M. Darcy Takes a Wife
© 2006 S. Faith
Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.
Part 5: Coming Up Close (Welcome Home)
Monday 13 Aug (cont.)
She hadn't meant to fall asleep, but she must have, for when she next opened her eyes she found he had slipped off her shoes, carefully removed her jacket, skirt and top (as witnessed by the neatly folded stack of her clothing on the bureau, sitting beside a fresh vase of roses), and had covered her with the sheets and coverlet. She raised her head. No Mark. The clock read close to three P.M. Gah!
She found her mobile on the bedside table, and a note beside it, reading (in that same careful hand of his): "Don't get up. Call me."
She smirked, reached for her phone, turned it on, and dialed his mobile.
He answered with, "Good morning, sunshine."
"I'm sorry I fell asleep!" was all she could think to say.
"Darling, it's all right. I know how grueling it is to make that trip. Besides," he lowered his voice, "though adorable when you're sleepy, you're much more… responsive when you're well-rested."
Suddenly four weeks of no shagging caught up with her all at once. "Where are you?" she asked, her own voice dropping an octave.
"Just about to go down to the kitchen. Would you like something?"
With all kinds of naughty thoughts racing through her head, she replied, "Mmm. Yes."
"I meant to eat."
"Mark, be real. Anything you bring up here is just going to go cold."
After a couple of beats, he replied, "I suppose you have a point."
She turned over, snuggling into her pillow, phone still pressed to her ear. "I have missed you," she said quietly.
"If you give me a few more seconds, you can breathe it directly in my ear." She could hear his voice close in the phone as well as more distantly in the hallway approaching the bedroom. Seconds later he walked through the door, closing it behind him, folding his phone shut and looking meaningfully to her. She closed her phone as well, wondering if her gaze had become as smoky as his had.
He had showered, shaved and dressed, crisply clean in a light grey shirt and charcoal trousers. Mmm. As she watched, he began to slip out of his clothing. First off was the shirt, which he neatly folded and set beside hers on the bureau. When he turned back to her she was pouting.
"What?" he asked.
"Did you enjoy undressing me whilst I was dead asleep?"
He looked inexplicably embarrassed. "I'll admit, it was much less enjoyable than if you'd been awake."
"For both of us, I'm sure." She paused, tilting her head, jutting her chin out for effect. "And yet here you are denying me the same fun."
He raised his brows, yet a smile was quite evident on the corner of his mouth.
She beckoned him closer, then crawled to kneel on the edge of the bed. As he made his way to her, he thrust one hand into his right trouser pocket, then drew it out. There, dangling from his index finger, was her necklace. He grasped the ends of the necklace, then slid his fingers around her neck to return it where it belonged, then traced a fingertip along the chain upon her throat. She smiled as her eyes met his again. Her fingers brushed over his before she took hold of his hips and pulled him even closer. As she kissed him slowly and exquisitely, her hands went to the button on his trousers, unfastening it, then trailing her fingers feather-light along the bare skin just under the waistband of his boxers back to his hips. She sent them to falling, and as his clothing whooshed down, he made a soft moaning sound; he fell forward, knees meeting the bed, hands roaming across the planes of her back. His passion most definitely aroused, they dropped back onto the mattress, his thumbs looping under the elastic band of her panties and hurriedly pulling downward.
It had been far too long between shags and he was far more eager than she could ever remember him being.
……………
Bridget raised her head to confirm a suspicion, and laughed sharply when she did.
"What's so funny?" asked Mark, his cheek resting quite happily against her chest.
"Your trousers."
"What about them?"
"They're still 'round your ankles."
She felt him chuckle. "You're still wearing this, so I'd say we're even." He traced his finger along the lacy edge of the bra cup, down to the point of the V between her breasts. Mmm.
Resting back upon the bed, she said, "Promise me in future to take me with you."
"It's definitely a consideration for any trip longer than a week."
She combed his hair through her fingers. "I must say I was surprised to find you still abed when I came in, Mr Morning Person."
"I figured it might save some time."
Once again she could not contain a small laugh. "Now I'm really sorry I fell asleep."
"Don't apologise. It was worth waiting a few more hours," he murmured, then placed a series of kisses where he'd just run his fingertip.
She felt like her face went ablaze. Amazing how he could continue to elicit that reaction from her.
