I have no idea what's gotten into me.
But now I find myself ensconced in a setting that could very well double as the backdrop for a quirky indie film. We’re sitting in a peculiar little nook, a makeshift waiting area carved out from the grander expanse of what appears to be a hall designed by someone with an unapologetic love for all things Japanese, and perhaps a slight fascination with the aesthetics of clandestine rendezvous spots. The soft, reddish glow, like the blush on a geisha's cheek, has a both calming and slightly unnerving effect. If I didn't know any better, I'd say we've accidentally stumbled into the boudoir of a samurai. Of course, I’ve never been inside a brothel (honestly, the very thought makes me slightly queasy), but if I were to imagine one, it might look something like this.
The hall from which we've been sequestered is quite something, marrying traditional Japanese home decoration with a whimsical twist. The floor is laid with tatami mats that give off a faint, sweet scent, surprisingly reminiscent of fresh hay. All that invites one to sit down and maybe partake in a tea ceremony led by a rabbit in a kimono. Why not?
There are paper lanterns dangling from the ceiling, their light soft and dappled, like sunlight filtering through cherry blossom trees. It's enchanting, really, how they manage to give off just enough light to see without dispelling the shadows that play along the corners of the room.
Our little nook is sectioned off from the main hall by a series of shoji screens, painted with scenes that seem to tell a story – if only one knows how to decipher the dance of cranes and swirling winds amidst mountaintops. Lucille, bless her, is utterly fascinated, and has taken to the setting like a cat to a sunny windowsill. "Isn't this just the most interesting place you've ever waited in?" she muses, and her eyes sparkle with a thrill of anticipation that usually precedes an adventure. Or a misadventure, as history has often proven.
"I feel like I'm in a movie," I reply, half-expecting a director to jump out from behind one of the shoji screens, yelling Cut! and chastising us for our less-than-convincing portrayal of intrigued guests.
"Oh, sweetie," Lucille laughs. Her laughter tinkles in the air like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. I truly love that laughter. "Life is the movie, and we're its most captivating stars."
And really, who am I to argue with that?
I’m squeezed into a chair that feels like it was designed by someone with a personal vendetta against comfort, and eye Lucille across what is probably the world's least inviting table. You'd think I was the one about to face a firing squad, or worse, an appointment with the dentist for some surprise root canal therapy. But no, it’s nothing like that at all, though you wouldn't know it from the way my stomach is doing somersaults. Actually, I should be brimming with excitement, or so I tell myself, hoping my mood decides to catch up with that memo eventually. Time will tell.

Peering over my glasses, I take a moment to really look at Lucille. She's 25, a whole three years my senior, and carries the kind of beauty that doesn't just turn heads; it practically spins them. She's currently fussing with her long, auburn hair to ensure her pigtail achieves that perfect balance between I just threw this up and This took an hour and three YouTube tutorials. The freckles across her nose seem to dance every time she laughs, which is often. It's like her entire face has signed up to be part of the joy, making her not just cute, but irresistibly so. But let's not jump to any wild conclusions — Lucille and I aren't an item. Far from it. I can almost hear the collective sigh of relief from everyone who knows us. Finally, they admit it! they'd cheer. And yet, here we are, together in this situation, thanks to Lucille's unparalleled persuasive powers. If charisma was a crime, she'd be serving a life sentence.
"Why do you look like you're about to be offered as a sacrifice to the gods?"
I shrug, and try to find a posture that doesn't scream I've made a huge mistake. "Maybe I'm just pondering the existential dread of choosing the wrong appetizer."
She giggles, and just like that, the freckles seem to perform a jubilant little jig. "Oh, please. We both know you'll end up stealing fries from my plate anyway."
Touché. She's not wrong. "As long as you promise to bail me out when I'm inevitably jailed for fry theft."
"Always," she vows, and somehow, I find myself believing her.
