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said nothing. It had finally occurred to her how upset I was. I vaguely regretted having threatened to punch her but she showed no sign of anger. Instead she seemed to have forgotten everything, giving the impression I was being a bore, even a disappointment. Eventually we reached Shinbashi Station, where Mami had to change trains. We walked to her platform. Her train was preparing to depart, doors open. Expressionless commuters stood packed inside like cattle awaiting slaughter, occasionally exchanging positions but mostly moving on the spot. More and more pushed their way in, making space where there was none and opening phones in preparation for the trip.
    â€˜Can we buy ice-cream?’ Mami asked. ‘Normally I buy ice-cream after Odaiba. We can both get out of the station again without losing our tickets. I’ll talk to the stationmaster.’
    â€˜I need to go home.’
    â€˜Suit yourself.’ Mami backed into the carriage, the train doors sounding their usual piercing warning. Men found a way to accommodate her, happy to have her body pressed against theirs, and glanced at me as if looking for envy.
    â€˜Goodbye,’ I said.
    Mami, pulling the feathers from behind her neck and keeping her eyes fixed on mine, seemed sad for the first time. ‘But I’m taking your jacket,’ she said as the doors hissed shut.

How to Kill
a Cockroach
    I met my first girlfriend, Tilly, while killing (or trying to kill) a cockroach. Hardly romantic, but with us little was. We were best friends from the outset.
    This took place well over a year after I moved to Japan, towards the end of my second month in Nakamura’s. My room was overrun with cockroaches and I was holding fort with nothing more sophisticated than an old Time magazine. Tilly found me trying to upturn a wardrobe Nakamura-san had prudently nailed to the floor.
    â€˜What the hell are you doing?’ she asked, leaning in my open doorway, arms crossed. She was a tallish, pale, bony girl with freckles and vaguely curled red hair which she kept under control with a few strategically placed hairpins. Her green eyes kept me staring at her face long after I had intended to look away.
    â€˜What am I doing with what?’ I asked.
    â€˜With that wardrobe?’
    â€˜There’s a cockroach under it.’
    â€˜And you’re going to kill it?’
    â€˜With this magazine,’ I said, ‘if I can get a clean swipe at it.’ I pointed beneath my wardrobe and shrugged.
    â€˜You’re Australian?’ she asked.
    â€˜Yeah. You?’
    She nodded. ‘Tilly.’
    â€˜Noah.’
    â€˜Nice to meet you, Noah.’
    I stood and dusted off, but she did not offer to shake hands.
    â€˜You’re new?’ I asked.
    â€˜No, I live near this room. Can I tell you something about cockroaches? I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it might help.’
    â€˜Help would be good.’ I sat heavily on my bed.
    â€˜Well,’ Tilly continued, ‘from what I’ve heard, when a cockroach gets scared—which I think we can pretty safely say this one is—it lays eggs. So even if you do find it and kill it, its children’ll soon be running all over the place.’
    â€˜What would you have me do?’
    â€˜You need chemicals …’ Tilly’s voice tapered off and her eyes wandered across the room, taking it in, the starkness of it. They lingered on the wardrobe.
    â€˜What?’ I asked defensively.
    â€˜Last night I thought I was going to die. I was lying there and I thought, I’m going to die. Your wardrobe just reminded me.’
    â€˜The earthquake?’ I had forgotten this quake. It had been strong enough to rouse me and I had dozed through the aftershocks, dimly aware of my window rattling in its frame.
    Tilly nodded. ‘I have a wardrobe exactly like yours but no bed. So I was lying on the floor on my futon, too scared to move, looking at this wardrobe and trying