Grey wool hat, Myrtle, and Hermine

I spent the whole night burning with a high fever, and when I finally woke up, the sun was already up.
I’d skipped work. Not part of the plan, but some mornings just slip beyond my control.

Today’s the day my first paycheck comes in.
Since returning to Japan, I’ve spent almost everything—on the lease, on house appliances..
Ah… finally, I can bite into fresh eggs and exotic vegetables again.
Just thinking about it brings back my appetite—along with the familiar flare-up of my compulsive buying tendencies, after weeks of frozen meals.

I pulled my grey wool hat down and stepped outside, thinking I should withdraw some cash and grab groceries.
It wasn’t really cold, but the fever made the chill sink straight into my bones.
Still, the hat helped. A little, at least.

A light shower had been falling since morning.
Unless it’s a proper downpour, I rarely bother with an umbrella—I hate having my hands tied up.
Because of that habit, my pockets are always stuffed with things—
lip balm, a pack of cigarettes, two lighters for some reason, wired earphones,
a few coins, crumpled receipts, my house key—
and the soft leather wallet Dad gave me.

(And of course, I’m very much a tote-bag person.
I only own one handbag—my favourite furry one.)

I wondered what color the wallet really was.
Color names are far more varied than people think.
It looked a little like the rind of a seedless watermelon, or the deep green of plants raised in the shade—
something close to dark cedar.

Its surface had a subtle texture, gentle and worn.
The slightly softened leather even seemed almost fragrant.

When I looked it up, the closest name of the color was myrtle:
a tree with wrinkled blossoms, its stem trembling lightly if you touch it—
which is why, back home, people call it the “tickle tree.”

With the thick wallet in my coat pocket, the weight felt heavier than usual.
Before heading to the supermarket, I stopped by a coffee shop for a hot coffee.
I wanted to read for a bit.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the relationship between Hermine and Harry in Steppenwolf.
Hermine lingers with me—a young prostitute, her heart steeped in the truths of life.

She’s a mirror who understands Harry—the old thinker who has resigned himself to a life without dancing and debauchery —
and at the same time, she’s the one who leads him into the world of ballrooms, and into life itself.
I absolutely love this mess. Diving into music is the most beautiful downfall.

Thinking of her makes me think of other characters too—
like Šebek’s partner in The Dispossessed (i can’t recall her name), who has the same intellectual allure,
though Hermine’s character gives the story a kind of cinematic texture.

While the bond between Takver (now I remember) and Šebek is forged through pain and the sharing of suffering,
Harry’s connection with Hermine transcends mere hardship; through her, he is led into an entirely different world.

Like an old man tasting coffee with milk for the very first time!

Interestingly, there’s still none of the eroticism present in Taxi Driver between the young prostitute Iris (Jodie Foster)
and Travis (Robert De Niro).
If Iris is the “tickle tree,” Hermine feels more like a calm, solid cedar—
or maybe the very color of a soft leather wallet whose name you keep trying to pin down.

My sentences keep stiffening—probably because I’m half-asleep while writing this.

Brewed my favorite beans today, but even a hero like coffee can’t shake off the cold.
A wool hat isn’t much protection, I guess.

Maybe I should’ve brought an umbrella today.

For dinner, I had some fresh beef, a few asparagus spears, and half a sweet potato.