Aside from the fact that dinner is off the table tonight. And by off the table, I mean completely out of the equation, like socks with sandals or pineapple on pizza for the purists. Not that dining with Lucille isn’t an adventure in itself. We’ve done that more than once. But let me clarify, for a second (and probably not the last) time, I am not her beau, paramour, or boyfriend. That title belongs to Fred. Yet, Fred’s time management seems to be as poor as his taste in new stuff, which, as it turns out, involves the world of shibari. Yes, shibari. No idea who put that bug in her ear. And there I was, nodding along to her proposal like a bobblehead on a dashboard, blissfully unaware of what I was agreeing to. It was only after a hasty Google search that I discovered it involves ropes, knots, and a level of trust I usually reserve for my barber or the person who makes my coffee. Instant regret? You bet. But one does not simply back out of a pact with Lucille.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask.
“Oh, absolutely! Fred wouldn’t dare to try something like this. But you, you’re different. You’re game for anything!” Her eyes sparkle with the thrill of the unknown, or perhaps just the thrill of dragging me along for the ride.
Shouldn’t I be lucky to be present? I mutter to myself, half-question, half-mantra. It’s an attempt to find the silver lining in a situation that’s about as clear as mud. I’m not entirely convinced by my own words, but hey, optimism has never been my strong suit. But as I steal another glance at her, and notice her excitement, I can’t help but feel a twinge of... something. Enthusiasm? Dread? Perhaps a peculiar cocktail of both.

Just as my mind is painting a picture of our impending guide, reality waltzes in and upends my expectations. Enter Mrs. Sato. Far from the dominatrix figure my overactive imagination has conjured, she looks like she has just stepped off a shift from the local supermarket. And I mean that quite literally. Her outfit is functional, the kind you'd nod to appreciatively in aisle five. She wears a floral print blouse that is tucked neatly into a pair of beige slacks, the kind with enough pockets to suggest a practical mind but not so many as to confuse her with a seasoned camper. On her feet were sensible shoes, the sort that whispered of comfort over style.
She’s actually older than us, maybe in her late thirties. Her features bear the delicate imprint of her Japanese heritage, a fact that she confirms with a polite introduction. "Hello, I'm Mrs. Sato," she says with a voice as welcoming as a warm cup of tea on a rainy day. "Sato means helpful person, and that's what I aim to be for you.” For Lucille, I correct in my mind.
"But please, call me Patricia," she continues, and now a smile is playing on her lips. "All my friends do."
Then we’re back in the main hall and Patricia leads the way. I trail behind, a position that affords me a splendid view of Lucille's back, hidden under a semi-elegant attire, the kind of tight dress that makes sporadic appearances in university lecture halls – nothing too extravagant, but certainly designed to make an impression. As I observe, I can't help but muse on the practicality of such a choice for tonight's rope-bound scheme. But my pondering is cut short as we swiftly veer into a room on the left, and suddenly, my thoughts on appropriate clothing seem trivial.

The room we enter is bathed in the same faint reddish light that seems to be the top thematic choice for the evening, but it's on a scale far grander than the nook we were initially crammed into. It's a kind of room that could easily host a small gala, if not for its current setup, which is decidedly more niche in its appeal. Immediately, my eyes are drawn to the ropes. They're everywhere, draped over, coiled around, and suspended from polished wooden beams that crisscross the ceiling in a deliberate, almost artistic, chaos. They vary in thickness and material. Some hang like silent serpents waiting for their moment, while others are carefully looped and knotted in patterns that speak of complex narratives waiting to be unraveled.
There’s traditional Japanese art on the walls, beautiful ink paintings that depict landscapes and fierce dragons in equal measure. Tatami mats cover the floor. In one corner stands a bamboo water fountain. Its gentle trickling sound adds a layer of tranquility to the atmosphere. Nearby, the small tea ceremony setup must be a nod to the ritualistic aspect of the art and its roots in trust, communication, and connection.
