MFYD-011 Sayama Ai: The Life We Almost Forgot to Live

Opening Scene: A Place at the Table

In this telling of MFYD-011 Sayama Ai, our first argument concerned a piece of toast.

“You’re staring,” Ai said.

“I’m allowed. We’re married.”

“Then you’re allowed to butter this.”

She pushed a plate towards me, and I finally stopped watching her long enough to find a knife.

I had admired Sayama Ai, 佐山爱, for years. In this story, she had stepped away from her adult film career and chosen a quieter life with me. Still, sharing a kitchen seemed harder to believe than the wedding itself.

There were two cups beside the kettle. Her slippers waited beneath the table. A towel she had used hung crookedly on the oven door.

Every small thing suggested she intended to stay.

“Too much butter,” she said.

Apparently, marriage also meant receiving instructions.

The Story Develops: Everything Worth Keeping

Our house welcomed sunlight through the kitchen windows and moonlight across the sitting room floor.

I began carrying a small camera.

Filming from my own perspective, I recorded Ai reaching for the washing, choosing which cup she wanted, and laughing while we wiped water from the bathroom tiles.

At night, after she had washed off her makeup, I sometimes captured her trying to finish a sentence before falling asleep on the sofa.

I loved those recordings.

At first, she seemed to enjoy them too. She waved at the lens and threatened to confiscate the camera if I kept footage of her burnt breakfast.

Then I began asking for things again.

Could she repeat that sentence? Could she turn towards the window? Could she wait while I checked the sound?

She usually agreed.

I mistook her patience for enthusiasm.

One evening, she spoke throughout dinner while I adjusted the camera beside my plate. I nodded when her voice rose and smiled when she smiled.

“Well?” she asked.

I looked up.

“What do you think?”

I had no idea.

The Turning Point: A Question over Dinner

Ai lowered her fork.

“Were you listening?”

I reached for an explanation before I reached for her.

The light had been changing. The camera had slipped. I wanted to keep a proper record of our first weeks together.

She listened until I finished.

“And what happens to the weeks themselves?”

I glanced at the small screen. Her face remained perfectly framed.

“I’m afraid I’ll forget,” I admitted. “For so long, I could only imagine being here with you.”

Ai rested her hand beside mine.

“I know.”

For a moment, I thought that settled it.

Then she added, “But sometimes you ask me to repeat something, and I can’t remember how I said it either. The moment has already passed.”

I switched off the camera.

Without its little light, the table looked unexpectedly ordinary: cooling food, two glasses, a folded napkin beneath her wrist.

“What were you asking me?”

She hesitated, then pointed towards the window.

She wanted to move the table closer to it. There would be room for breakfast in the sunshine, she explained. Perhaps a small plant could stand between our cups.

While I had been preserving yesterday, she had been making plans for tomorrow.

What Happens Next: Breakfast by the Window

We moved the table after dinner.

One leg caught on the rug. Ai laughed when I pulled too hard, then helped me lift it clear.

We sat down to test the arrangement, although the window offered only darkness and our own reflections.

“Who’s cooking tomorrow?” she asked.

“I am.”

“That sounded suspiciously confident.”

“I can make eggs.”

“You can attempt eggs.”

Later, she leaned against my shoulder on the sofa, bare-faced and sleepy. The moon had appeared above the rooftops.

The camera stayed on its shelf.

In the morning, she set two cups beside the window while I stood over the frying pan.

“Ready?” she called.

I almost said, “One moment.”

Instead, I turned off the heat, carried the plates across the kitchen and sat down beside her.

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