She heard the faint ring of a mobile phone. Bridget realised it was her own. She squirmed to find it and Mark groaned. "Bridget, leave it."
"I can't. It might be Richard Finch. It might be Jamie! You did tell Jamie where I was, right?" He nodded. "Where is that bloody phone?" Resignedly, he rolled over onto his own pillow which was in fact the same pillow her phone had ended up beneath.
He handed it to her and she opened it, greeted by a very loud, shrill, "Bridget?"
"Jude!"
The shriek in reply was audible even from where Mark was lounging, evident by the way he turned and looked to Bridget in alarm. Bridget mimed that all was well.
Having recovered usage of the English language, Jude asked, "When did you get back?"
"This morning, but I was utterly knackered. Just woke up a little while ago."
"So how was New York?"
They launched into a conversation about the flights, the convention itself (and how remarkably blasé she was now towards body modification), the Atlantic Ocean crisscross re: Mark re: New York / London, dinner with Rebecca (and Evil Natasha showing up during said dinner to try to bully her), and, in a more hushed tone spoken in War Council code as not to cause Mark distress, Daniel's surprise appearance at the convention and her satisfying revenge on him. It was more than twenty minutes of chatter with Jude before she realised he had left the room altogether.
"I'd love to come to Electric except… ugh, my body clock's all buggered up, so I think I'll pass," Bridget muttered apologetically, noticing that the roses had also vanished. What on earth was he up to?
"Maybe tomorrow?"
"We'll see if I've found my sea legs yet, as it were, but it's a strong possibility. Look, have to go - see you soon, bye." She hung up, falling back to the bed, wondering where Mark had wandered off to. "Mark?" she called out.
Her mobile rang again. She saw it was Mark, and she smiled. Silly man. "Where are you?"
"Had to escape War Council debrief. I'm in the bathroom."
"Okay, I know we said no secrets and all that stuff, but honestly."
He laughed. "Just come in here."
Highly skeptical, she rose from the bed, pulling the bed sheet around her, and headed for the door of the en suite bath, opening it. There, in the spa-sized bathtub, she saw that he had drawn water for her, milky with some sort of luxury bath concoction and liberally sprinkled with some of the rose petals. Best of all, he sat in the bath waiting for her, trousers and boxer shorts folded neatly on the vanity, mobile tucked safely away on the seat of the vanity chair.
Her reaction was immediate and two-fold: was he trying to tell her something about how she smelled? Was it possible she could be more touched at Mark's pod-person-like affectionate gestures since they'd gotten back together - roses, baths, etc.?
Holding the sheet under her chin, she reached back to unclasp the bra. Tossing it over with his boxers, she wandered closer to the tub. He said, "Hold on. Stop."
"What?"
"Leave the sheet there," he said in a most authoritative tone.
She raised an eyebrow, then did as told. She started to move again, and again he told her to stop.
"What, you didn't say 'green light'?" she asked, attempting a joke. She always felt a little paranoid under his gaze when naked out of bed, as if suddenly he might realise the error of his ways regarding who (or 'what', depending on how poorly her self-esteem levels were doing) he'd been shagging. Suddenly everything nasty Natasha had said echoed in her head. If they didn't have the shagging, what was left?
He paused. "You're just looking quite lovely like that, is all."
Oh God. He'd stopped to choose his words carefully so not to depress her - it must have been those euphemistically-termed curves. They were back full force and then some. Her whole posture slumped.
"Bridget? That was meant to be a compliment."
She sighed. "I'm chubby again, aren't I?" she asked sulkily.
Another long pause. More careful word choosing? At last he said, "No. What you are is a beautiful woman whose body I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about." He held his hand out to her in a beckoning manner, then pointed downwards. "Now get over here and into this bathtub."
She smiled sheepishly, stepping down into the water. O Heaven, O paradise. Delightfully hot, deliciously scented bathwater, and Mark simultaneously being sweetly romantic and provocatively commanding.
"Now there, that's nice, isn't it?"
"Yes, quite."
He took hold of her wrist and gently pulled her to him through the water, sitting her on his lap so that she faced him. He stroked her face with drenched fingers. "I overheard what you said to Jude about Natasha bullying you at dinner. I don't know why you didn't mention it before." He sighed. "I'm sorry."
