Hammocks slung between palm trees, drinks with umbrellas, he uploads it all onto Instagram, hashtags #luxury #decadence #YOLO. When did hammocks become symbols of exotic relaxation? They were the beds of sailors, strung up in cramped rows, swinging wildly with the pitch of the ship. When they died, they were stitched inside and dropped overboard. He imagines Ayami, hanging next to him, stitched up in hers. They put one stitch through the nose just in case you were pretending or sleeping. Just in case.
His phone pings, retweets, likes. Looks amazing. When are you coming back to Japan? So jealous.
He reaches over and takes the spliff from her, penduluming away again, a solo Newton’s cradle.
When are you coming back? It’s coming up for lunchtime and he should be packing. It’s a twenty minute walk from the hostel to the bus stop, two hours on the bus to the airport, take off at 23:35. The trains, taxis, the ferry. Make your own way home. He should be packing.
She takes the spliff back. In her loose white trousers and floaty blouse she looks angelic. It took him so long to find her, to find anyone like her, so long alone, so much time with the wrong people. Ayami is a species apart. The sea breeze flutters over them, the scent of the ocean, of distance. She stretches, mews like a cat.
‘Come back with me. When was the last time you were in Japan?’
Ayami sips her juice. ‘Seven years,’ she hands him the spliff. They speak in English because he needs the practice and she won’t use Japanese anymore.
‘Long time. Come back with me.’
She shakes her head.
‘Seven years. Maybe they think you’re dead.’
She smiles, takes it back, ‘I am.’
An emailed ticket from his brother. It’s time. One message and the cage door slams shut. Time to go home. For appearances. For the funeral.
All the things he hasn’t done yet. Sand-boarding, bungee jumping. Ayami and him, they spoke about heading south, heading inland, elsewhere, always somewhere else. Father will already be in his box when he arrives, flowers around him, a stitch through his nose. Over the side.
Ayami’s hammock sways slowly in the wind.