Chapter 6 Hiroki
Hiroki
I missed dinner, but I’m on time to give my mom her medication for the night. She’s been taking a low-dose antidepressant to help her sleep. Because of her condition, insomnia has been one of her biggest challenges.
I’m standing in the hallway with Jo when my mother calls to me in Japanese.
“Hiro, who’s with you? Bring her in here. I want to meet her.”
I hesitate. Should I bring Jo in to talk to my mom? Will that get her too excited to sleep?
“My mom wants to meet you,” I tell Jo. “Are you okay with that?”
Jo looks nervous as she smooths down her hair. “Sure. I’d like to meet her.”
“She has mild Alzheimer’s, so she needs help winding down for the night. I try not to get her too excited.”
“How do you do that?”
I give a little shrug. “I guess I just talk about calm stuff.”
“Calm stuff. Got it.”
“You can call her Mrs. Ota. She likes that.”
Jo smooths down her hair again before following me into the bedroom. Inside, the lamp is dim. In her favorite pajamas, my mom sits propped up in her bed.
I switch to English. “Mom, this is my new friend Jo. She’s the sister of one of my clients. She runs a clothing store in Long Beach.”
That gets my mom’s attention. “A clothing store! Oh, how wonderful. How nice to meet you. Come sit down here.” She motions to the armchair next to her bed.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ota.” Jo pulls the chair forward so she can be closer to my mom. She softens her voice. “I love your pajamas. The print is gorgeous, and they look so soft.”
My mom leans toward Jo with a big grin. “Natori. They’re my favorite.”
“I adore them.”
I stand in the doorway and watch. Jo works her magic on my mom, and soon they’re talking fashion like it’s their native language.
“I have always loved clothes. I don’t get dressed up much these days, but there is something coming up soon.” My mom looks up at me. “Hiro, when is that gala? The one at the Getty Villa?”
“Next month,” I reply. When Jo looks at me for clarification, I add, “I helped restore a mosaic in one of their galleries. They’re throwing a fancy party to celebrate.”
“I’m going to be his date,” my mom says proudly, “but I have no idea what to wear.”
Jo points to the closet. “Are those your clothes? Would you mind if I take a look?”
“Please do,” my mom says.
Jo opens the closet door and searches through the dresses hanging on the rack. She pulls out one garment bag and carefully unzips it before spreading a beautifully embroidered black dress on the foot of the bed.
“Mrs. Ota,” Jo says with surprise. “Are you kidding me? Is this a real Janice Wainwright?”
“It is. Hiro’s father and I traveled all over Europe and the UK. I bought that in the 70s.”
Jo reads the labels of my mother’s clothing like she’s reciting books of the Bible—Sonia Rykiel, Issey Miyake, Halston. I don’t know any of the brands, but my mom looks overjoyed, as if someone is finally appreciating how fabulous she really is.
“For the gala, I think you could wear the Janice Wainwright with a flat gold sandal,” Jo says, putting the garment bags back. “There’s a drop-dead gorgeous gold brooch in the shop right now from the same era. You could wear it on a belt or even in your hair. I’ll bring it. See if you like it.”
“Oh, honey. That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“You have plenty of beautiful things to choose from. What a collection.” Jo closes the closet and heads back to my mom. “Here, let me help you get settled.”
With a warm feeling in my chest, I watch as Jo tucks my mother in and turns off the light.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Ota,” she says, but my mom is sound asleep before we even shut the door.
We check in with my mom’s nighttime caregiver. Since my mom’s diagnosis, we’ve relied on caregivers for support. They are my mom’s companions, they help her with meals and housework, and they monitor her safety while I’m working. The peace of mind is priceless.
Jo follows me into the backyard. “I didn’t know you lived with your mom.”
“It’s been hard for her since my father died. I’m glad I can help her out.” I unlock the door to the back house. It was a large detached garage before I converted it into my studio, and I have a small apartment upstairs.
“Here, put these slippers on,” I say. “Sometimes there are shards of glass on the floor.”
Jo puts on my Adidas slides. Her feet are so small.
When I turn on all the lights, she gasps.
I have shelves and shelves of tiles and stained glass organized by color and material.
Old mosaics, sketches and studies decorate the walls.
There are stacks of porcelain plates and terra-cotta pots I’ve used for past projects.
In the middle of it all is a huge worktable.
I’m going through the process of laying out one of my smaller commissions.
I use glue and mesh and put down the thousands of pieces, one by one.
It can take months. This design is a phoenix, the mythical bird.
Eventually it will be a shower niche in a mansion in San Marino.
Jo runs her fingertip over the rough edge of one of the tiles. “Did you draw this?”
“Yes, but the homeowner came up with the concept.”
“This is incredible.”
“It takes a long time,” I say, “but it’s not hard.”
“The hell it’s not hard.” We make eye contact. She smiles, enjoying the innuendo. “What’s that for?” She points to the ring light I have set up on the table.