"So, from our call, I understand this is your grand debut in the wonderful, sometimes bewildering world of shibari," Patricia announces with a somewhat dramatic flair. She eases the door shut with a gentle click, and seals us in this sanctuary of ropes and whispers. Her attention lands on Lucille, who nods with the zeal of a student at the front of the class, eager for knowledge. Then, Patricia's eyes drift to me, and oh, what a sight I must be! My nerves are probably as visible as a neon sign in a dark alley. Noticing my discomfort, her smile widens into something both bemused and comforting. She adopts a whimsical tone, as she begins to explain. "Ah, shibari," and her voice dips into the cadence of a practiced raconteur, "is not just about tying knots; it's an art form, a dance between the binder and the bound. Centuries ago, this technique starts its life on the battlefields of Japan. Quite unlikely, right? Yet, samurais used these very knots not for pleasure, but for restraint, capturing their foes with ropes that were both practical and painfully beautiful." Her hands mime the action of tying imaginary ropes to illustrate her tale. "But as with all things, the practice evolved, and it transformed into an expression of trust, an exploration of the delicate balance between power and surrender. It's erotic poetry, crafted not with words, but with cords and coils." She pauses to let the imagery sink in, then continues with a playful glint in her eye. "Now, imagine the transition from warriors to artists, from the battlefield to the boudoir. Shibari becomes a way to connect, to communicate without speaking, to explore the depths of vulnerability and strength."

She walks over to a selection of ropes, each a different texture and hue. "Each rope tells its own story. Some whisper, some sing, and some, well, they might just make you laugh or gasp. It's all about the dialogue you create with them." She turns back to us, and now her expression is a mix of earnestness and mirth. "And so, my dear apprentices for the evening, let us take the journey together, the trust you build, and the stories you weave through the loops and knots. Every twist and turn can lead to unexpected discoveries about yourself."
Lucille listens, and I notice that she’s utterly captivated, her earlier excitement now reinforced by a newfound reverence for the tradition and artistry Patricia has outlined. As for me, I find my apprehension giving way to curiosity.
"Are you ready to begin this journey?"
Lucille answers with an enthusiastic nod, and I, surprisingly, find myself nodding along.
"And I also understand," Patricia continues, her gaze shifting back towards Lucille, "that your... companion here," she says, a playful emphasis on companion as if I’m just a funny character in this unfolding scene, "will be merely a watcher tonight. That's not always the case, but it's more common than one might expect."
"So please, young man, will you take a seat on the settee?" she asks, and gestures towards a piece of furniture that straddles the line between antique and just old, its cushions looking as welcoming as a cactus patch to my nervous self.
Obediently, and with a grace of a newborn giraffe on ice, I make my way to the sofa. Sitting down, I manage to choose the spot that looks the least threatening, and I appear relaxed and ready to bolt, but then, just as I'm beginning to grapple with the reality of my role as tonight's audience member, Patricia's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, turning back to Lucille. "Would you please undress now?"
The request floats in the air like a curveball I didn't see coming. What? Undress? Panic and incredulity do a quick two-step in my mind. But yes, when I think about it, it does make a kind of sense. What a jerk I am for not connecting those dots earlier.
Lucille, it seems, is unfazed, as if the act of disrobing was as routine to her as pouring a cup of morning coffee. With a grace that seems unnervingly natural, she steps out of her shoes, and then her dress cascades to the floor in a whisper of fabric, revealing her in a set of black silk underwear that I'm fairly certain was meant for occasions significantly different from this one. I gulp, and for a moment I feared the sound would echo off the walls with the subtlety of a foghorn. Suddenly, the room feels several degrees warmer, or maybe that's just me, entering a state of mild panic.
Where am I supposed to look? Is there a handbook on the etiquette of eye placement in situations like this? If there is, I've clearly missed it. Lucille, meanwhile, maintains eye contact as she sheds her dress, a silent challenge. And as she reaches back to unclasp her bra, I find myself caught in a dilemma of manners and curiosity, feeling every bit the awkward bystander at a ritual far beyond my understanding. She’s mean.
I'm as stiff and upright as a confirmand at church, and my palms suddenly find an intense interest in the texture of my jeans. Should I look back? Is it respectful, or is it intrusive? My gaze hesitates, and flickers between the floor and her, a pendulum of uncertainty. But then, as I dare to meet her gaze once more, I realize this isn't about voyeurism; it's about art, about trust, about exploring the boundaries of self-expression within the confines of silk and skin.
So I look, hesitantly at first, but then with a dawning understanding. This isn't for me, nor is it for Patricia. It's for Lucille.
