O.

Sunday morning, her eyes suddenly open at 11 AM, Michiko awoke with a tugging sense of melancholy that caught her off guard. Never one to indulge herself in feelings, rarely put off balance by the mundanities others seemed to constantly battle with, she prided herself in her ability to rise above those demons that pulled others down.

But today, a nagging sense of unease with her life made her wake with a start. Strange, since everything was in order:

1) Sector 7A had been restored to a lower than expected unhappiness gradient after factoring in post-climate change seasonal adjustments.

2) The sex with Hiro was great, she was really able to open up with him in a new way since they both agreed that neither wanted a relationship.

3) She regularly saw her friends which gave her a vague (which was enough for her) sense of belonging.

4) The new BeDoTa–ya opened just a few stops from her on the Kourakuen line. Household goods from literally underground antique shops from the Kreuzberg district of Berlin were now available immediately in Tokyo.

Maybe her melancholy was the result of the slight fever she had been running throughout the last couple of days, or because of the unnatural, at least by pre-climate change standards, cold and foggy weather in the Tokyo summertime. Or possibly from the hangover due to the party at Club Blue in Omotesando last night. Whatever it was, the sense of angst was unfamiliar and disorienting.

First the memory then the physical sensation.

First the recollection of deep peace after a particularly intense orgasm had at precisely 2:05 PM when 20 years old with a 17 year old lover on a summer day on a tatami mat near Ikebukero station with the orange tree growing outside the window. Then the slight electric tingle in her right foot on this foggy cold Sunday morning.

First the curious sensation of wondering if her memory was actually of her, so long ago, throwing snowballs in Kamakura. Then the twitch in 0.3 second intervals in the 3rd finger of her left hand.

Can she really imagine herself as the same person who inhabited a particular physical space and time in the past? Hasn’t her body already replaced whoever that was, made up of whatever combination of cells?

(Explanatory note on Michiko’s Life: This episodic story is an on-going outlet for my inner Tokyo woman, an idealized super-modern, sleek, intelligent, and perpetually in motion sophisticate who participates in a highly secret government operation that astoundingly benefits the population despite popular cynicsm. Michiko questions herself mercilessly but only on those occasions which truly require it. She is the ultimate non-neurotic).