing the defence in towards the rim and passing out to me for the three-pointer, but Akashi's parked right in the passing lane. He knows my game so well, and the fact that his team are actually having to fight tooth and nail to beat us is only making him better. He's got a smile on his face, which is nice to see… after all those years of mind-numbing victory at Teiko, we're finally both having fun. Akashi's convinced that he's won this; the clock is running down, we need three points to take the game, and he's locked down any passing lanes to me. Takao doesn't have a good enough percentage from where he's standing to attempt any kind of shot, and we're such an outside-focussed team without Otsubo that we don't have a hope of taking on Nebuya under the hoop.

The clock continues to run down, and Akashi smiles at me.

"This was a fun game, Shintaro… You are an exceptional player."

I offer him a slow, predatory smile.

"Thank you, Akashi… Truly... But I'm a better player than you think."

I fake with my eyes, then sprint past him towards the hoop. My run shocks Akashi into a fatal moment of standstill before he follows, faster than any high school player should be able to. It isn't fast enough. While Rakuzan was focused on my run, Miyaji kicked out to Takao on the outside and he fires the three… except it bounces off the backboard and falls directly into my path. It's not a shot; it's a geometrically perfect pass directly into my hands. My heart is pounding with the thrill of movement. Akashi has almost caught up to me, but I don't focus on him; I focus instead on the hulking form of Nebuya, who runs out to meet me.

"Get Takao!" Akashi screams, running to intercept the pass he knows I'm going to make…

And this is when I know I've won.

"Akashi"…My voice is heavy with gravitas, and the weight of this pivotal moment in our basketball careers…

"There is more than one way to score three points."

Realising his mistake, Akashi begins to sprint back towards me, but Nebuya is already in the air to block me, and that's exactly where I want him. I fake a layup, win the contact, and with the ease of somebody who has been practicing this all year, pull the ball back around in a technically perfect double clutch layup as Nebuya crashes to the ground. The ball rises high above the basket, and the backspin is perfect. It hangs in the air like a broken promise, held up with the bated breath of every player on the court. Except mine. I know my shot is true.

The layup falls perfectly through the basket, as time stands still,and the score is tied.

Akashi is frozen in shock, and doesn't move, even as I make the free-throw with cold-hearted ease and the buzzer sounds on the restart.

Rakuzan High: 103

Shutoku High: 104

My team explodes into jubilation. I feel Takao crash into my back, screaming with excitement, and the entire sports centre vibrates with the sound of cheering. But amongst all this beautiful chaos, Akashi and I stand still, eyes fixed on one another. And I find that I cannot stop a slow, predatory grin from spreading across my face. I'm exultant, yes, but in this moment, I am the victor.

"There is always next year… Captain", I offer, and Akashi's fingers start to shake almost imperceptibly as he offers his right hand for me to shake.

"A worthy victory, Shintaro… You have impressed me, but I wonder if you have perhaps sacrificed a part of your strength in exchange for this one victory."

I look at his hand, and do not shake it for the time being.

"If I have impressed you, it is because you have underestimated me. I do all that I possibly can, and I always carry my lucky item… That is why my shots never miss."

Akashi is silent for a brief moment, before letting his hand fall back to his side.

"You really do remind me of myself sometimes, Shintaro… You smile like one three days dead."

He turns away and moves to line up with the rest of his teammates.

"No, I can't say I have very much to care about now, Fujiko… you have always helped yourself to everything that I have made, and it would be unfair for me to suddenly deny you now."

Any chance I had to fight this has long since passed me by, and truth be told, I am not inclined to fight. No matter how much man imposes, God will always depose. I can only stand aside and watch him work.

Fujiko's disappointment in me is easy to read, and the fact that she is more disappointed in me than I am in her is not lost on either of us. She takes a deep breath… exhales. Takes a drawn-out drag on her cigarette… exhales. Until finally, in a voice that is Atlas under the weight of the sky, she asks me,

"Where will you go?"

That is as close to asking for my house as she'll get, and I'm content to accept it.

"I have money… well, assuming that doesn't end up with you as well?"

She shakes her head.

"I won't take your savings, no."

I chuckle darkly.

"Just everything in the joint account… No, I'll stay in a hotel for a few days while I try to figure out what to do about working again."

She nods gently.

"You'll stay in Tokyo?"

"Yes… If that's acceptable to you?"

"Fuck what I think, Shintaro; let me worry about that. I… I'm not sorry. I won't pretend I am, and I sure as hell won't ask you to forgive me, but… I regret that your life turned out like this. I regret that you met me, and I regret that this… that I… have hurt you. I just… I just wanted you to know that this isn't easy for me."

I blink slowly in acknowledgement, and stand up. This is it. This is where everything that defined the life I led is to be left… in a living room that is no longer mine to live in.

"That's regrettable… Because it's easy for me. If I pass you in the street, I'll acknowledge you, but… please don't talk to me."

She nods in damp-eyed acceptance, and I make for the door, pausing to grab my coat.

"Have Katashi load my things into the Hyundai tonight; I'll pick them up when you're at work tomorrow. I…"

I pull my house keys out of my back pocket and toss them onto the coffee table.