Patricia simply nods in acknowledgment as Lucille stands before her, vulnerable yet wrapped in an aura of fierce independence. Her arms hang loosely by her sides. She’s definitely more relaxed than me. There's a silent exchange, a moment of mutual respect that seems to fill the room, more eloquent than words could ever be.
"Will you fetch me that crimson rope over there on the tansu, dear?" The tansu, a traditional Japanese chest, stands proud and elegant in the corner, an heirloom piece that looks as though it harbors secrets alongside linens and, apparently, shibari ropes.
As Lucille turns to retrieve the rope, my eyes are inadvertently drawn to her alabaster back. It's a sight that leaves me momentarily breathless.
In that brief interlude, Patricia produces a small device seemingly out of thin air. With a press of a button, the room is suddenly filled with soft, lulling music, a sound unmistakably Japanese, a meditative melody that weaves through the air like a companion on a serene walk through a bamboo forest, each note a step deeper into a realm of calm and contemplation.
And then, Lucille is back, the rope on her palms presented with the solemnity of a ritual offering. She holds it out to Patricia with both hands, her gesture one of both surrender and participation. Patricia accepts the rope with another nod. It's clear that this isn't merely a physical exchange but a symbolic one, the rope a link in the chain of their shared experience. Or so it seems to me.
Now, Patricia approaches Lucille. Her movements embody the grace and precision of a maestro poised to conduct an orchestra. The ambiance is set to the soft, rhythmic soundtrack of their breathing—Patricia’s calm and measured, Lucille’s tinged with excitement. This blend of respirations becomes the scene's underlying beat, a natural metronome to the unfolding act. Then Patricia’s fingers glide over Lucille’s shoulders in a gesture so tender it could almost pass for a caress, ensuring her muscles are devoid of tension, her posture open and receptive. With a gentle yet firm instruction, like a dance teacher guiding a pupil, she arranges Lucille’s arms behind her back. The positioning is precise, wrists parallel, as if Lucille herself were an instrument awaiting the first note to be played.
The crimson rope emerges, unfurled with elegant sways that highlight its impressive length and pliability. Patricia lets it dance between her fingers, a preview of the performance to come.

Beginning with the bight, the rope’s midpoint, Patricia wraps it around Lucille’s wrists. She finds the sweet spot where restraint meets comfort, the wraps neither too tight to cause discomfort nor too loose to lose their purpose. Lucille, for her part, watches the process unfold with a mixture of curiosity and unwavering trust in Patricia’s expertise.
As the rope takes shape around the wrists, I can’t help but be drawn into the rhythm of the moment. It’s a dance of sorts, a silent communication between binder and bound, each loop and knot a word in their wordless dialogue. Watching, I find myself alternating between holding my breath in anticipation and releasing it in quiet awe, utterly engrossed in the spectacle.
As I perch awkwardly on the settee, a thought strikes me like a rubber chicken at a serious dinner party: life really loves to toss us into the salad spinner of unpredictability. I've known Lucille for what feels like an epoch, living in the same street, the same sliver of universe, for a timeline that stretches back to when we were both just kids with skinned knees and boundless dreams. I've witnessed her metamorphosis from a quiet, unassuming girl into the not-so-tall but impossibly magnetic force of nature she is today. Admittedly, her romantic ventures have been a revolving door of suitors since she hit sixteen—a parade of men as diverse as a box of assorted chocolates. Tall, short, artsy, sporty—you name it, Lucille's probably dated it. But like a mystery novel with too many plot twists, none of them stuck around long enough to solve the enigma that is Lucille. Now, reflecting on this, I realize that of all the guys who've come and gone, I'm somewhat of an anomaly. I've managed to stick around the longest, not as a lover, but as something else... a steadfast fixture in her ever-changing landscape. Not that there's ever been anything romantic between us. You know that story. But here I am, sitting in the front row to her latest folly. It's funny, isn't it?
