After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

CHAPTER 13 
Aomame 
A BORN VICTIM 
When she woke, she realized what a serious hangover she was going to have. 
Aomame 
never
had hangovers. No matter how much she drank, the next morning her 
head would be clear and she could go straight into her next activity. This was a point 
of pride for her. But today was different. She felt a dull throbbing in her temples and 
she saw everything through a thin haze. It felt as if she had an iron ring tightening 
around her skull. The hands of the clock had passed ten, and the late-morning light 
jabbed deep into her eyeballs. A motorcycle tearing down the street out front filled the 
room with the groaning of a torture machine. 
She was naked in her own bed, but she had absolutely no idea how she had 
managed to make it back. Most of the clothes she had been wearing the night before 
were scattered all over the floor. She must have torn them off her body. Her shoulder 
bag was on the desk. Stepping over the scattered clothes, she went to the kitchen and 
drank one glass of water after another from the tap. Going from there to the bathroom, 
she washed her face with cold water and looked at her naked body in the big mirror. 
Close inspection revealed no bruises. She breathed a sigh of relief. Still, her lower 
body retained a trace of that special feeling that was always there the morning after an 
intense night of sex—the sweet lassitude that comes from having your insides 
powerfully churned. She seemed to notice, too, an unfamiliar sensation between her 
buttocks. 
My god
, Aomame thought, pressing her fingers against her temples. 
They 
did it there, too? Damn, I don’t remember a thing
. 
With her brain still clouded and her hand against the wall, she took a hot shower, 
scrubbing herself all over with soap and water in hopes of expunging the memory—or 
the nameless something close to a memory—of last night. She washed her genitals 
and anus with special care. She also washed her hair. Next she brushed her teeth to rid 
her mouth of its sticky taste, cringing all the while from the mint flavor of the 
toothpaste. Finally she picked up last night’s underthings and stockings from the 
bedroom floor and, averting her gaze, threw them in the laundry basket. 
She examined the contents of the shoulder bag on the table. The wallet was right 
where it belonged, as were her credit and ATM cards. Most of her money was in 
there, too. The only cash she had spent last night, apparently, was for the return taxi 
fare, and the only things missing from the bag were some of her condoms—four, to be 
exact. Why four? The wallet contained a folded sheet of memo paper with a Tokyo 
telephone number. She had absolutely no memory of whose phone number it could 
be. 

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143
She stretched out in bed again and tried to remember what she could about last 
night. Ayumi went over to the men’s table, arranged everything in her charming way, 
the four had drinks and the mood was good. The rest unfolded in the usual manner. 
They took two rooms in a nearby business hotel. As planned, Aomame had sex with 
the thin-haired one, and Ayumi took the big, young one. The sex wasn’t bad. 
Aomame and her man took a bath together and then engaged in a long, deliberate 
session of oral sex. She made sure he wore a condom before penetration took place. 
An hour later the phone rang, and Ayumi asked if it was all right for the two of 
them to come to the room so they could have another little drink together. Aomame 
agreed, and a few minutes later Ayumi and her man came in. They ordered a bottle of 
whiskey and some ice and drank that as a foursome. 
What happened after that, Aomame could not clearly recall. She was drunk almost 
as soon as all four were together again, it seemed. The choice of drink might have 
done it; Aomame almost never drank whiskey. Or she might have let herself get 
careless, having a female companion nearby instead of being alone with a man. She 
vaguely remembered that they changed partners.