Unspoken Obsession

The sake is warm. It always is when I drink alone.

I tilt the cup and watch the lamplight catch the liquid, amber and lazy. Three empty bottles already sitting on the low table. The fourth is halfway gone. Not enough to blur her face. Never enough.

Nicole laughed tonight. I heard it across the compound, that sharp bright sound she makes when she forgets to be careful. She was talking to one of the junior assistants, some kid with a nervous smile and clean fingernails. She touched his arm. Just a brush. Just friendly.

I wanted to break his fingers.

Pathetic. I know. I'm thirty-two years old, head of the Kamisato clan, and I'm sulking in my own study because a girl ten years younger than me won't look at me the way I need her to.

The sake burns going down. Good. Let it burn.

There's a knock at the door. I don't answer. The knock comes again, harder.

"Lord Kamisato. Your guest has arrived."

Right. The guest. I'd almost forgotten.

I set the cup down, stand slowly. The room tilts, just slightly. Not drunk enough to be sloppy. Just drunk enough to feel less like myself.

She's waiting in the receiving room when I walk in. Dark hair, dark eyes, a red dress that clings where it should. She looks expensive. She looks bored. She looks nothing like Nicole.

"Lord Kamisato." She inclines her head. Professional. This is a transaction.

"Please." I gesture to the cushions. "Sit."

She settles across from me, crossing her legs. The dress rides up. I don't look. I look anyway.

"Drink?"

"If you're having one."

I pour. The sake splashes against the ceramic, and I watch it fill the cup, and I think about Nicole's hands. Small hands. She paints her nails sometimes, chipped colors she never bothers to fix. She bites her cuticles when she's nervous.

This woman's hands are perfect. Manicured. Still.

We drink. We talk. The conversation is nothing. The weather. The city. Her name. I don't remember her name. I didn't ask.

She leans forward, and her perfume hits me. Expensive flowers. Something French. Nicole smells like tea and paper and the faint salt of sweat after training. She smells like she's alive.

This woman smells like a product.

Her hand lands on my knee. "You seem distracted."

"I am."

"Do you want me to leave?"

No. Yes. I don't know what I want.

I take her hand, turn it over, trace the lines of her palm. She smiles. It's a good smile. Practiced. She knows what she's doing. She's done this before.

So have I.

I pull her closer. Her mouth finds mine, and it's fine. It's competent. She tastes like sake and lip gloss and nothing that matters.

I close my eyes.

And I see Nicole.

I see her the way she looked last week, standing in the rain without a coat, her hair plastered to her face, laughing at nothing. I see her the way she looked that first time, when she walked into my office and called me arrogant to my face. I see her the way she looked last night, when I caught her staring at me across the dinner table, and she looked away so fast I almost laughed.

She wants me. I know she wants me.

But she won't touch me. She won't let me touch her. She keeps me at arm's length, and I let her, because what else can I do? She's young. She's brilliant. She's wasted on a man like me.

The woman in my arms makes a sound. Impatient. I've stopped moving.

"Sorry." I pull back. "I'm sorry."

She looks at me, and there's something in her eyes. Pity. I hate it.

"You're thinking about someone else."

It's not a question.

"Yes."

She nods, smooths her dress, reaches for her purse. "It happens. You're not the first."

"I know."

"Next time, don't waste my time."

She leaves. The door closes. I'm alone again.

I pour another drink. The sake is almost gone. The night is almost gone. I'm almost gone.

I think about the first time I did this. I was seventeen, drunk on cheap wine and stupidity, in a room that smelled like smoke and sweat. She was older. She knew what she was doing. I didn't. I came home the next morning and lied to my sister about where I'd been. Ayaka believed me. She always believed me.

After that, it got easier. A pattern. Find a woman who wanted nothing permanent. Spend a night. Leave before breakfast. Repeat.

I told myself it was freedom. I told myself I was being honest. No promises. No expectations. No strings.

I was lying. I was just afraid.

And now I'm thirty-two, and I've spent fifteen years learning how to touch women I don't love, and the one woman I actually want won't let me near her.

The universe has a sense of humor. Cruel, but precise.

I pick up my phone. Nicole's contact is right there, at the top of my recent calls. I called her yesterday. About work. About a report she'd submitted. I could have emailed. I called instead, just to hear her voice.

She sounded tired. She always sounds tired. She works too hard, cares too much, gives too much of herself to things that don't deserve her.

Like me.

I almost text her. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. What would I say? Come over. I need you. I'm drunk and lonely and I've been thinking about your mouth for six months.

No. That's not how this works.

I set the phone down. I finish the sake. The bottle is empty. The room is quiet.

Tomorrow I'll wake up, put on my armor, and pretend I don't feel anything. I'll smile at her across the strategy table. I'll compliment her work. I'll keep my hands to myself.

And tonight, I'll lie in my empty bed and imagine she's there.

It's not enough. It never is.

But it's all I get.