"I didn't want to upset you. She's just so… mean. I don't know what you ever saw in her." Regretting what she'd said instantly, she met his eyes, but if the words wounded him, it didn't show. "Oh, Mark, I didn't mean…"
"No, no, it's all right." His hands went below the surface of the water to rest on her hips. Definitely more padding between his hands and her hipbones. Gah. "I frankly don't know why I kept going with her, either, especially with you right there in front of me all the while. Damnable pride." He tipped his head thoughtfully. "I will deal with her at the next available opportunity—"
"But Mark—" she protested.
"'But' nothing. I want to you banish thoughts of her out of your head, because you are the one that's here with me in an enormous spa bath. And I intend on washing you from head to toe."
She offered a shy smile.
"Now, turn around." She did, so that she sat with her back to him. "Close your eyes. Lean back." She rested against his chest, then slid down to let the warm water suffuse her shoulders, neck, hair, and scalp, feeling the tender touch of his fingers as he raised her hand out of the water, stroking suds along her arm.
Very nice indeed.
……………
"Now, don't get your hackles up," she said as he patted her dry with the plushest cotton towel she'd ever had the pleasure of feeling, "but I actually saw Daniel at the convention."
He almost dropped the towel. "What?"
"Hold up! Good news, he's living and working there now."
Resuming his calm, he said, "Good. Now maybe he'll leave us alone." He finished with patting her dry and took to running his hands over the pink and glowing skin of her arms and shoulders. "As you were saying…?"
She grinned. "He was trying to get me to go have a drink with him, and I flat out refused. He groveled about Thailand, groveled about how lonely he was, trying to get me to feel sorry for him."
"He will never change," said Mark.
"As he simpered on, I was hit with a brainwave. Best idea ever. Perfect solution."
She waited for a few moments for him to guess and when he continued to look blankly to her, she revealed, "I gave him the name of a poor, lonely fellow countrywoman who was looking for friends - or possibly more - to spend time with. One Natasha Glenville of the law firm of Abbott & Abbott. Two birds, one stone."
He looked shocked. "Oh, Bridget. You didn't."
Suddenly she wondered if it hadn't been such a good idea after all. Was he about to shout at her? Reluctantly, she nodded.
But then a huge grin overtook his features. "Bloody brilliant. If two people ever deserved each other…"
Smugly, she smiled. "I tried to tell you before I'd already taken care of things."
Tuesday 14 Aug
"Welcome back, Bridget!"
As Bridget walked into the meeting room, she wondered if she had stepped through a worm hole, in the manner of Star Trek or similar, into another dimension where she worked with a sane Richard Finch and appreciative, respectful co-workers. For around the meeting table sat the usual array of faces, only… they were all smiling. It was eerie. As she entered, they spoke the greeting in unison and then began to applaud.
"H—Hello, everyone…?"
Finch came up to her, clapping her on the shoulder. "Nigel and Clive finished editing your InKon footage this morning. The boys upstairs just finished watching it and they thought it was utterly great. You've done us all proud."
Was she still dreaming? Was Mark's mobile going to go off at any moment, startling the bloody hell out of her? She looked around, quite certain she didn't imagine eating a chocolate croissant and drinking coffee this morning. Would a brain invent a detail like a chocolate smudge on the hem of one's shirt in a dream state? "Well, thank you very much, Richard! Thank you very much indeed!" she beamed.
Taking her aside, Finch confessed, "I was a little skeptical that you'd pull it off, but I must say, you've pleasantly surprised me. Well done, Bridget; well done."
She blinked, still not sure what else to say besides gibbering more thank-yous. "When is it going to air?"
"They had so much good footage it's going to be a two-parter, tomorrow and Thursday."
She couldn't believe what she was hearing. A two-parter! She resisted the urge to raise her shirt tail to her mouth and start sucking on the chocolate smudge. Surely one could not taste in dreams.
Wednesday 15 Aug
"Nope. No ciggies for me."
They sat at Electric, celebrating Bridget's broadcast triumph. There at the table she, Jude, Tom and Shaz shared, Shaz sat open-mouthed. "You're fucking kidding me!"
"I'm not! Haven't had one since before Mark left for New York."
Shaz raised her brow. "Before, eh?"
