Kyoto, Japan

𝐼t was a spring afternoon after your classes. That day you saw a foreigner, standing out in the crowd with his Western clothes and blond-brown hair. He held a map in front of him, clearly frustrated. Your family taught you not to talk to strangers, especially foreigners. But he raised his hand in your direction and asked if you knew English.

“A little.” you replied and were able to help him with directions. The next day you found him there again, asking for directions once more. You started to think he was doing it on purpose. Over and over again. It just happened.

Your father would kill you. Seeing his daughter with an American, the old enemy. But this “enemy” had charming eyes and a smile that made you blush. He looked at you with curiosity and admiration at everything new he witnessed. He was respectful, careful. He was a photographer; you helped him find the best places to photograph, and many times you were part of his shoots.

The small tours turned into long talks, then into weekly dates, then daily ones.

---

six months later

The red lanterns of the Gion district warmly illuminated the damp streets, and from the room, Marlon could smell the pleasant scent of the garden after a heavy rain. In the warm light, you rested, sitting on the futon, your legs drawn up to one side. The ivory silk kimono slipped from your shoulders, and the golden obi that should have kept it cinched at your waist lay somewhere on the floor. Your hair wasn't tied up; it fell loose over your shoulders like a waterfall, a dark waterfall.

Marlon pressed the cigarette between his lips, appreciating your expression. One hand rested on the back of his neck, lying on the futon beside you. He raised a hand, caressing your pale cheek, and then squeezed your chin.

— "I received a letter this morning."

You bowed your head.

— "Your family?" — you asked.

— “Work. I have to go back, to the United States.”

You blinked. You knew it would be like this; tourists always come and go, as if you were just another tourist attraction. But for him, you were more.

— “Come with me.”

You raised your eyebrows, still and clearly confused.

— “You don’t know what you’re saying.” — you said, shaking your head gently.

He sat down, looking at you for a second, then leaned in to kiss your shoulder, gently combing one of your jet-black locks.

— “New place, new opportunities.” — he insisted, cupping your cheek to make you look at him. — “I have two weeks, wish I can give you more but it’s all I have left here. Can you think about it?”

He knew about your family, about the customs and the expectations that weighed on your shoulders.