Hey! Long time no post people....but I've been busy raising baby (who is now boy) and I've actually managed to write something recently that I want to submit to a local yokel anthology in my part of the world....I want to call it flash fiction or creative-non-fiction. Anyway, what do you think? As always I appreciate any comments (harsh or not) from my fellow esteemed writing mothers.

Japan
She rolled over on her back. Sunlight hit her hard in the face. Was it noon? Her body lay flat on the futon, which, in turn lay on a straw mat. The grassy smell revived her somewhat. Her companion lay basking in morning light as well and then turned over to meet her. Methodically, half-asleep in an exhalation, the two became entwined in an innocent mess of feet and legs and arms, coiling like snakes seeking warmth. They hadn’t ‘slept’ together; she was almost sure, but it was difficult to think just yet. She opened her eyes. He shifted. Her mouth stuck in some mute embrace, she mumbled a ‘hello’ to her companion.

“Umm,” he mumbled back, eyes closed.

They lay in her apartment: white, utilitarian, still with unpacked boxes against the wall. No furniture except for the futon and tatami, on which it rested, and TV set. There were some folding chairs good-naturedly propped against the wall in a “help-yourself-to-a-chair” sort of way for visitors. Nine months had already passed for her.

Half an hour of silence later, laying on bellies, arm and leg grazing her, he was reading the paper. She shifted. Now on her elbow, she watched him for a long stretch of time.

“Must be nice to understand Kanji.”

He continued his downward glance. His hair half hid his face. His pale brown skin like hers. His half-Japanese eyes. His nickname, Keanu. And so he was, she supposed. A sawed-off, less cinematic version. A known cad around town.

The hostesses, mutual friends of theirs, had been trying to get them to meet in a more carnal fashion now for the last six months.

Last night bleeding into this morning should have been…

Last night, the two, most unplanned and with a handful of expatriate bar boys and girls, sat pow-wow style in the alley outside their favorite bar. A rush of liquor bottles circled about her, traveling from unidentifiable mouth to unidentifiable hand. And the world faded out. Fading back in, the world dressed as middle-aged cops yelled in Japanese for her to get up and get out, she guessed. And in a storybook moment, dawn breaking over her solitude, he, who alone had sat with her through the long night in that alley and shared with her this quiet humiliation, similarly stiff, aching, lost in a whiskey haze, spoke to the fierce old men. He spoke in the blur of a bleary voice. In the reassuring tones of both angel and hero.

“Come on,” he said standing up and offering a hand, “They want us to leave.”

And so she, still on her elbow, remembered in sudden succession, a) the cab ride (to her home), b) a cat nap, and finally c) the mid-morning sun right now, as it was, where they lay. Nothing sloppy was exchanged between them—nothing awkward or even situational, although Japan can be such a whore sometimes.

Later that day, with sunglasses on, a few giggles and little to say, they somehow maneuvered themselves to the next party destination. They were greeted by knowing smiles and leers, a handful of nudges and wink-winks. They quietly separated. She does not remember what came afterwards.