O lord, he said, Japanese women, br real women, they have not forgotten, br bowing and smiling br closing the wounds men have made; br but American women will kill you like they br tear a lampshade, br American women care less than a dime, br they’ve gotten derailed, br they’re too nervous to make good: br always scowling, belly-aching, br disillusioned, overwrought; br but oh lord, say, the Japanese women: br there was this one, br I came home and the door was locked br and when I broke in she broke out the bread knife br and chased me under the bed br and her sister came br and they kept me under that bed for two days, br and when I came out, at last, br she didn’t mention attorneys, br just said, you will never wrong me again, br and I didn’t; but she died on me, br and dying, said, you can wrong me now, br and I did, br but you know, I felt worse then br than when she was living; br there was no voice, no knife, br nothing but little Japanese prints on the wall, br all those tiny people sitting by red rivers br with flying green birds, br and I took them down and put them face down br in a drawer with my shirts, br and it was the first time I realized br that she was dead, even though I buried her; br and some day I’ll take them all out again, br all the tan-faced little people br sitting happily by their bridges and huts br and mountains— br but not right now, br not just yet.