“I go live sometimes when I’m working. I also give beginning mosaic classes online.
I pack kits and send them out to students all over the country.
Sometimes I consult with other mosaic artists who need advice.
As an experiment, I moved a portion of my business online during the pandemic.
It turned out to be good money in the long run. ”
She purses her lips, thinking about what I’ve said. “That’s smart of you. But I was hoping for something spicier.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Like maybe you lay out the tiles shirtless. Or you sell feet pics of yourself walking across the mosaics.”
“Feet pics?”
She grins. “I bet you have nice feet.”
I watch her as she runs her fingers through a tray of pistachio colored smalti. Each of her fingernails is a different color—electric purple, French blue, viridian. “How’s your head feeling now?” I ask.
“Not great, but much better than before.”
“So what day of the week is today?”
She glances at the clock. “Today is tomorrow. Today is Saturday.” She leans against me and lets out a long sigh. “It’s past my bedtime.”
“Mine too.” Automatically, as if I have done this a million times before, I wrap my arms around her and pull her against my chest. We stand still, holding each other. I close my eyes, pure pleasure working its way through my veins.
“Rest here tonight,” I say.
“Okay.”
She follows me upstairs. She looks at my bed for a moment before looking back at me.
“Um, how about a hot shower?” I ask.
“That sounds perfect.”
I hand her a T-shirt, a pair of shorts and a clean towel.
“What if I lose my balance in the shower?” she says, slipping off my coveralls. “That’s dangerous.”
“True.”
“You could shower with me.”
“I would love to take a shower with you, Jo.” I struggle to keep my voice steady. “But my job tonight is to look after you, not take advantage of you after a head injury.”
“Oh.” She stops untying her top. “That’s very considerate of you.” She frowns, thinking about our problem. “What if I ask you to sit in the bathroom while I shower? That way you can look after me without being a creep.”
“I can do that.”
“Okay, perfect.” With a friendly smile, she unties her top.
It drops to the floor along with her bikini bottoms. I follow her into the bathroom, my mouth dry at the sight of her tan lines.
I put down the toilet lid and sit. I hold her towel on my lap to hide my furious hard-on.
She steps into the shower and closes the glass door.
Hot steam fills the bathroom. She watches me watching her.
After carefully washing her long hair, she pours body wash into her hands and lathers them up.
I watch as she runs her palms all over her body, her neck and shoulders, one arm, then the other.
I sit still as she slowly runs her hands across her stomach then over her breasts in slow, lazy circles.
Her fingers press into her flesh. My hands tingle, longing to feel what she’s feeling.
The lather hides her nipples. Her eyes are locked on my face.
Neither one of us is smiling now.
She rinses herself off, revealing her full, round tits and cherry mahogany nipples, upturned and hard as pebbles.
More soap. She turns her back to me and slides her body down into a graceful squat.
Over her shoulder, she stares at me as she arches her back and spreads her legs, giving me a view of her perfectly round ass.
I lean back, shifting my weight. Under the towel, I’m rubbing my dick slowly, up and down. For the first time in months, I can feel a heavy ache in my balls.
At first, she’s just washing herself. But then she faces away from me and places her hand against the shower wall for balance. Her other hand, hidden from me, is moving between her legs.
I think I stop breathing.
Through the steam, her chest rises and falls as she takes deeper breaths.
She steadies herself against the wall, and now I can see her face in profile.
Her eyes are closed and her eyebrows are drawn, as if she’s caught in an intense dream.
Her arm moves up and down. She presses her lips together, concentrating.
I wish I could hear her touching herself.
The sound of the water drowns out the sound of her fingers on her wet pussy, the sound of her breathing.
My jaw is tight. I choke down the groan in my throat.
One minute passes, then two. I can’t believe there is a beautiful woman masturbating in my shower.
My eyes can’t get enough of her. She moves her hand faster and faster.
Her mouth falls open. I picture myself pushing my dick between her soft lips, flipping her upside down in bed and burying my face in that pussy, using my tongue to bring her to the place she’s trying to bring herself now.
She lets out a moan, low and raspy. Her breaths turn into loud, quick whimpers.
Her hand is moving fast, rougher than I would have imagined.
With a surprised wail that echoes against the tiles, she comes hard, her upper body still while her hips move back and forth, riding out the waves of her orgasm, pleasure spilling from the detonation point between her pussy and her fingertips.
When she’s finished, she takes a few deep breaths. She stands up carefully, rinses herself and turns off the water.
I am sitting still. I can’t believe what I’ve just seen.
She opens the shower door. “Can I have the towel?”
Silently, I hand it to her and watch as she dries herself off. She looks at my very obvious erection. “Thank you for watching me. I felt very safe.”
My mouth is dry. I can’t speak.
She bends down and looks me in the eyes. “Hiroki, listen to me. What day of the week is today?”
“It’s Saturday,” I croak.
“Good. No concussion.” She smiles and touches my cheek. “Shower is all yours. I’m going to bed.”