I don’t know whether you were doing it consciously or not, for my benefit or for someone else, but over the next few months there were things you did that would keep the spark glowing.

Whenever it seemed as if my interest was waning, you would change something about your appearance. That shoulder-length dark brown hair of yours, for instance. It had grown quite a bit over the months since we first met, and now that it was long enough, you would arrange it in a variety of ways. One day you would wear it in a ponytail; another day you would come in with your hair down, and yet another day you would wear it in braids. You would color your hair from time to time, too, something I said I wished I could do myself, but with that increasingly limited resource on top of my own head, I didn’t dare. You would go from dark brown to light. From light brown to jet-black with a lock of it dyed burgundy.

And one day, you came with your hair done up in an elaborate bun. I never liked women wearing their hair in buns until I saw you wear yours that way. It revealed a neck, so long and slim that when you stood next to me after class, your head tilted slightly with your neck curved towards me, it was all I could do to not sink my teeth into it.

And then there was the way you dressed. I’ve always had a thing for fashionable women—not the types who follow all the silly crazes, mind you, but the ones, like you, who had their own sense of fashion. When we first met, you were wearing those maroon Doc Martens laced up high and tight. You would wear them every now and again with a denim mini skirt and black tights or with tight-fitting jeans rolled up at the ankles, accentuating those long slim legs of yours. Some days you would wear a casual dress, another day, a nice skirt and blouse. So many different styles, from punk rocker to o-jō-sama[1] to studious co-ed complete with glasses. Anticipating what you would be wearing and how you would have done your hair became one of my simple pleasures.

And then one day in early May, we were having one of those perfect spring afternoons. The sun was shining and it was hot but not oppressively so. You came into my office wearing a loose-fitting white cotton blouse with an open neck. You wanted to show me some information you had found about Kitsuki online and as you were leaning over me at my desk, I couldn’t help but look down the opening of your shirt—we men are wired that way—and I was surprised, happily so, to discover that in spite of your otherwise willowy figure, you were endowed with full, milk-white breasts.

“I was thinking . . .,” you began, “and, well, I haven’t been there yet, so I don’t really know what it’s like, but . . .”

And I was looking down your blouse at your breasts and my heart started to beat faster. My breathing became strained.

“. . . that a fun slogan for Kitsuki would be ‘kitto suki’.[2] You know, like, ‘If you visit Kitsuki, you will surely like it.’ Get it? Kitsuki, kitto suki. Don’t you think that’s cute? When I first heard the town’s name, I was reminded of Nestlé Kit Kats[3] . . .”

Mesmerized by your breasts, I mouthed a dry: “I like it . . . I do . . . I do . . .” 

Appetite piqued, that night I gorged myself at home, so to speak.

“You certainly are energetic today,” my wife commented after I rolled off of her.

“Am I?” I panted.

[1] An o-jō-sama (お嬢様) usually refers a young woman from a good, often wealthy family. There is also a fashion look related to the term that is refined yet coquettish.

[2] “Kitto suki”, (きっと好き), which means “surely like”, is indeed Kitsuki’s marketing catchphrase today. I jokingly call it “Kitsui-ki” (きつい気, lit. “tough/hard+heart/spirit”) because the journey to the remote town can be exhausting.

[3] Nestlé Japan markets its Kit Kat candy bars at exam time with the catchphrase “Kitto katsu!” (きっと勝つ! Lit. [You will] surely win!), suggesting that if you eat a Kit Kat while you’re studying for your entrance exam you will pass. God damn, marketers!