Listening to my car idle, I think about petrol in the tank, imagining the engine casually pulling coins from my purse as it sips. It's a simple exchange I accept of more-or-less equal forces. But if I press the accelerator and speed through the streets, this moment of equilibrium is lost – harmony falls out of balance, disrupted.
I think about this, and other things, as I wait below an expensive high rise at the spine of Nakano and Toshima. I'm to drive him—it's most always a man—to Ikebukuro. A smaller station is nearby but large stations are best for anonymity.
Our eyes make contact in the rearview mirror as he steps in. Some are surprised by a woman, but he is not. I say nothing, but he nods slowly—a customary bow, a gesture I do not return. His reddened, watery eyes drift to the street outside, then to the building above. I see him searching for his balcony. Perhaps he is hoping for one last look. I'm not meant to know why he's leaving, but do.
