Jiro pulled his pillow over his face and screamed. He wanted to strangle someone. Anyone. But mostly his own grandfather. Grab the old man by the neck and twist until his hyoid bone snapped. But Gramps wasn’t here. He had abandoned Jiro and run off to India with a woman half his age. Here in this unfamiliar room, there was no neck to twist—except his own. So Jiro decided to take a bath instead.

In two minutes, Jiro was downstairs taking off his uniform. In three, he was naked and in the bath with hot, natural spring water sloshing around his neck. He let out a slow breath. Already, he could feel the anger flowing out of him.

He had been in Japan all of three days, and already two terrible things had happened. “The first month abroad is the honeymoon phase,” his friends back in Canada had told him. “Nothing ever goes wrong the first month. So enjoy yourself. The culture shock comes later.”

Well, his friends had been wrong. He had come here to enjoy himself, to escape the hell of a country where he had grown up and spent his first twenty-odd years. Working Holiday? Honeymoon? What a joke. All he had found in this island country was problems, problems, and more problems.

Problem One, for example. Jiro’s boss, who was also his grandfather, had run off with some woman and left Jiro in charge of the family business: an ancient Japanese bathhouse. Not only did Jiro not know anything about managing a bathhouse, until three days ago he hadn’t even known how to take a bath. Not in the Japanese style at least.

And there was Problem Two, which was even worse. The bathhouse wasn’t even solvent! Not just a little bankrupt, but super bankrupt. It was so far in the red that Jiro thought it a miracle the Japanese government hadn’t shown up, decked out in suit and tie, to confiscate the whole property away.

The fogged glass door behind Jiro slid open.

With a jolt, Jiro sat up in the bath and crossed his legs.

“Want some tea?” It was Kaori, one of the bathhouse staff. She was dressed, as usual in a kimono and carried a small tray.

“Th-this is the men’s bath you know.”

“Relax Jiro, there’s nobody else here.” He could hear her behind him, shuffling closer over the tiles in her bath slippers. At thirty-two, Kaori was the oldest staff member. Which wasn’t saying much because, as far as Jiro could tell, the bathhouse only had three other people on its staff. She was also a terrible tease.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Don't get too close.”

“Did you wash yourself before you got in?”

“Of course.”

“With soap? And shampoo?”

“Yes …”

“If you climb out of there, I could help soap up your … back.”

“No thanks.”

It had been Kaori who had taught Jiro the proper etiquette for Japanese bathing after he had first arrived. He had grown up in Canada speaking Japanese, but this way of communal bathing was completely new to him. But Kaori hadn't helped him out of kindness. Nobody did anything kind to him here, or anywhere. It was just her way of having a good time. For she had figured out a little weakness of his …

Kaori knelt down at the edge of the bath, careful not to get any water on her kimono, and set down a cup of tea near Jiro’s head. He felt a strand of her long hair, dyed brown and slightly wavy, brush against his cheek.

“Thanks,” he croaked, crossing his legs even tighter. He closed his eyes and told himself to breathe, breathe deeply. And think of insects. Worms. Vomit on a dinner plate. Fishhooks piercing into his unmentionables. Ten thousand fishhooks, thick, barbed, rusted. But it was no use. Something was building up inside him, growing, throbbing, swelling up higher and higher—

Jiro sneezed. And sneezed again, violently. And then he sneezed a third time, sending bath water spraying out in front of him, making waves on the surface of the bath.

“I can't believe it,” Kaori said with a laugh. “Just from a strand of hair? So you really are allergic to women.”

“Only the beautiful ones,” mumbled Jiro, wishing his heart would stop and save him this embarrassment.

“Well I'm flattered. And what would happen if I … you know?” She leaned over, put a hand in front of Jiro’s face, and made a fist. Then she started pumping it up and down.

“Stop that!

When he looked at Kaori again, he saw that her eyes were laughing. In his three days here, he had learned to both love and hate those eyes. Eyes, narrow, almost like those of a fox, that were always mocking him, teasing him, sharing some private joke at his expense. Jiro cleared his throat and took a sip of tea. It tasted like dirt in water.

“How is it?” Kaori asked.

“Oh i-it’s very good thank—” Jiro stopped. Those laughing eyes again.

“What did I just drink?”

She stood up, still smiling. “If I stay any longer the steam will ruin my kimono. Come to the meeting room after you’re done. We need to talk. Serious talk. But no need to hurry. Give yourself time.”

“Time for what?”

Kaori raised a sleek eyebrow in the direction of Jiro’s belly button. “Time for little Jiro to calm himself.”