The Floating World

Under my wiper blade this morning, this message, ink bleeding through the restaurant napkin from the night's humidity, a watercolor conveyance of this koan:

the moon:
I wandered around the pond
all night long

-Basho

Now: night breezes stir gauze curtains into a small dance, round and round, playing to the windowsill audience. Sultry. Cicadas sing their call and response love songs above the thick air. The napkin crumpled on my lap, almost forgotten except for the faint scent of her infused into it. From her purse? Her hand? Like charged particles, we attracted one another at this restaurant two months ago. She has carried its napkin this long. The logo in kanji reads:

The Floating World.

Then: she had me floating dizzily, my thoughts an unrepentant fantasy as I nodded my head toward the caress of her conversation, acting attentive while blood rushed in my ears, through my belly and even lower like a Shinkansen of sensuality thundering over me.

Meet me, I whispered as I brushed her cheek goodbye. I thought…no, I wanted to see that slight nod, that affirmation within the black slate of her eyes. The pond, I breathed, then turned to leave, my heart pounding so loudly I was certain everyone in the room could hear it, especially her husband.

Walking back to the hotel on the soft path, which dances beside the edge of the very pond I had intimated, I realize my folly. She would not show. How could she break away? Get control, I admonish myself, hands still shaking as I meander the dark path to my room. A cold shower. An X-movie. Relief.


I’d almost forgotten my proposed rendezvous. No, that's not the truth. I’d not forgotten, nor could I. Then this morning the note on my windshield. In a game of Go she has informed me it’s my move now.