Walking Practice

Contents Cover Title Page 56 km 37 km 21 km 14.5 km 0.9 km 0 km A Note from the Translator _ _ _ _ _ _ About the Author About the Translator Copyright About the Publisher 56 km I’m off to work early. This isn’t a regular occurrence. It’s out of necessity today because he says his house is only empty in the morning. He has too many choice qualities for me to let him slip through my fingers. And by “qualities,” I of course mean physical ones. I don’t know what kind of human he is: what he likes to eat, his favorite color, the kind of music he’s into these days. None of these interest me. We’ve simply exchanged a few words in a chat room and made a date. A fairly good-looking twenty-seven-year-old male—height 173 cm, weight 65 kg. And an eight-inch cock. That’s all I know. Oh, and one more thing, he lives at the top of a sixteen-story apartment building. Right now, I’m heading there on the subway. You have no idea how relieved I am to be here, sitting pretty. So overjoyed, I could burst into tears. No matter how you couch it, riding the subway feels disgusting: you dangle like ripe fruit from a hanging vine, squeezed in among humans swarming like bees. Especially on a day like this, when I’m not in top form, it gets harder to find my center of gravity on only two legs. That being said, the subway is so much better than the bus. It’s a miracle if I don’t fall over in those rattling steel-barred cells they call buses. It must have been two or three years after I settled down here. I didn’t really have anything to do, nor any place in particular I needed to be, so I prowled the streets until, exhausted, with nothing to show for it, I dragged my body to a bus stop. No, I must have brought myself there unconsciously. I didn’t plan to take the bus home. But in those days, I was unaware that the subway stopped running at a certain time. I had seen people hail taxis a few times, but the prospect of trying it myself overwhelmed me with fear. Back then, just raising a hand up so that a driver could see it was an onerous task. I wouldn’t have been able to endure the scrutiny of someone looking directly at the shape of my hand. Just imagining it made my hair stand on end. If I am to be completely honest, it keeps me from catching taxis to this day. Once, I plucked up the courage and stuck my hand out to hail one and a toe popped out on my elbow; the taxi driver, eyes nearly popping out of his head, yanked the wheel and sped away. From then on, I’ve always kept my distance from taxis. But there are steep stairs on buses. There are no-step buses now, but they’ve only just been introduced to the fleet. The first time I took public transportation, the height of the stairs was much greater than I expected, and I worried if I would even be able to climb them. All the stairs I had practiced on until then had been of negligible height and width. I grappled with gravity and climbed aboard the bus, claiming a small victory. The ascent was so laborious that I felt my bones might crumble, but the sense of accomplishment pleased me greatly. I thought the only thing left was to deposit my fare and find a seat. But before I could even catch my breath, the bus driver stomped on the accelerator, and I tumbled to the back and got wedged under the bench. I was coated in dirt and sweat and droplets of blood. Shocked, I couldn’t move a muscle. Nor did I have the leisure to feel shame. The driver swore like nothing I’d heard before, and the other passengers jeered. They didn’t even try to help. It never crossed their minds to reach out a hand, grab me by the tentacle, and pull me up. Ah, I was in far too disgusting of a state to arouse sympathy and a willingness to help. The high degree of concentration required to maintain my humanlike form was in tatters; my eyeballs drifted in opposite directions; my arms and legs contorted; and my abdomen swelled up like a balloon. They must have been thinking, if only you were just a little less repulsive, I would step forward and lend a hand. I don’t remember how I managed to get home after that. It was as if someone had extracted the splinters of memory from inside my head like you would pluck a thorn from your skin. When I opened my eyes, I was sprawled out on the floor of my inky black living room. My shoes and clothes had burst apart like the carcass of a cat crushed beneath the tire of a car, unable to withstand my form. Painfully hungry, I could have killed on the spot. I am hungry now. In fact, I only brave the humidity and the piss-stink of this environment because it is all worth it to get to him. Squeezing tight, I hug the bulky backpack balanced on my thighs. Inside it, all of my bright and shiny tools are sweetly tucked away in perfect order. They will help me satisfy my hunger. Whenever the subway rumbles, I keep my ear trained on the clinking and clanking sounds coming from inside my bag. I forget my hunger for the moment and fully relax. Drowsiness wells up within me, like it does when you sit in stillness and listen to the drip, drip, dropping of rain falling outside your window. The stress brought on by the train car being packed with passengers slowly fades away, and I drift into a shallow sleep. I wake up when my bag falls onto the