expecting falling ceilings, broken ducts filled with rat excrement, stuffing pulled from a soggy mattress, red silk sheets in nests for tanuki, for boar, for whatever other creature that calls this place home, his phone in his other hand, his camera attached to his jacket, ready, his emf reader, strapped to his hip, beep, beep, beeping in time with his heart, he takes a deep breath, sticks his phone in, sweeps left, then right, the light reflecting back into his eyes, almost blinding him in the darkness of the tattered wallpapered hallway, so he steps through the space the door has left, tempted to take off his shoes, his short stay in a ryokan in Arashiyama and his friend’s apartment in Roppongi reminding him, but who knows what’s on the floor, he shines his phone down, seeing unblemished white tile, and reconsiders taking off his shoes, they squeak as his feet settle into each step, an admonishment, and he brings his phone up again, his eyes fight the light and he sees a long white couch, its expanse taking up one side of the room, the mirror above it, haloing his lanky body, and the couch and the mirror are both clean, unbroken, almost pristine, as if they’d just been cleaned and made ready for the next couple, he turns to the right, he sees a doctor’s desk, with a darkened computer and white examination table nearby, clean, perfect, and he thinks of all the kinks people have, and he wonders where are the open ceilings, the mold, the rot, the garbage, and he hears the beeping of his emf reader speeding up and steps back, but the door has closed behind him and all he sees is the outline of something shuddering out of the dark