Bridget relented. "Okay, okay, I had a couple - okay, a packet - just after he left, but it was an emergency and really stressful!" She drank from her wine glass. "But not one since then. And no more! This is a new chapter in my life. TV success—" They clinked glasses. "—perfect, fabulous fiancé—"
"—who's perfectly fabulous about shagging you!" said Shaz. It was a good thing their collective loudness was easily absorbed into the ambient noise that was the crowd of Electric.
"Amen to that!" chimed in Tom.
"And that marvelous fucking house. Have you seen it?" Shaz asked, turning to Tom.
"No!" Tom, at this point having trouble focusing, turned back to Bridget. "Bridge! Have us all 'round for blue soup and omelet!"
Shaz and Tom laughed riotously.
"Good for you, Bridge, really," said Jude morosely, swirling her wine around and around. She then burst into tears. "We can't all have shit, I guess."
Bridget reached around and put her arm around Jude. "Oh, Jude, it's not as bad as all that, is it?"
"Richard's gone and left me again, and I thought I might be sprogged up!" she wailed, breaking free of the comfort.
Tom and Shaz stopped their hysteria cold and looked to her. "Fucking bastard!" they chimed in unison.
Bridget reached for Jude's wineglass. "Surely you shouldn't be drinking then?"
Jude held her glass away protectively and blinked, as if Bridget's logic was not like Earth logic. "I did the test and wasn't, durr, but before I did I was going to tell him I thought I might be and he left, shouting over his shoulder that we were through!"
Vile Richard. They called him that for a reason. Constantly springing back and forth between being most devoted boyfriend ever and lecherous pig unable to keep it in his pants if he tried. "Ah Jude, I'm sorry."
They spent the next hour dissecting the sordid history and planned what next to do over additional bottles of wine with the tactical skills of a legion of Army generals. By the end of it, Jude wasn't crying any longer, but was instead righteously indignant.
"I don't need that man! He's not worthy of me!"
"Fucking right!" agreed Shaz.
"He didn't even remember my birthday!" exclaimed Jude. "What kind of fuckwit long-term boyfriend doesn't remember your birthday!"
Tom cut in, "Really!" Turning to Bridget, he said, "I mean, even Mark knew your birthday, and that was even before you started shagging him."
Oh God. Ever-increasing feeling of cold dread in the pit of her stomach. Bridget was vaguely aware of her lower jaw hanging open, beyond her control, as the interior of Electric went all swirly, and not from the chardonnay.
"Bridget? Are you all right?" asked Tom.
"Am the worst girlfriend - fiancée - whatever, ever," she said.
"What? Why?" asked Jude.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. It could have been any time. It might have even been tonight! And here she was getting pissed with her friends while he worked late, slaving into the night, poor man, poor neglected man, thinking no one, not even she, cared enough to remember…
Barely audible over the noise, she admitted: "I have no idea when Mark's birthday is."
"None at all?" gaped Tom.
"See? See? I told you." Bridget deflated. "Jesus." She knocked back her entire glass of wine in self-pity.
"And he's never dropped a hint, given you a clue?"
"Not a one." Surely he was the type not to draw a huge amount of attention to himself regarding birthdays. Probably liked to keep them low-key affairs. But surely he still liked them to actually be remembered!
Then she recalled something through the haze of alcohol. "Wait, wait, home movie."
"Huh?" they all asked simultaneously.
Bridget explained: "Played in Mark's paddling pool when four. My mother. Embarrassing home movies. Made me watch shortly after I met Mark."
Tom wrinkled his nose. "Ugh!"
"Your fucking point some time today, Bridge!" said Shaz, rolling her eyes.
"Well, movie was of little Mark's birthday party!" She waited for them to make the connection, and, as addled by alcohol as they all were, they did not. "Summer! Summer birthday! Or, maybe early autumn! Surely parents would not have outdoor paddling pool party in middle of December, right? Right? Surely that narrows things!"
"Too true!" declared Tom, then added thoughtfully, "Well, could have been spring, in which case you've fucked up and utterly missed it. And summer's just about over."
"Such a comfort, you," drawled Bridget, pursing her lips. Suddenly knowing his birthdate became an all-consuming obsession. "Have to find out. How can I find out?"
Shaz said, "Wild guess here, call me crazy, but: you could ask him."
"No!" Bridget boomed. "Would be like admitting that am world's worst fiancée."
"You could ask your mother."
