I eat hot pot with my novelist friend in Shibuya. She is writing a story about a man who knocks on the door and introduces himself as a block of cheese, but since there are no mice, he is not let in. We haven’t seen each other for a year, which means we might or might not meet next year, but we are here. After dinner, we go to an underground bar. The bartender smells of lemon, as if she played hide-and-seek in a lemon grove and just came out. When we part at the train station, we promise to do this again, maybe in America. On my way home, I ask the sky to come down and keep me company, but the sky prefers its own boundlessness.