back home having done nothing at all, spend all day skipping stones on the river, ride around town blowing bubbles from the motorcycle... But thinking about it, it was those silly times we spent together that deepened our friendship. Had it been a healthier relationship, his death probably wouldn’t have brought me this much loneliness. If only he’d gotten me involved, I thought. If Shindo’d invited me, I’d gladly dive into a ravine with him, laughing. Maybe he knew that, and that’s why he died without saying a word to me. ---------- The cicadas died off, the trees turned red; autumn came. It was the end of October. And I suddenly recalled a rather forgettable conversation I’d had with Shindo. It was a clear July afternoon. We were in a humid room, drinking and rambling to one another. There was a mountain of cigarette butts in the ashtray that looked like it’d collapse with a single touch, so I placed empty cans beside it, neatly-aligned like bowling pins. Our ears were hurting from the buzzing of cicadas perched on the telephone pole near the window. Shindo grabbed one of the cans, went out on the veranda, and threw it at the cicadas. It completely missed its mark and fell onto the road with a clatter. Shindo cursed. As he went back to pick up a second can, the cicadas flew off as if to ridicule him. “Oh yeah,” Shindo said, standing there with the can in hand. “Shouldn’t you know if they accepted your application by now?” “Wish you would’ve gotten curious before they told me anything,” I implied. “Rejected?” “Yeah.” “That’s a relief,” Shindo sighed, having not gotten any job offers either. “Applied anywhere else since then?”