Bridget glared at Tom. "See previous answer, plus: Mother would know am world's worst fiancée too."
"Nick his driving licence and look?"
Bridget blinked, stunned at the pure, simple genius of it all. "Jude, you are a top-level, world-class brain. Mwah!" She blew an air kiss.
Yes, that was what she would do. Though…
"How can I peek in wallet without him knowing?"
"When is a man most befuddled and unlikeliest to ask what you're doing? Post-coitus of course!" tsked Tom.
Thursday 16 Aug
The taxi dropped her off in front of Mark's house. Her house, she reminded herself. A bit unsteady on her feet, she meandered to the front door and after a few tries made the key connect into the lock. Brilliant!
She went in, sloughing off her light jacket and tossing it onto the coat rack, then pushing off her kitten-heeled shoes. She tiptoed in stocking feet towards the staircase and, leaning heavily on the banister, up the stairs to the bedroom, hoping to find Mark sleeping.
Blinking, she realised he was not there. Hm. Perhaps he was so depressed at forgotten birthday that he went for a walk. Or was on a wild drinking binge at the nearest pub.
Carefully, she made her way down the stairs again, wandering into the back area of the house where his office was. Normally she had no need to go in there, and in fact was a little intimidated by his office, what with the scary bookshelves lined with law-related tomes from floor to ceiling and leather on practically every surface. The door was closed but there was a tell-tale light emanating from beneath the door. She rapped on it lightly and when there was no answer, she cautiously turned the knob and went inside.
"Mark?" she asked quietly.
There at the desk he sat, pen in one hand, chin resting on the other as if paused deep in thought between putting two words down on paper. However, it was quite clear that he was fast asleep. She saw his jacket hanging on a hook by the door and, still tiptoeing, patted down the pockets for his wallet. Aha! She found it in the inner pocket.
She was just about to reach in when Mark made a little snore noise, startling the bloody hell out of her. The wallet dropped to the floor, forgotten. She whipped around to see him start to blink sleepily, the pen clattering to the desk. "Bridget?" he asked, almost as if he didn't believe she could enter his office and not wink out of existence like a vampire in sunlight. "Good Lord." He looked to his watch. "It's two-thirty. Did you just get in?"
Whoopsie, it being weekday and all. "Am fiiiiiine. Everything good." Her tongue felt weirdly thick and unmanageable. And what had happened to her pronouns and articles? Had she sounded like this while in Electric? Or were they all so blotto that no one even noticed the slurring any more?
"Are you… did you drink?"
"Went to Electric. Of course drank with girls and Tom," she said, grinning lopsidedly. Suddenly, this posh lawyerly office with leather-bound books and furniture, occupied by bedraggled sexy barrister man, was quite stimulating. She wondered how he'd react if she sat on the edge of his desk for a shag right there.
As she pondered christening another room in the house, he pushed his chair back, stood up, and walked past her, towards the door.
"Mark?"
He stopped, not turning around. "Come on, Bridget. It's long past bedtime."
She suddenly and inexplicably felt tears spring to her eyes. "Mad at me."
"No, I am not."
"Are too. No kiss. Nothin'."
He turned around then reached out his hand, which she took. He pulled her towards him, kissing her. "I am not angry with you. I just get generally cross when I'm very tired and it's too late for anything but a kiss goodnight. Now, come on."
Huge surge of relief. "Not mad… oh goody."
He wrapped his arm around her waist, assisting her up the stairs. "You may want to take a quick shower before bed. No offense, darling, but you smell a bit… smoky."
As if suddenly important, she informed him proudly, "Did not smoke at all!"
"I'm very glad to hear that. Um. Bridget?"
She fell to the bed, the billfold, the shower and shagging her sexy barrister man amidst leather all but forgotten. Mmm. Lovely soft bed. Sleepy sleepy sleep.
……………
Gah! Sunlight! Pain! Hamsters in head run amok!
"Bridget," she heard Mark say, sounding to Bridget like the booming voice of God, "it's morning."
"Go 'way."
"I thought you said you'd be fine."
"What?"
"Last night when you came in."
She buried her face in the pillow. "I'm a big fat lying liar when I'm pissed."
His hand stroked her hair. "I have coffee for you."
Her head jerked up, her brains seemingly swishing around like snow globe contents. "Oooh, that was a big mistake. Moved too fast."
