Zenjiro was already 12 years old.
The summer heat pressed heavily against the glass windows of the living room. It was Saturday afternoon. A small electric fan rotated slowly back and forth on the wooden floor. The gray plastic blades chopped the thick air. It blew a weak, warm breeze across the woven tatami mats.
Liora lay completely flat on her stomach. She was asleep. Her mouth hung slightly open. A thin line of clear drool pooled on the dark green fabric of the sofa cushion. She wore a loose white shirt and dark blue shorts. Her bare legs sprawled wide across the floor. Her breathing was slow and entirely rhythmic.
Zenjiro sat a few feet away from her. He looked at the black television screen. It was turned off. He wanted to watch a detective show. He looked for the low wooden coffee table for the remote control.
The surface was completely empty. It only held a half-empty glass of cold water and a folded newspaper.
He checked the narrow gaps between the brown sofa cushions. He ran his hand over the rough fabric but he found nothing. The remote was missing.
He analyzed the situation. His father was at the construction site. He always worked long hours on the weekends. Mother was the last person to watch television before they ate lunch. She likely carried the remote with her when she went to take her afternoon nap. It was a common, absentminded habit of hers. The plastic device was probably in the master bedroom.
He stood up from the floor. He walked out of the living room. He moved slowly down the narrow hallway. The wooden boards creaked slightly beneath his bare feet. The air in the corridor felt stagnant and thick.
He reached the closed door of the master bedroom. He raised his right hand. He formed a fist to knock on the wood.
Then he stopped.
He lowered his hand to his side. He think. It was exactly two o'clock in the afternoon. Clara was definitely sleeping right now. A loud knock would probably startle her awake. It seemed like a bad idea to disrupt her rest just to retrieve a piece of plastic.
She sometimes complained about a mild headaches when her sleep was broken suddenly. It was highly illogical to cause a loud disturbance when a quiet retrieval was possible.
He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the metal doorknob. The brass felt warm to the touch. He turned it slowly to the right. The internal mechanism clicked with a faint metallic snap.
The door was not locked.
He pushed the heavy door open. He stepped quietly into the room.
The air inside the bedroom was hot. The large glass window faced the afternoon sun directly. The bright yellow light spilled violently across the floorboards. It illuminated millions of tiny dust floating in the heavy air.
He looked at the large bed in the center of the room.
Clara was fast asleep. Her sleeping posture was a complete disaster. She lay flat on her back. Both of her arms were thrown entirely wide open across the mattress. The thick blue blanket lay crumpled in a messy pile on the floor near the foot of the bed. She had kicked it off in her sleep to escape the suffocating summer heat.
She wore a thin white sando and a pair of loose gray shorts. Her restless movement on the bed sheets had pulled her clothing entirely out of place. The bottom hem of her top was bunched high around her collarbones.
She was not wearing a bra underneath the thin shirt.
Zenjiro stopped walking. He stood near the edge of the mattress.
Her chest was completely exposed to the warm air of the room. Two pale, soft curves rested heavily against her ribs. The bright sunlight hit her bare skin. It highlighted the smooth texture and the faint blue veins resting just beneath the surface. Her chest rose and fell with every deep, slow breath.
He stared at her.
A sudden wave of intense nostalgia hit him. The scenery matched an old memory perfectly. It was the exact same situation from three years ago. The suffocating heat. The messy bed. The bunched white fabric. The exposed pale skin.
He was nine years old back then. He had analyzed the scene purely as a practical health risk. He had covered her up so she wouldn't catch a cold when the evening draft rolled in.
He was twelve years old now. He thought of the exact same reasoning. The temperature would drop soon. Leaving her chest exposed was a blatant vulnerability to illness.
He walked to the right side of the bed. He leaned over her sleeping body. He reached out with both of his hands to fix the problem. He grabbed the bunched white cotton of her sando near her collarbones.
He pulled the thin fabric down slowly.
His right index finger slipped. The smooth cotton slid out from under his grip. His bare hand dropped past the fabric and made direct contact with the exposed flesh of her chest.
He accidentally touched her bare breast.
The physical sensation exploded through his nerve endings. The skin was incredibly soft. It felt unnaturally warm. The heavy mass yielded instantly beneath the light pressure of his fingertips.
Zenjiro froze.
He did not pull his hand back. His arm locked completely in place. His fingers remained pressed directly against her warm skin. The white sando now covered her chest, but his hand was trapped entirely underneath the thin fabric.
A massive, violently confusing shockwave ripped through his entire body. It was an alien sensation. It hit his stomach first and then it rushed straight up into his chest.
His heart slammed hard against his ribs. The rhythm was erratic and painfully fast. His throat went completely dry. A thick, heavy heat flooded into his cheeks. His face burned.
He was twelve years old. He did not possess the vocabulary to define this biological reaction. The teacher incident from the dusty storage room involved simple curiosity about a cartoon picture. This was entirely different. This was a heavy, suffocating pressure in his head. This was a terrifying spike of pure adrenaline mixed with a strange, twisting knot in his gut.
He stayed completely frozen in that exact position for one full minute. He did not blink. He just stared straight down at his own wrist disappearing under the white shirt.
He felt the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of her lungs against his knuckles. He felt the intense body heat radiating through her pale skin directly into his palm. The tactile friction burned a permanent imprint into his brain.
The logic in his mind completely fractured. His usual deductive reasoning failed to produce a valid explanation for his own physical paralysis. He could not understand his nerves were sending him.
Sixty seconds passed. The silence in the room was deafening. The only sound was the rush of blood pounding loudly in his own ears.
His hand finally moved. He did not pull it away.
He curled his fingers around the bottom hem of the white sando. He gripped the thin cotton tightly. He slowly lifted the fabric back up. He pushed it high over her collarbones again.
He exposed her bare chest to the warm air once more.
He pulled his hand away and let his arms fall straight down to his sides. He stood over the bed. He stared directly at the shape of her breast. He watched the soft curve. He watched the pale skin catch the afternoon sunlight.
Why did I pull the shirt back up?
The question echoed loudly in his head. He demanded a logical answer from his own brain. He found absolutely nothing. His brain was confused. He knew that the room would cool down later. He knew she might catch a cold. His previous objective was to cover her up. He had actively reversed his own protective action just to look at her skin again.
It made zero logical sense. Yet he could not force his eyes to look away. He stood there like a stone statue. He stared at her chest for five continuous minutes.
Why am I looking at the breast of Mother?
The time stretched out into a slow, warped eternity. He just watched her breathe. He watched the slight shift of her weight on the mattress. The heavy, confusing heat in his stomach refused to fade. It burned like a tiny, hot coal sitting right under his ribs.
He studied the slope of her collarbone and the exact physical geometry of her exposed flesh. His mind is confused.
Clara groaned softly.
The sudden noise shattered the heavy silence. She shifted her weight to the left. Her bare shoulder rubbed hard against the white bed sheets. Then she stopped moving. She did not wake up.
Pure panic finally broke through his paralysis. The biological trance shattered. His survival instincts kicked in hard.
He spun around. He saw the black plastic remote control resting on the small wooden bedside table. He snatched it off the wood. His fingers gripped the plastic tight. He turned his back to the bed. He walked rapidly out of the hot bedroom. He pulled the heavy wooden door shut behind him. The brass latch clicked loudly.