After ensuring Lucille's wrists are securely embraced by the rope, Patricia moves upward. She wraps the rope around Lucille’s upper arms and torso with the precision of a seasoned chef twirling spaghetti on a fork. Each loop against Lucille's skin is as thorough as the next, uniform in tension, painting bands of red on a pale body. The pattern she creates is symmetrical, and she makes sure that not a single knot disrupts the harmony of her creation. I watch her occasionally leaning in, whispering encouragement like a fairy godmother bestowing confidence on Cinderella. These whispers, though inaudible to me, clearly bolster Lucille, as if they reinforce the invisible thread of connection between them.
Now the foundation of the shibari tie is laid (at least that’s what Patricia tells us). With the base harness in place, she transitions into the next phase, and approaches the low table, where another length of rope awaits its cue. After evaluating its weight and texture, she begins again. This time, she encircles Lucille’s waist with the new rope, securing it as though anchoring the very essence of the young woman to the earth, while allowing the excess to flow down in an elegant cascade reminiscent of a waterfall in a hidden, exotic locale. This new addition serves as both a focal point and a promise of the complexity to come.
Gently, she guides Lucille into a pose where her back arches slightly. I watch, fascinated by the transformation before my eyes, and find myself gradually sinking into the relative comfort of the settee, my initial rigidity giving way to a cautious relaxation. Yet, despite this newfound ease, my eyes remain riveted to the spectacle before me, as if drawn by some magnetic force. In a fleeting moment of self-awareness, I let my gaze drift downwards, only to discover that my hands, still perched atop my jeans, have betrayed my inner turmoil, and left behind small, dark blue smudges of sweat on the fabric.

And there it is, the undeniable truth: despite the cool façade I've managed to cobble together, my hands still show that slight tremor, fluttering like leaves in a gentle breeze. Why does this scenario unsettle me so? It's not as if the concept of nudity is alien to me. However, I must confess, my exposure to the unclothed form, especially in a context like this, is somewhat limited. You see, interacting with women has never been my forte. Some might call me socially awkward, and they wouldn't be wrong. Imagine, if you will, a man who approaches encounters with the grace of a penguin on a treadmill. That's me. Whether it's a casual conversation by the water cooler or an accidental brush of hands at the coffee shop, I'm the person who manages to turn simple exchanges into a ballet of bumbles and stumbles. Earlier, as now, I find myself caught in a tiresome tug-of-war between the urge to look and the impulse to look away. It’s irksome, a persistent itch that's just out of reach. It's a part of me I've long wished to change, yet I'm clueless about how. It's a peculiar kind of frustration, one that accompanies the realization that you're the architect of your own discomfort, yet seemingly lack the blueprints for renovation.
Now Patricia begins to weave the rope between Lucille's legs, introducing a crotch rope to the mix. With each pass, she makes sure that not a single whisker is out of place, that the rope lies flat and smooth. As the rope journeys upwards, looping over Lucille's chest harness, a pattern begins to emerge, a sort of lattice motif that wouldn't look out of place in the window of a fancy patisserie. I see Patricia occasionally pausing to step back and admire her handiwork from various angles. She adjusts, realigns, scrutinizes. Her fingers, nimble as nimble can be, dance across the ropes, tying off knots, securing the design like an artist signing off on a masterpiece.
Lucille, for her part, remains still. Her breathing has synced with Patricia’s movements. Watching this unfold, I'm struck by the elegance of it all. The situation might read like the setup to a particularly niche joke—what do you get when you cross an awkward bystander, a shibari artist, and a willing participant?
Normally, when Lucille asks me out, it’s mostly something along the lines of devouring pepperoni slices at the local Pizza Paradise, not a journey to the land of restraint. This here is so far removed from my comfort zone, it might as well be happening in another dimension. I'm left pondering what exactly Lucille finds captivating in this stuff. What mysterious allure does being intricately tied up hold for her? Is it a quest for self-discovery, an adrenaline kick, or perhaps a new form of yoga she read about in a trendy wellness blog? The thought of being trussed up like a package awaiting postal dispatch seems, to me, an unconventional path to enlightenment. But then, what do I know?
