Hatagaya Lore Bryan Washington

We moved to Tokyo from Dallas because of my husband's job, an unexplainable tech gig.

When Craig told me about the promotion, he swore it would change his life. I didn't want anything to do with it-I had no interest in Japan. Couldn't find the country on a map, couldn't speak a lick of Japanese.

But I loved him.

Basically.

And he fielded most of our expenses.

It'll be an adventure, Craig said.

Most travellers don't survive their journeys, I said.

Always a well of optimism, Craig said, laughing.

I worked at a tutoring center, ghostwriting college-admissions essays for rich kids. Craig had his computer thing. Every few weeks, he murmured something about more cash, and half a year later we landed at Haneda.

Our apartment was a tiny little thing in Hatagaya. Deeply residential, a few stops away from Shinjuku. And a long fucking walk from the city proper. When I asked why Craig's company couldn't put him up somewhere flashier, or at least closer to a train station, and what was the point of slaving for Not Google if they couldn't even accomplish that, he said our situation was temporary. If everything worked out, we'd end up in a skyscraper.

After the first week, Craig was gone most of the day. The size of our home became less of an issue. I couldn't legally work, so I spent most afternoons willing acquaintances to text me back. Took long walks around the neighborhood, with its sloping side streets and telephone wires and tiny patio gardens. People either stared nakedly or ignored me entirely. Once, a lady riding a bike with her kid ran right into me-before I could even help her up or anything, she was back on the pedals, turning the corner.

Craig liked to fuck the second he got home, jumping out of his shoes and immediately getting inside me. One night, a few months in, sweating and pumping on the futon, he asked how I was adjusting.

Could be better, I said.

Have you even tried? he asked.