I sat on the tile floor of Shibuya station, my elbows resting on my knees, my head in my hands, and serious men in suits looked down at me, disapproving that I was white and that I was making a fool of myself in public. Her father stood near me. I imagined, though I didn’t see him at all, that he was looking down at me like, “Sorry I let you near my country, let alone near my house, let alone near my daughter.”

In New Jersey, a week later:

We were cold, so we moved to her car. It was cold, even in the car, so I started it and left it idling there in the snow. She cried harder, like the warmth thawed her tears out, or stopped numbing the pain, maybe.

Finally, choked up, she said, “I almost wish I never met you.”

“Don’t say that.” Silence for a while. Then she got out of the car and went back into her house and I put the car in drive and just drove for a long while.