"Was that you? I said, was that you? Don't play innocent with me, now. I know it was you. You've done it again, haven't you? What is wrong with you? Can't you ever stop? We both eat the same food, yet you never hear me doing it. And so loud! It's enough to wake the dead! You've certainly woken me again. I wouldn't be surprised if you've woken the neighbours, too. You know how thin these walls are. I'm embarrassed to show my face in the mornings."
'And on and on she goes. She'll never believe me, no matter what I say. It's best to just lie here and let her say her piece. A word out of me now and we'll be up all night arguing. At least this way we might get some shut-eye once she's tired herself out rabbiting on.'
The room was dark. A faint light could be seen through the paper screens and the heavy condensation that clung to the windows. There was surprisingly little noise, considering how close they lay to a four-lane highway leading out of the city. The paper factory next door absorbed most of the trucks' rumbling roars as they sped through the night, rushing to make their deliveries before daybreak.
The husband and wife lay in their separate futons on the tatami mat floor of their snug bedroom. A sliding door at their feet led to a dining-kitchen, while another next to the woman led into the living room. A couple of yards from their heads were the sliding French windows, which led out onto the balcony. The window was locked just in case. A prisoner had escaped from the nearby jail and still hadn't been caught.
At one point, when it had all started, he had insisted it wasn't him. He had tried reasoning with her. But she would have none of it.
"It isn't me, I tell you."
"Well, who else could it be?"
He had come that close to venturing an opinion, but had thought better of it. She would have sooner admitted to shoplifting. And yet it was getting to be a problem. It wasn't just the constant accusations. It was the nagging feeling that it was all going to end in tears. And the worry was they might be his.
"Right! That's it! I've had it with you. Every night it is. I can't remember the last time I had a decent night's sleep. The trucks I can deal with. But you! You're like the wind section of a school orchestra. From now on, you're sleeping in the living room!"
In fact she had her own worries, too. For all her bluster, she knew that he was probably telling the truth. For all his sins, and he had his fair share of them, he was not a teller of porky pies. His honesty was not born of virtue, as both of them well knew. He was simply hopeless at lying. His voice would go all funny, and he'd get all self-conscious. It was one of the first things that had attracted her to him.
But if he was telling the truth . . . In the darkest corners of her mind, places she wouldn't gladly look unless she had to, the thought lurked that just maybe, it might possibly, perhaps be her. Making those noises. In the night. The thought filled her with dread. She wasn't turning into her mother already, was she? What a cruel trick of fate after all the years spent scorning the woman who had brought into this world.
Fighting with her fears and suspicions, she struggled to remain calm, lying in the warmth of her bed. Controlling her breathing, exhaling slowly, slowly, and all the way out, she pictured the beach she played on as a child. The warm sand underfoot, working its way up between the toes. The canvas bag slung over her shoulder, warm tin foil wrapped pies pressed against her skin. A seagull circling overhead, its white feathers flying past against the blue sky.
'But, what if it was me? What if I'm the one making the . . . .' She couldn't bring herself to say the word. It was as if by letting it pass her lips, she would be admitting the foul deed came from her. Out of her mouth, as well as out of . . . She tried to picture the beach, but it was gone. 'But surely I would know if it was me. I mean, I would feel something, a vibration or something of that sort.'
The next night he carried his bedding through into the living room and lay it down on the cold wooden floor. There was barely enough room for it, squeezed between the sofa and the desk, but she didn't seem to care. Being the corner room with two outside walls, it was considerably colder than the tatami room. Still, anything for a quiet life.
It felt strange to be lying down to sleep without her beside him. There was no gentle breathing to tell him she'd fallen asleep. There was no scratching as she clawed at the dry skin of her legs. There were no indistinct murmurings of a dream being lived through. And the futon felt a lot colder without her.
On the other side of the sliding door she tossed and turned. She could stretch out as far she wanted in any direction, but unaccustomed to having the room all to herself, she found she couldn't enjoy her new freedom. Somehow she didn't feel right. She couldn't get comfortable. And the room was too quiet. She could hear the sound of her own heart beating, and for some reason this filled her with sadness. Her toes were going slowly numb, and even scratching her legs brought her little relief. Still, it wouldn't do to get all sentimental now. She could hardly admit to him next door that she knew it wasn't him, hadn't been him all along, and would he now please come back and bring his bedding with him? No, she had come too far now to turn back. Once she got used to sleeping on her own, and had had a few good nights' kip, she would start feeling her old self again.