"I wish you would stay."
"I know." He stretched, kicking the covers off himself and rolling towards her. "There's just no getting around it. Mike insisted that it be me."
Mariko scratched her forehead. "I suppose it's a good thing."
"Definitely." He ran one finger down her face, tracing her jaw line. It continued down her neck, and across her shoulder. "Mark says the word is I'm being felt out for something."
"Promotion?"
"Maybe."
She turned to look at him. "And you'll be back before the baby is born?"
His face lit up at the mention of it, his hand moving to rest, open-palmed, on her "I promise. Missing the birth of our first child would destroy me. I'll be here."
"First child?" she giggled. "Who said there would be more?"
"I did." He kissed her. She responded warmly.
They made love, gently and patiently. His hands explored her body with a man's confidence and a boy's delight. His lips fell to her neck, her breasts, and belly. She sought, and found, his firmness, guiding it as he moved towards her.
Even with the slow, satisfying motions they forced upon themselves, it felt like a passionate and driven act. No words were spoken as they pushed with gentle, determined effort. In the end, she lay on her side and whimpered through a small orgasm as he cradled her from behind and pushed, ending his own journey with a gasp. They lay together, his hand searching out and reclaiming the zenith of her swollen belly, and breathed heavily into the morning.
"I can't wait," he said at last, "for us to be a family."
She smiled, and nuzzled against him.
-
More than twelve years later, Kazuo climbed out of a borrowed car. Having been attacked and nearly killed by his partner and friend, Mike Simpson, he had only just rediscovered his identity after a coincidental meeting with an old friend. In the time since, he and that friend, Mark Littell, had worked to rebuild his memories. The emotional journey of relearning who he was, after so much lost time, was difficult to bear. He had been thirty when he left his old life...he was forty-two, now. Even with his mind regained, so much was lost in the way that memories often are. The way that age disposes of them. And his body showed the wearying pull of his time in Mexico, of poor diet and near-poverty living. His face was riddled with his age and time in the sun.
Mark had decided to work with Kazuo on regaining as much as he could, in the hope that he may even be able to return to old business. They also had decided together that, for now, he must remain dead to the world he knew, tucked secretly away. It would become more difficult to find incriminating evidence on Simpson if he knew he was being investigated, if he knew to be scared...and he would surely know to be, when he learned that Kazuo lived.
It hadn't been easy. With his memory returned to him at last, all Kazuo could think about was Mariko. His lovely Mariko. How was she? Where was she? What about the baby?
Could they be together, again, after all these years? And what would he do if they could not?
Mark wouldn't say much. He insisted that, for now, the focus must be on proving Mike's guilt. "Without that," he reminded Kazuo, "neither you nor she can be considered safe."
But it took no time at all for curiosity to overwhelm. And so now, twelve years since he'd last seen it, Kazuo stood on the curb a block away from his old house, wondering if she still lived there. It looked the same, bizarrely so considering the time that had passed. The houses around it had changed, and the trees were taller, but that was about it. He hadn't been sure how he would go about trying to find his Mariko without revealing himself, but as it turned out he didn't even have to try.
She caught his eye immediately. There she was, out in the front yard, lounging on a chair wearing a yellow bikini and laughing. She looked exquisite...perfect. Her small frame graceful, legs flexing like a dancers as she rubbed one foot against the opposing calf. He remembered those legs well.
Still, even at this distance, he could see changes in her. More than a decade had passed, and she no longer held a casual grip on to her youth the way women in their twenties do. Forty, she would be now. Forty since March. It struck him that, whatever happened, that idyllic life with her that he had lost...the starting of a family and experiencing life's great challenges together...was already lost forever. He was the middle-aged version of a lover she'd once had.
Even as small as she still was, age had filled her out to some degree. Her narrow middle was softer, her breasts fuller and hanging like a woman's rather than a girl's. Her legs, still marvelous, were less toned. Lines showed on her face and neck, and she defiantly refused to hide the gray at each temple.
The source of her laughter looped endlessly around her. Three children were chasing each other around the chair. Kazuo thought that...
Wait.
Three?
He closed his eyes for a moment, and reopened them. Three children still ran and laughed and played. The oldest was distinctly Asian, and looked to be about eleven or twelve. Was this his daughter? His heart swelled. He watched her playing with the younger children, and knew it must be. Long, dark hair bounced and swayed as she raced after her prey, purposefully letting them stay just a step ahead of her and giggling as a younger child might. His daughter. Who didn't know him.
The other children, also girls, were fairer skinned, more ambiguous. Kazuo wondered if hey might be playmates.
No. These girls were younger...one looking about six, and the other not yet three years old. Logic betrayed his heart, and panic licked at his insides. Any lingering doubt was murdered when the door to the house opened and all the children ran towards the man who exited.
"Daddy!" They shouted in unison. Kazuo gasped at the man's face.