He handed her the cup, which she cradled in both hands like a sacred artifact, sipping reverently.
"Shaz, Jude and Tom were impressed by part one, by the way."
"As was I." He bent and kissed her on the top of the head. "I'm very proud of you."
"Ow."
……………
And things had been going so well.
After riding the wave of accolades the past two days, Bridget was somewhat mystified by the change of attitude that day at work. Suspiciously, every time she approached a group of co-workers they suddenly went stone silent and averted their eyes, dispersing as if she was contagious with leprosy.
She thought she was just being paranoid until she saw Richard Finch, who looked like his mother had just died.
He said in a quiet voice, "Bridget, my office."
Her heart leapt into her throat. His calm manner terrified her more than his deranged, drug-fueled screaming rants of days past.
She closed the door behind her, and he sat down, steepling his fingers, staring at her as if unsure how to say what he needed to say.
"For what it's worth, I meant what I said on Tuesday," he said, his voice dark.
She dared not breathe.
"However. The public reaction to the segment— Have you seen the paper?" She shook her head. "Usually any publicity is good publicity, but the boys upstairs are feeling immense pressure from— well. The long and short if it is, they'll not be airing part two. They don't see the point."
Whew. Not so bad, then. She released a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding in.
Unfortunately, he still looked grim. "So, completely forgetting that they'd previously been hugely supportive of your work, the big boys decided on a scapegoat. And I have the unhappy task of wielding the axe."
Pit of stomach landed somewhere under Tube tracks. Oh, God.
"I'm sorry, Bridget. I have to sack you." She had never seen Finch look so contrite; in fact, she had never seen him look so human. She could do nothing but mutely stare. "I was barely able to convince them not to sack me. They were dead set against you staying. If you need a reference, I would be more than happy."
She laughed ironically, never imagining Richard Finch would so much as offer a tissue if she had a nosebleed. "Even though I was always late."
"And dressed in ridiculously skimpy skirts. And never did shag the boss."
Even though she was devastated at sliding from TV superstar to pariah overnight, she did manage a small smile.
……………
What she longed for most was comfort in Mark's arms, but it was only ten A.M., he was at work, and she didn't want to bring him down, too. She went back to the house, and suddenly remembering her mission, she decided to do a little sleuthing in the hopes of finding out when Mark's birthday was and give herself something to cheer up with.
She would come to wish she hadn't.
She found the wallet where it had fallen the previous night, and she opened it, looking for his driving licence. Ha! There it was! She pulled it out.
Relief washed over her when she realised she had not missed it after all. 23 September! She thought carefully. Hm. Virgo? Or was it Libra? Either way, very good match to Scorpio. Hurrah!
She went to tuck it back in when she realised a slip of paper had fallen out and landed on the floor. It was folded and had obviously been in there for some time, judging by the tattered and worn edges and the shiny-smooth veneer of the paper.
Mindful of cats and curiosity, she unfolded the paper and at first did not understand that what she was looking at were not rows of idle doodling.
Then beneath, what she presumed was a translation, in printing she had come to recognize as his:
Though I go to you
ceaselessly along dream paths,
the sum of those trysts
is less than a single glimpse
granted in the waking world.
What the hell was this? Why would Mark carry around what appeared to be a love poem in Japa—
Suddenly, something clicked: Mark's ex-wife was Japanese. Surely it was not a coincidence, as a random assortment of people, if polled, would most likely not have random Japanese love poetry in their wallets or handbags. If it was something she'd given him, why would he still be carrying it around after all this time? Betrayal or not, was he still harbouring something for the woman that broke his heart? She thought too of the gold band residing in the box with the ruby and pearl ring.
It was too much, too much, to bear in one day.
Through burgeoning tears, she carefully folded it as she found it and tucked it back in his wallet with the driving licence, set the wallet down where she'd found it, scaled the stairs, slumped to the bed and cried until she fell asleep.
Notes:
The movie footage Bridget drunkenly remembers is, of course, from the end credits in the American release of Bridget Jones's Diary.
If allowed inline images, there would be an image of the Japanese characters just below "…rows of idle doodling."
Reference / Links:
Section title: "Coming Up Close (Welcome Home)" by 'til tuesday.
The Japanese love poem by Ono no Komachi (with translation) can be found here.
