The Long Highway Pt. 19B

Hiroko translated

I was thinking about why I like you. My older brother died when he was twenty-one. I was fifteen and in high school. He was at college. We were close. He was an inspiration to me.

He had a serious illness. I knew but not that it would kill him, not so young. My parents had known, though, and chose to keep the severity of his condition from me, believing I should enjoy my childhood free of that heavy knowledge.

Since there was nothing I could have done to help anyway.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" I asked my mother when word came of his death.

"He and I sent mail to each other every day, sometimes three or four times. Now what can I do?" I asked.

I wished my parents had given me advance warning. Then I might have gotten ready somehow. I was upset with them at first but later saw that even if I'd known ahead of time there was nothing I could have done to prepare myself emotionally.

Maybe that's why I needed to connect with you. Maybe it's why I looked for you, an older man, an inspiration. My husband is also older.

Anyone might ask why I do, why you and I connect from so far.

I cried a lot, not right away but later, unexpectedly by then. The tears just came out of me, beyond my control, like an orgasm. I didn't know when I would stop. I needed that.

Now I'm an adult and no longer mourning my brother but the deep longing remains. I din't think I would feel my heart broken if you and I stopped connecting. I'd feel wistful and look at what we had as a beautiful thing. I wouldn't forget you. I'd think of you as I did the other morning and smile and get wet- there's my answer to your question.

I just feel bad that because we communicate online I can't send you a photograph of my face. I was on a bus yesterday with friends from the art collective and wanted to show you a photo of that. Full of light through the window. It was late afternoon, the sun orange. Someone did take a picture and my black hair glittered in the light. I felt its heat on my neck. I think you would have liked that.

My brother was also an artist but only as a hobby. He studied something else in college. In his emails he sent me drawings he'd done. I have them, like a portfolio. Sketches of his life on campus, scenes in class, for example, people, sights he found interesting. I did too!

Last night Mitchell had friends over and while they talked I looked at our correspondence by date. I felt I was doing something behind my husband's back, but not really.

He doesn't come up often but did earlier this week when we went to the country to look at houses we might rent. Mitchell is on holiday break and had time.

We were led by Il-Seong, a student of his from Korea who knows the area and what's available, has family connections there. He volunteered to recommend some places, said he had two in particular in mind, used his car (one he borrowed from his father, a white SUV he uses for the Korean church where he is a pastor).

He showed us one of the two houses and we liked it, were so enthusiastic Il-Seong thought we'd made a decision and it was time to turn around, drive home. But Mitchell said he'd also like to see the second house just in case. "What if it's even better?" he asked. And the two were priced differently.

But I did not want to bother his student.

"You're not getting anything out of this," I said to him, "just using your time."

He was handsome with oiled hair that curled in front, a pale strong face, like a superman.

He said he didn't mind driving us but I sensed he had other things to do back in the city.

The second house was bigger than the other, wider, just one floor, wood-sided reddish brown with a peaked roof, visible in full length from the highway, perched on a low gradual hill near it. The problem was the home looked too close to a road that seemed to have traffic. We asked Il Seong if the flow of cars we saw then was there all day long and he confirmed that was the case. He wasn't trying to sell us on the house, isn't that kind of pushy person.

I wanted to do something for him, to make up for his time.

I was attracted to him. He was strong and muscular and serious and kind, sat upright in the car, keeping his feelings to himself. Generous, giving.

I wanted to see his tongue rolling on my breast. This is only a daydream and I can only tell it to you. He's so polite and I wanted him to get out of that. I knew how gently he'd do it and with how much fun.

Maybe he didn't mind staying with us longer because he liked our company. He and I got along in a quiet way, unspoken. I felt his force behind his silence, in his stoicism He was really handsome, with clear skin, a broad face, distinct masculine features but sensual, sensitive, intelligent. I like his lightly oiled hair, the wavelets in front, liked that he took care of his appearance, not for himself but for others to feel good when they looked at him.

Before separating we three went to a coffee shop. Over coffee he asked about my family and that's when I thought of and talked about my older brother.

Mitchell talked about a time he had a medical examination under anesthesia and partially woke up during it and didn't mind because what he'd been given made him high. He'd chatted with the doctor and nurse. He made our conversation in the booth turn funny.

When Il-Seong got up to leave, he almost forgot something of his, some small pieces of paper, white, some colored, receipts or tags. They were in a clear plastic sleeve with a zip top. I took it from the light blue vinyl seat (it was a retro style diner) and handed it to him.

"It's wet," he said, touching the top.

"Because I just washed my hands" I said. "That's water. Good wet."

That good wet is how I feel about you. Do you understand?

-- --

On the subject of water, a friend of Mitchell's who stopped by last night tracked in rain from the storm outside. Not realizing, he stood in the living room with his shoes still on and his umbrella, dripping. A puddle formed on our floor. Mitchell cleared it with the first thing that came to hand, a tee-shirt of his, old but one he liked, black with fine white characters- it's from Japan.

He saw right away that he'd made a mistake in his hurry, that the tee-shirt might lose its form from being used as a mop. He wondered out loud if it would be okay again even after going through the laundry.

For a while I denied I care a lot about my brother. My friends and family challenged me. "But you said before that you did." I think I was angry at him for leaving me.

Sometimes I imagine I'm seeing him, as if looking up a chute, his figure in light amid the darkness. There's pure black to the edges of the visual field and in the center a circle of white light, space defined by his strong forms. I've thought of making a painting of it.

Sometimes I feel angry at you, frustrated you're not here.