And I can't help but wonder, what role do I play in her life? A friend, undoubtedly—possibly the best she ever had so far, if I may say so without tipping the scales of modesty too egregiously. A more attentive companion than Fred? Almost certainly, considering I'm the one sitting here. It strikes me that perhaps Lucille is in need for dual anchors: one for the thrill of physical exploration, the other for the depths of soul-searching conversations. Maybe, in her eyes, I'm the latter—the epitome of platonic solidity.
Patricia unveils a pulley system that wouldn't look out of place in a high-budget stage production of Peter Pan. With a series of movements, she engages the pulley, and Lucille begins her ascent. Slowly, like a balloon on a calm day, she rises until she hovers a few feet above the ground. She’s less a person now and more an avant-garde installation piece titled The Parachutist's Predicament, floating mid-air, bound by ropes, maybe like a younger Houdini if he ever took up interpretative dance.

Patricia steps back to admire her work with a discerning eye. She circles Lucille, making minute adjustments, until she finally nods, satisfied, a silent proclamation of Well done, my dear.
Until this moment, Lucille’s gaze has been almost exclusively reserved for Patricia, following each movement with the focused curiosity of a student eager to learn the secrets of the craft. But now, immobilized and floating, her eyes find mine. They shine with an intensity that’s hard to read—part excitement, part vulnerability. It’s as if she's seeking something from me, perhaps validation or simply a reaction to this most unusual of situations. And what can I do but offer her a smile? It’s an attempt to convey a whole spectrum of thoughts ranging from Wow, that’s impressive to Are you okay up there? and This is definitely not how I expected my evening to go. My smile is meant to reassure her, to let her know that, yes, this is extraordinary, but so is she for embracing such an experience with open arms.
From the corners of my eyes, I catch Patricia casting a glance at her wristwatch, which I find quite odd in this situation. She raises a finger, that universal sign that precedes an intermission in any act, and announces with a touch of regret, "Sorry, I have to make an urgent phone call. Be right back." And just like that, she vanishes.
There we are, Lucille suspended like a modern-day Rapunzel sans tower, and me, firmly grounded yet feeling equally adrift. Our eyes lock in a long, unbroken stare that feels like it stretches across continents and time zones. I'm aware that this is the moment for words, for some form of verbal communication that bridges the gap between us. But I just sit there, offering up a smile that, with each passing second, evolves from charmingly befuddled to undeniably goofy, and I fear it's going to morph into a silent scream of What on Earth is happening?
Lucille, for her part, floats like a seasoned aerialist, although her expression suggests she's as bemused by the turn of events as I am. The room suddenly feels larger, the silence more pronounced, while my mind races through a catalogue of potential conversation starters, discarding each as too mundane, too absurd, or too banal for such an occasion. Finally, I muster the courage to break the ice.
"So, uh, come here often?" I know, a rather feeble attempt at humor.
Lucille's response is a laugh. I see it as a good sign.
"So, how was it?" I ask, and I notice that my voice is slightly higher than usual.
She responds with a thoughtful pause before saying, "Imagine being a marionette, but the puppeteer is really into zen gardening."
I nod, as if the analogy makes all the sense in the world. "Right, right. And how are you feeling? No unexpected urges to join the circus or anything?"
She chuckles. "Well, I haven't developed an affinity for tightrope walking, if that's what you mean. But ask me again when I'm back on solid ground."
"So was this what you expected? Because I half-expected a giant eagle to swoop in and carry you off to its nest by now."
Lucille's laugh rings out again, and it’s fascinating to see how it fills the room with warmth. "No eagles, thankfully. But honestly, I didn't know what to expect. It's like ordering a surprise dish at a restaurant. You hope for the best, prepare for the weirdest, and sometimes you end up with something unexpectedly delightful."
I look around. "So, what happens now? Do we hail a passing cloud for you to disembark, or should I start looking for a giant pair of scissors?"
"Maybe just help me practice my floating meditation until Patricia decides to reappear. Though, if you do find those scissors, make sure they're ethically sourced and blessed by a wandering shaman, okay?"