"These are yours, and…"

I fumble with my wallet for a moment, and throw ¥1500 on top of the keys.

"Take Hiro out for dinner after you pick him up from school… Tell him whatever you like, but please... speak kindly of me? I'll have somebody contact you about divorce proceedings later in the week."

Shoes, coat, bicycle helmet, hi-vis jacket…

"Shintaro?"

I don't turn around.

"Have we not said everything necessary, Fujiko?"

She lets out a low, spiteful chuckle.

"When have we ever done that? No, I… Just..."

She's unsure, and I have the strangest feeling that these are the last words I will hear from my wife for quite some time. I turn, then – I will give her this, at least. Her eyes meet mine – deep brown as the earth, wide as the sky, and distant as the God who created them both.

"Please, wherever you go… whatever you do… just... do something that you love? Please?"

The quiver in her voice gently stirs some semblance of a heart in me, and for the briefest of moments, I am stunned. Such a simple request, and yet so far beyond anything that I know.

Man proposes. God deposes. With ambition, careful planning, and calculated logic I have built the skyward tower that is my life, to blueprints and specifications chosen to complete my life in the most fitting and culturally acceptable way. And in His distant omnipotence, God has seen fit to scatter it to the winds, right down to the foundations. And as I look at the rubble, I see bricks, mortar, and not one iota of love or passion. There is no room for love in what I have built, and as I slowly blink and turn to leave the last remnants of my old life, I wonder what a tower built with love would look like.

What do I love?

"Goodbye, Fujiko."

I open the door. I take one last, deep breath of the air of all my ambitions.

I leave and close the door behind me forever.

I have stayed in this hotel room before, and I have found it a comfortable place to be alone with my thoughts when the tower of my life begins to crumble. I have given and attended legal seminars here in the past, but my first stay here was the first of June last year. The night I came home from work and found another man in my bed.

The staff know me by name, and bring coffee to the room each morning. I tip them generously.

My room is spacious and clean. There is a good amount of storage space, in sensible places, and there is a balcony with a view that overlooks a public outdoor basketball court. I have smoked on this balcony frequently for the last six days and have seen nobody playing.

A mind such as mine was not created to be idle, but without work to turn myself to, I have idled and rotted here. My laptop is full of half-written job applications, none completed. Every morning, I have decided that I will leave the hotel and do something, anything, to keep me busy, and every morning I have decided against it. For six entire days, I have sat on my arse and smoked. Two days out of six I haven't even left my bed. I have started and abandoned fifteen different shows on Netflix, none of which have held my interest. I have watched various episodes of anime that I had left unwatched since my university days, and none have held my interest. I have scrolled through every single text message on my phone and have not messaged anybody. I haven't even checked the Oha Asa horoscope while I have been here, for what good is knowing how my endeavours will turn out when I have no endeavours to turn my hand to?

Yes, my life has been monotonous ever since I graduated and got married, but the monotony had purpose – the creation of the Japanese ideal, and the acquisition of money and property. I do not know if I have become depressed, neither do I have any great desire to find out, but it is certainly true that nothing holds joy for me anymore. My mind is an idling, decomposing vegetable in a warm, dark place, and as such, dark, destructive thoughts grow like poisonous mould around the edges. If this is what my life has come to, does life hold any meaning? And would it not be simpler to not be alive?

Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I am not suicidal.

I have no desire to kill myself. I have merely been entertaining thoughts of what it would be like to cease to exist. To have my name scratched from the Book of Life like wiping data from a hard drive. I am, at once, too strong, and too weak to take my own life, and neither is there cause to – there are millions in this world with far more cause to end it all that I. But who hasn't thought that the world would be no different without them?

It is twenty minutes past six in the evening that I am entertaining these dark thoughts, and through the fog of my mind comes the realisation that I should probably change into a clean set of pyjamas. I check my phone, more out of habit than anything else, and find no new notifications. My last text message is dated five days ago, from Katashi, of all people:

Morning, Midorima-san. Have loaded your belongings into your car, please feel free to collect whenever you like. As requested, I will stay out of your way, but please knock if you want coffee or a cigarette. I hope you are well. With respect, K

Bizarrely, I do rather like Fujiko's new man. He is incredibly polite, and the few times I have met him, he has navigated the gut-churning awkwardness of our situation with surprising grace and courtesy. On top of this, he clearly adores my son, and enjoys play far more than Fujiko or I ever did. If he does end up becoming Hiro's stepfather, I know that my boy will be loved and cared for.

That stings.

It is an unusual emotion, to be sure – I am glad for my son, perhaps more than I should be. But after years of growing up with two increasingly estranged parents that, on their best days, could quite frankly give a fuck, the boy might finally have a chance to be loved the way he needs to be. This perspective brings to mind the many ways in which Fujiko cheating on me is my fault. She has never said this to me – she wouldn't dare – but I have certainly been lacking as a husband and as a father. Perhaps my current situation is God's way of ensuring that my long-neglected son is taken care of. If my life has to fall apart for my son's life to be made better, I can understand the easy choice that God had to make.

