Waifu

	Before I went to San Francisco, the first thing that always came to my mind about the place was Jack London. Can you blame me, majoring in literature and always being a bookworm? I don't think it ever was different to you, the book girl. Besides, my particular love for Dostoevsky has presented me not only with beautiful stories, but also to the best accident that ever happened to me: a Japanese transfer student looking for the same book, "The Idiot". It feels ironic. Absent-minded, we grabbed the same edition on the shelve, both of us flinching back as our hands touched.
	That's what got us shyly to chat about literature. With time it wasn't just chance encounters at the library anymore, although calling it "chance" in this sense sounds wrong, given that we are almost everyday at the library. I took a chance when I asked you out for coffee, almost certain that you were too busy or expecting any other excuse of the sort. I would accept it with dignity, I made myself swear.
	But you agreed, in your usual bashful way.
	And so we started dating, without ever mentioning the word.
	I told you about my childhood in Germany, you told me about Japan. We went for funny stuff, stupid stuff, stuff we may have overthought. About your uncle's bookstore. About the beauty of books. How my Dad used to take me and my mother to travel around Europe, the stories he used to tell me about his own travels through the Americas, when he was young. I think he was the inspiration that took me to want to know the world, to make me study in Latin America. I wanted to step in his steps when I invited you to come with me to San Francisco during this vacation, imagining on which spots he might have stood, where he might have looked for adventure, what he must have felt.
	Was he happy?
	Did America impress him?
	Did he maybe feel homesick?
	Or lonely?
	I wonder.
	I was rememorating all this details after we visited the many bookstores the city has. When we sat in the grass at Fisherman's Wharf and ate our cheap hamburgers, I tentatively tried to ask you if you were happy. I swallowed the question with the soda, out of sudden shame, wondering if I was being egoistic in bringing you along. Maybe it would have made more sense if we spend the vacation at my folks place or yours. But then, in your sweet whisper, looking out for Alcatraz Island, you cited Lev Tolstoy, as reading my mind:
	"Happiness is only real when shared."
	"Are you happy?" I finally asked, hesitantly. And you answered, with a cute blush:
	"W-we are sharing it, aren't we?"
	It was one of the most beautiful moments you have given me. A scene like from the most romantic book I've ever read. I couldn't hold myself back, so I kissed you on the forehead, despite your weak protests that we were in public.
	That's so you.
	But then, as retribution--I felt a peck on my cheek. I called you lewd for it, and your reaction calling me a bully ended in laughter.
You let me rest my head on your thighs, and you played with my hair. When I woke up from a short nap, I saw you were deep into a pocket book we bought earlier. I adore your somewhat serious, somewhat curious face when you read. The small change in your expression as you keep reading the rows, as they fill you with subtle emotion. I could watch you reading the whole day.
	We continued wandering the hills of the City by the Bay.
	We would see the Golden Gate Bridge and it's park, Japantown and Chinatown, ride on the Cable Cars, have our escapade to artsy Sausalito. At night, we would enjoy a beer, and you would lecture me about me smoking. I wouldn't have it any other way.
	Or that one time we went to the topless bar--because no visit to San Francisco was complete without experiencing one of these, as Hunter S. Thompson once wrote. I still have that image in my head of how tense and bothered you looked. You made it a point to be the one ordering for us. And when I playfully looked at other girls and you got annoyed, that jealous look on your face... everything about you is so lovable.
	I admitted that they were all quite pretty--but you could tell in my eyes that I was honest when I told you that none of them compared to you.
	Your answer was that I was a pervert. Hey, I don't think you are wrong, you know?
	I know you trust me, otherwise you wouldn't have come with me.
	Thank you.
	On the last couple days, at Fort Mason, we found that curious yellow box reading FREE BOOK BOX, where you were supposed to take one book and leave another. There was none that really interested either of us, but we liked the idea enough to the point of deciding to buy a book just to leave there before leaving town. As a thank you to San Francisco. We signed both, of course. Remember how we went back the next day to see if anybody had picked up our book, only to discover that all books where gone? And that it was hard to believe that the interest in literature sparked so much in one night?
	It was all a lot of fun.
	Holding your hand in mine I wonder, where should we go next? Maybe we can continue studying in Australia or New Zealand... I would also love to show you Europe. Or maybe... if you could show me your home country one day, I couldn't be happier.
	But for the moment, let's just enjoy... well, this. And San Francisco.
	I love you, Mika.