声をかけて (opens in new tab)

“Lock in, bitch,” I think, squatted over the public toilet. An improbable can of Mountain Dew perched on the ledge behind me; its original contents, it occurs to me darkly, are the same yellow tone as piss, as citrus veined on the branch. I rinse my hands and then exit, to the pink line, over the cherry blossoms in decline, creased suburbia. I change, at the dojo, into my uniform, beside a screen window next to the tracks; how many Tokyoites see a flash of my hairy pit, my laser focus?