I put my phone down, and begin to change. And it is as I am pulling on a new pair of pyjama bottoms that, for the first time in five days, I hear the painfully familiar sound of a basketball bouncing outside my window.

As I pull a fresh t-shirt over my head, I can still hear it, and it makes me wonder why the familiarity is so painful. Maybe it's because even now, over a decade since the day I last played basketball competitively, I can still picture the corresponding play for every single bounce of the ball? I can hear the subtle difference in tone every time the ball-handler transfers the ball to their off-hand. I can denote the changes in rhythm that accompany every single drive, and the sharp double-beat of a step back. This is followed by the long gap in the rhythm that I know, if I listen hard enough, will be followed either with the clatter of the ball hitting the rim, or the eternally satisfying swoosh of a perfectly made basket. I can hear every pass, every post-up play, every scuffle and steal, and I see it in my mind's eye, laid out in front of me. The scuffing of sneakers on the concrete – there are six players on the court outside my hotel room. I know this game so well I could even guess what kind of sneakers they are wearing.

But why is this familiarity so painful?

The footfalls and rhythm of the ball show me a three-on-three half-court game, most likely between junior-high age players – the timings of the dribbling give me an idea as to the height, build, and skill level of the players. I can hear from the bounce of the ball that one of these players is tall for his age, and from the scrape of his shoes I can hear him setting screens and rebounding.

I can hear the occasional shouted play called, and a high-level of passing fluency for junior high players. And this is what I can't quite place – the rhythm of the passing stirs up a bittersweet, half-remembered feeling in my cold, dulled spirit that I cannot, for the life of me, put my finger on. I've heard this basketball before. Somehow, deep in my past, I know that I have played this basketball before.

Why is this familiarity so painful?

I take a box of cigarettes from the bedside table (three left, before I start the next box), and carefully select one, before grabbing my phone and making my way towards the half-open glass sliding door that will take me out onto the balcony. I listen for a moment more before walking through.

There's a simple table-and-chairs setup on the balcony, with a close-to-overflowing ash tray that I have certainly put through a lot these last six days. I sit down, and light my cigarette, before turning my attention to the game taking place on the court below.

As I already knew, there are six players, and five of these appear to be in Junior High. They are dressed in casual sports training gear, and I can see a few school-issued sports bags on the touchline (from this distance, I can't make out what school then belong to, but the colour scheme is silvery-blue). The tall player that I heard earlier has close-cropped, pale green hair and a stud in one of his ears – with a slight raise of my eyebrows I notice he's wearing a Los Angeles Clippers jersey, with Atsushi Murasakibara's number 19 emblazoned on the front and back. Out of the six on the court, I can tell that this boy is a special player. Nowhere near the same league as the man whose jersey he wears, but he sets hard screens with a smile on his face, and communicates incredibly well in the pick-and-roll. He favours his left hand over his right, and his footwork in the post is impressive for a junior-high player.

He would have played well with Takao, I find myself thinking before I can stop myself.

The sixth player is not in school, that much is certain. He looks to be in his middle age, and is wearing a polo-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He isn't tall, but he's built reasonably well, and his movements on defence bear the efficiency that only comes with having played the game for years.

He is familiar, and I can't quite place why.

His hair is short and pale blue, combed over and held in place with gel. A pencil-thin moustache is visible above his upper lip, and he's wearing wire-rimmed glasses that he occasionally pushes up his face with a forefinger. I know this man. Somehow, I know him.

His team switches their defensive rotation, and puts him up against the tall, green-haired boy, and before I know it, the eerily familiar man has stolen the ball, passing it to one of his teammates. The ball is quickly passed back towards him, and suddenly I know who he is.

The ball touches his hand for only a second, and it is immediately redirected into the path of a driving teammate for an easy layup.

The man smiles, enthusiastically congratulating the scorer, and then he looks up towards the balcony. Towards me.

In a way, I always knew. I knew from the moment I heard the game. I knew from the rhythm of the passes, the fluidity of the teamwork, the flow of the game.

His face lights up in a familiar grin, and he waves at me.

The painful familiarity makes perfect sense to me now, and I cannot believe I didn't realise sooner. The glasses and the moustache are a surprise, but I should have realised from the second I heard that first pass. So familiar, and so ingrained in my very soul that even now I can feel my heart start to beat a little bit faster for the first time in longer than I can remember.

Even after all these years, how could I have not recognised the basketball which Kuroko plays?

(Author's Note: I have missed this place.

After an absence of a fair few years, I am back. I formerly published here under the name LawlietHolmes. This work will be quite unlike any of my previous works, which were written while I was still very much a teenager. Updates will be infrequent, and of a greater length than works previous.

Any and all reviews are greatly appreciated, and I am available through private messaging should you wish to talk to me (please do, I have missed this community a great deal).

Any romance which may or may not occur in this story will be slow-burn in the extreme. This narrative is basically a mid-life crisis in literary form, and all ofthese characters are very much adults, complete with all the emotional baggage that that entails.

Do enjoy this story.

Keep living,

melodramaticglassescharacter(the artist formerly known as LawlietHolmes) )