Slice of Life
Grass
He had a day off. It had taken a great deal of begging on his part, but the day--and night--was his to do with as he wished. He was grateful, but slightly confused. Since Aoshi had planted the idea in his head--the thought that he should not have to spend every single night working like he did--it had grown with the same kind of tenacious stubbornness as a creeper. It snuck into his mind and made cracks in the brick, walled box that was his thinking. There were other cracks, now that Aoshi had started pursuing him in earnest, but this was actually one that he, Shinta, could act upon.
Other ideas, like that of freedom, were still too fragile and he was too weak to hold them together.
He did not have any normal, man's clothing--or even boy's clothing--so he dressed in his kimono and fixed his hair in the customary tail at the nape of his neck. He borrowed shoes from Yoko and stepped out of the brothel and into the sun for the first time in years.
He had twenty-four hours, and he had no idea what he was going to do with them.
He went to sit by the river--gingerly, for he was still sore from last night. Men and women were staring at him. He did not know whether it was because they thought he was a beautiful woman in a kimono or because they realized that he was just a pretty young boy in a kimono. He looked at his painted fingernails and sighed deeply. It was nice not to worry about Rumi kicking him off his futon and forcing him into his whoring clothes. He gathered a piece of grass between his fingers and pulled--it came out easily and he began to slowly shred it. He thought about nothing, in particular, though he realized his thoughts were circling back to Aoshi almost constantly.
The shreds of grass went into the river. He watched them float away like so many tiny green corpses, and for a ridiculous instant, he was incredibly sad. He thought about saying a prayer for the grass. He regretted killing it.
Someone sat beside him. Shinta started and turned his head, red ponytail whipping at his face.
Aoshi.
Shinta felt his cheeks flushing.
Oh, dear.
"You're not working," Aoshi commented.
Shinta shook his head.
"But you're still wearing a woman's kimono."
"I . . . don't have anything else."
Aoshi's eyes drifted away from Shinta's, to the river. They sat quietly for a long time, then Aoshi said, "I didn't expect to see you here. I didn't expect you to do it."
"I needed time to think," Shinta said before he actually thought about saying it. He cursed himself, his tiny hand forming a sad excuse for a fist.
"About what?"
Shinta shrugged and pasted the whore's smile on his face. Aoshi regarded him and said smoothly, "I wish you wouldn't do that with me, Shint."
"I don't know how to do anything else," Shinta told him. "I can't remember the last time I smiled because I was happy and not because I was trying to get someone to go upstairs with me. I . . . I don't remember how, I think." The smile slid off, and he stared at the river. Beside him, Aoshi reached to pluck a blade of grass.
Shinta put his hands over Aoshi's. Shinta's heart was in his eyes. "Leave it alone, Aoshi. It's growing."
"It'll just get stepped on," Aoshi replied.
"Maybe it won't."
"It will."
"It should have a chance, anyway."
Shinta pulled his hands away. Aoshi did.
"Is the grass that important to you?"
"I'm like grass."
Aoshi blinked. "You're not."
"I get plucked up and torn to pieces and nobody cares."
Aoshi moved, and his hands were warm on Shinta's shoulder. "You're not grass."
Shinta regarded him with a sad smile. He would not bother explaining it to Aoshi again, because Aoshi would never understand. Shinta was like the grass--simple and fragile, just wanting to fill in the spaces between the stones and the flowers. But all Aoshi--and Rumi and Yoko and everyone else--ever saw was a rose.
Part Three |
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