The morning sun splays itself across the gleaming glass of Seiran Private University's main building, carving long rectangles of pale gold through the faculty lounge windows. Jessica Holt stands by the coffee maker, pouring herself a black cup, fingers trembling just slightly. The steam carries hints of bitterness and earth, a grounding scent. She sips, letting the flavor roll over her tongue—burnt, faintly acidic, nothing like the rich, chocolatey blends she remembers from home. Her heels click against polished floors, a quiet staccato, and as she crosses the room, she feels every glance scrape her body, a hundred silent appraisals lingering in the air.
She knows how she looks to them: too tall, too pale, too open, curves pronounced beneath a tailored navy dress that falls just below the knee, accentuating her hips, her calves, and the subtle swing of her stride. Today, her hair is parted and pinned loosely back, soft waves brushing her jaw. She wears simple pearl earrings, the only jewelry she allows herself on teaching days. Even so, every step, every movement, marks her out as the foreign sensei—the anomaly among the prim, dark-haired Japanese faculty, the subject of whispered commentary that pauses and resumes in her wake.
Two years in Japan and she still hasn't learned how to disappear. Her body refuses to shrink, refuses to become less. Students bow as she passes, some with genuine respect, others with furtive, hungry eyes. She smiles politely, voice warm and steady in perfect, careful Japanese, correcting an essay here, offering a compliment there, making her presence useful. Inside, a knot coils in her belly, a tension that never unwinds.
The seminar begins at eight-thirty, a lecture on the fragmentation of identity in postwar literature, her English measured, her Japanese sharp, every point illustrated with annotated slides and passages. The students scribble dutifully, heads down, faces inscrutable. Sometimes, when she glances up, she catches a boy in the back row staring at the swell of her chest or a girl frowning at her accent. Her lips curl into a practiced smile. She presses on, every movement calculated—elegant, accessible, untouchable.
After class, the halls throng with bodies and the sharp scent of perfume and deodorant. She moves through it all like a ship parting fog. In the staff room, Professor Watanabe, all tweed and clipped phrases, offers her a nod and a brittle smile. "Jessica-sensei, your lecture was most stimulating. You bring a unique energy to the department." The other female faculty, younger and plainer, bow deeply, eyes flicking from her hemline to her face and away again. She laughs quietly to herself, thinking how every conversation in this country is a contest of masks—who can wear theirs longest, who dares let it slip.
Messages ping on her phone. Her mother in Ohio:
Happy anniversary, sweetie! Can you believe it's been two years? Call when you can, love you!
A notification from Satoshi:
Ganbatte today! I'll try to leave early; let's have a special night. I love you.
She presses a hand to her chest, feeling the gentle flutter. He always texts, never calls. Japanese restraint is its own form of love, she tells herself. She pictures him—narrow shoulders, gentle hands, the curve of his mouth when he's thinking, the way he blushes when she slips her hand under the table at dinner. She wonders if he's thinking about tonight, if he remembers how she circled this date on the calendar, how she left little hints for him—a new perfume, his favorite wine chilling in the fridge, the barely-there slip of silk beneath her work clothes.
No one here knows it's her anniversary, and that privacy feels precious, even as it isolates her. In her mind, the word "fertile" pulses with a secret heat, her body attuned to every subtle ache and throb. Every time she crosses her legs beneath her desk, the memory of this morning's test flashes in her mind—the thin blue line confirming what she'd already felt in her bones. Ovulation. Danger day. She feels the press of dampness in her panties, a low, steady hum that has nothing to do with the weather.
The morning wears on. She meets with three graduate students, reviewing drafts, correcting grammar, pushing them harder than they expect from a Western teacher. One, a pale, nervous boy, stutters as he hands over his work. She leans forward, eyes gentle, smile encouraging, and feels his gaze drop helplessly to her cleavage. A flicker of amusement runs through her—she doesn't blame him. In this country, her body is always an event.
Faculty meetings drag, lunch is eaten at her desk—a neat bento, beautifully arranged, but tasteless. She works through the pile of essays, red pen dancing, eyes flicking to the clock, counting hours, then minutes. Tonight. Satoshi's text repeats in her mind, a mantra, a promise: I'll try to leave early. She smooths her skirt, presses her thighs together, and imagines his hands, his mouth, and his gentle praise in soft Japanese. A thrill tightens her chest, hope blooming raw and bright.
By early afternoon, the halls empty out, sunlight streaming over lacquered floors. Jessica closes her office door, leans against it, and takes a deep breath. She glances at her phone again, reading and rereading Satoshi's words. For a moment, she lets herself believe everything will be perfect, that the ache inside her will finally be met with more than silence.
She closes her eyes, presses her thighs together, and counts her heartbeats, each one a prayer for tonight.