Someone once ask Danny DeVito if he had ever had angry sex. He replied, "Is there any other kind?"
Ms. Kishimoto, as was her wont, had a bit of a motor, one might say.
One late evening about 2007, after an intellectually stimulating game of checkers with Ms. Kishimoto in my apartment, I was using the toilet. Toilets in homes in Japan are often in a separate room from the bath. The smaller room is better soundproofed than an American bathroom. I had the door closed.
As I sat upon my less than transparent throne, I could hear Ms. Kishimoto speaking on the phone. Perhaps she has a phone call, I thought. She had. Quite.
As I exited the bathroom, I realised she was speaking on my flip phone. I heard Ms. Kishimoto adamantly asserting to the caller that Ms. Kishimoto was my girl fiend, erstwhile friend. I realised the caller was my future spouse. Not good.
As I gently relieved Ms. Kishimoto of my phone, I spoke with the caller, who, understandably, was a bit mystified, yet eventually, at least for the next decade or so, somewhat mollified. Apparently, the conversation had been (in Japanese)
KM Hello?
caller Hello?
KM Who is this?
caller This is Mak's girlfriend. Who is this?
KM You are not Mak's girlfriend. I am Mak's girlfriend.
Which is when I exited the throne room and joined the social intercourse.
One of the many charming aspects of dating Ms. Kishimoto was I could always be certain I would not be the most unstable person in the room. I have never known a hominid, male, female, or consenting gorilla,
more adept at going from laughing one minute to screaming lunatic the next nanosecond. On this occassion, Ms. Kishimoto cut the nanosecond in to a fraction of well less than several nanos.
At this point in my emotional recovery of my first divorce, most evenings I would finish work at the typically foreign labourer hour of 17:00 or so, meet a lovely for dinner, be farely sloshed by late evening, home some time about midnight, asleep sometime about early AM and up at 08 to shave, shower and s-word to go to work.
The Chinese word for attorney does not coincidentally resemble the word lush.
verse
He's got a broken voice and a twisted smile
Guess he's been that way for quite awhile
Got blood on his shoes and mud on his brim
Did he do it to himself or was it done to him?
verse
People think he don't look well
But all he needs from what I can tell
Is someone to help wash away all the paint
From his purple hands before it gets too late
verse
I saw him stand alone ... under a broke street light
So sincere ... singing silent night
But the trees were full ... and the grass was green
It was the sweetest thing I had ever seen
verse
He may move slow
But that don't mean he's going nowhere
He may be moving slow
But that don't mean he's going nowhere
Writer(s): Norah Jones, Lee Alexander
Miss you gf. Love to you & your daughter.
