Back in Otsu, it is late afternoon, and the day has been unseasonably balmy. Emi bathes and I take a shower. In clean clothes and fully refreshed, I expect us to sit and drink beer, as usual, but Emi lays on a little surprise for me. She grabs a plastic carrier bag and calls me out to the car. We travel up the west coast of Lake Biwa, which lies like a sheet of viscous oil under a low evening mist.

Somewhere along the shore, where the road runs right beside the water, we stop, and I see a large red torii out in the lake, looking much like the famous one at Miyajima. Evening has closed in and a few of the lights on the opposite shore are twinkling. It was here on the shores of Lake Biwa that Murasaki Shikibu wrote The tale of Genji.

Emi takes the bag down to the water’s edge and opens it. She’s brought champagne, sushi, cheese, salad, savoury biscuits and Japanese pickles. We sit in the aqueous calm and sip the wine from delicate flutes. I take off my shoes and touch my toes into the water lapping in lazy slow motion on the shingle. Emi fondles me affectionately, and tells me about the ten-thousand kami that come through the torii every evening, wondering if we will see them.

The air is humid now, and our skins are moist. Emi’s wet kisses taste of sweet pickles. Every few minutes a truck thunders past just behind us, unnoticed. Emi’s eyes, so feline, are tonight huge and bottomless. I feel affection swelling up like a hard balloon inside me. When it bursts it drives a liquid warmth right down to my fingertips and toes. I’m left on an emotional high, unable to bear the idea of being separated from her. It is a romantic masterstroke, timed to perfection, and probably driven by forces even she is unaware of.