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finished eating, neither of us said a word. I was exhausted from all that walking, and she just sat there with her hands on the table, mulling something over again. All the leisure spots were crowded on this warm Sunday, they were saying on the TV news. And we just walked from Yotsuya to Komagome, I said to myself.
    “Well,
you’re
in good shape,” I said when I had finished my noodles.
    “Surprised?”
    “You bet.”
    “I was a long-distance runner in junior high, I’ll have you know. I used to do ten or fifteen kilometers. And my father took me mountain climbing on Sundays ever since I can remember. You know our house—right there, next to the mountain. I’ve always had strong legs.”
    “It doesn’t show,” I said.
    “I know,” she answered. “Everybody thinks I’m this delicate little girl. But you can’t tell a book by its cover.” To which she added a momentary smile.
    “And that goes for me, too,” I said. “I’m worn out.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve been dragging you around all day.”
    “Still, I’m glad we had a chance to talk. We’ve never done that before, just the two of us,” I said, trying without success to recall what we had talked
about
.
    She was playing with the ashtray on the table.
    “I wonder …” she began, “if you wouldn’t mind … I mean, if it really wouldn’t be any bother to you … Do you think we could see each other again? I know I don’t have any right to be asking you this.”
    “Any
right?”
What do you mean by that?”
    She blushed. My reaction to her request might have been a little too strong.
    “I don’t know … I can’t really explain it,” she said, tugging the sleeves of her sweatshirt up over the elbows and down again. Her arms shone a lovely golden down color in the lights of the shop. “I didn’t mean to say
right
exactly. I was looking for another way to put it.”
    Elbows on the table, she stared at the calendar on the wall, almost as if she were hoping to find the proper expression there. Failing, she sighed and closed her eyes and played with her barrette.
    “Never mind,” I said. “I think I know what you’re getting at. I’m not sure how to put it, either.”
    “I can never say what I want to say,” continued Naoko. “It’s been like this for a while now. I try to say something, but all I get are the wrong words—the wrong words or the exact
opposite
words from what I mean. I try to correct myself, and that only makes it worse. I lose track of what I was trying to say to begin with. It’s like I’m split in two and playing tag with myself. One half is chasing the other half around this big, fat post. The
other
me has the right words, but this me can’t catch her.”
    Naoko raised her face and looked into my eyes. “Does this make any sense to you?”
    “Everybody feels like that to some extent,” I said. “They’re trying to express themselves and it bothers them when they can’t get it right.”
    Naoko looked disappointed with my answer. “No, that’s not it either,” she said without further explanation.
    “Anyhow, I’d be glad to see you again,” I said. “I’m always free on Sundays, and walking would be good for me.”
    We boarded the Yamanote Line, and Naoko transferred to the Chuo Line at Shinjuku. She was living in a tiny apartment way out in the western suburb of Kokubunji.
    “Tell me,” she said as we parted. “Has anything changed about the way I talk?”
    “I think so,” I said, “but I’m not sure what. Tell you the truth, I know I saw you a lot back then, but I don’t remember talking to you much.”
    “I guess that’s true,” she said. “Anyhow, can I call you on Saturday?”
    “Sure. I’ll be expecting to hear from you.”
    I FIRST MET N AOKO in the spring of my second year of high school. She was also in her second year and attending a refined girls’ high school run by one of the Christian missions. The school was
so
refined you were considered
un
refined if you studied