One and Only

You’re surrounded. Muzak on an unending loop slithers under a hundred-voiced fugue. Assertion and insinuation echo through the sales convention.The machine-coffee you bought an hour ago is stone-cold. Undrinkable. Your throat’s dry. You try to convince yourself you’re not thirsty.

What are you doing here? You studied classics, you play the piano, you read—and that’s what you really want to do, isn’t it?

Or is it? Then why are you standing here, in your don’t-mess-with-me suit and pearls?

The answer’s simple enough. You’re ambitious.You like being in charge, the first woman whatever-it-is. You’re good at hitting your targets. Good at turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Good at being in the right place at the right time. Sometimes—you admit it—you’re ruthless.

Right now, you’re exhausted. Long flights across too many timezones assault you. You want—you desperately want—fresh air. You want to walk through the gardens of a small temple, see a cherry petal drift towards a stream, inhale the mossy scents near a camellia, hear the song of a bird you don’t recognize. You want beauty, you want art.

You want out.

Instead, you’re on duty, and on show.

You offer a never-gonna-be-customer a solar-powered calculator, just to get rid of him. It’s the only one of your company’s freebies that will still function next week. He stuffs it in his goodie-bag and leaves. You pretend you didn’t see him drop your business card in the wastebasket.

Your high heels are killing you, your jaw muscles hurt from smiling. Because you’re in Japan, your back aches from bowing.

You make a break for it.

Farther down the aisle, the Australian booth is giving away soft fuzzy clip-on koalas. You put one on your suit-jacket. You touch it. Somehow you feel better. You walk on.

Your company has a cubicle-office not far from here. Maybe they have water. Maybe they have Japanese tea. Maybe you can sit down, someplace where you won’t have to talk to anyone, where you can just—be.

But no. You’re one of the out-of-town big-shots. When you enter, the cadre of Japanese secretaries bow, giggle, and step back. They are so delicate in look and manner that you feel outsized, ungainly. One of them steps forward. In her white blouse with a dark blue bow, and her matching skirt and sweater, she looks like a schoolgirl in uniform. She gestures to a chair and brings you a large glass of water.

You read her name tag: Akiko. “Arigato gozaimasu, Akiko-san.” You wish you knew more Japanese and could thank her properly.

You say you’ll be going in a minute, drink the water, and stand up.

You hand the glass to Akiko. How can you show her how much it meant to have had this moment of peace, this respite? You have brought nothing with you. Wait—there is one thing.

You give Akiko your koala. “For you.”

She clips it to her sweater.

Her colleagues buzz around her.

“Kawaii!” Cute!

“Would you like one, too?”

“Hai, hai, duomo arigato.”

A chorus of excited voices follows your progress as you leave for the Aussie booth. You are on a mission.

The Australians live up to their reputation for generosity. When you return, your lapels are covered in koalas.

There are bows and smiles as the small bears are borne off, their tiny hands clasping belts, purses, jackets, hair-bows.

There is one left. You turn to Akiko.

“Would you like another?”

She shakes her head. “Thank you. No.”

She touches the koala you gave her.

“I have this. You gave it to me when you only had one. It’s special.”

In a moment of connection, without words, you look at one another. It is enough.

You bow and return to your post. Your heart and your step are light.

Back at home, you clip the last koala to the lamp on your nightstand.

When you look at it, you think of Akiko.