Alright, the mood's lighter now, buoyant even. I've managed to recalibrate my breathing to something resembling normalcy. I'm quietly proud of that. Now, let's address the elephant in the room. There's no dancing around the fact that Lucille’s current state of undress, coupled with the gravity-defying position, has stirred something within me. It's like waking a sleeping cat with a sunbeam; slow at first, then all at once, it stretches, yawns, and looks around for attention. During the session, I felt this... stirring like the first whispers of a breeze before a storm. I sidestepped it, and focused instead on the artistic beauty of the situation. But avoidance, much like trying to ignore the siren call of the last slice of pizza, is a battle seldom won. It's a peculiar sensation, being moved in such a way by a scene so outside the realm of my everyday experiences. It’s like being handed a Rubik's cube in the dark; I'm not entirely sure what to do with it. Do I ignore it, hoping it'll neatly solve itself and tuck away into the recesses of my mind? Or do I acknowledge it, accept it as a natural response? Decisions. Uncertainties. I’m used to it.

Well, time decides to play its favorite game: Let's see how awkward we can make this. A silence has settled between us again after the exchange of pleasantries. Patricia's absence, now longer than a commercial break during a cliffhanger, adds an extra layer of suspense. Where is she? Is she plotting a surprise party? The possibilities are endless, and none include her coming back in the immediate future. Glancing at the empty space Patricia once occupied, I suggest, "Shall I look where she is?" Lucille offers a nod. Since our host left, a small, enigmatic smile plays on her lips, a Mona Lisa in mid-air, leaving me to wonder at the source of her amusement.
"Don't go anywhere," I quip, as I make for the door. I leave it ajar, just in case she feels the sudden urge to panic.
I first dismiss the notion of finding Patricia in the little waiting area by the entrance. The idea of her dutifully vacuuming, making amends for the tracks of our worldly worries we've carelessly dragged in, seems unlikely, and so I turn on my heel, and steer myself down the hallway in the opposite direction, where lies the only other door not yet explored by our adventurous duo this evening. The door stands wide open. I hesitate in the doorway, and bellow, "Patricia? Mrs. Sato? Are you here?" Kind of silly, I know. It's like calling out for a wizard in a castle who might just be taking a tea break.
Receiving no answer, I knock on the already open door. A gesture of civilized norms, a nod to the social contract that says, I acknowledge your potential need for privacy in this otherwise vacant space.
I step into a small kitchen, a neat array of countertops and cabinets. However, a cursory glance reveals no signs of Patricia. No steaming cup abandoned in haste, no note scrawled with a Be right back, tied up at the moment that would hint at her whereabouts.
I strain my ears for any hint of Patricia's whereabouts, when the sudden bang of a car door slamming shut slices through the silence, followed by the throaty growl of an engine springing to life. I pivot towards the glass door that serves as a gateway to the tiny garden and to a parking area, where a beige Volvo begins to reverse. Behind the wheel, unmistakably, is our shibari artist—or, as my momentarily fanciful mind suggests, her long-lost twin sister, drafted in for a swift getaway. Then, with a grace that belies its boxy frame, the car glides away, disappearing from view as smoothly as a ship into the fog. And Patricia has vanished into the night.

Bursting back into the shibari room with the urgency of a cartoon character who's just realized they've left the oven on, I find Lucille still serenely dangling like a particularly chic piece of modern art. But I'm a whirlwind of flustered energy, a human exclamation mark in the middle of a calm paragraph.
"Lucille!" I shout, and my words tumble out in a jumble. "Patricia—she's...the car...! And then she... zoom!" My arms flail in an attempt to mime the sudden departure. I point vigorously towards the garden, as though expecting the ghost of the Volvo to make a dramatic reentrance just to validate my tale.
Lucille watches my performance with an expression I can hardly interpret. There’s a kind of amused perplexity playing around her mouth. "She—uh, Patricia—just drove...away. Like, vroom, gone!" I manage to articulate, finally stringing together a somewhat coherent sentence amidst the chaos of my delivery.
Still ensnared in her aerial cocoon, Lucille gives me a look that seems to scan every inch of my bewildered self. After what feels like an eternity but probably only spans a few seconds, her smile begins to stretch across her face, wide and enticing. Then she gives me a wink.
"Play!" she says.