We Never Know Our Own Selves

In 2020, this summer is exceedingly hot.

I recall a certain summer episode. Mr. Yamamoto, who lives across from us, is a bit of an oddball, but we get along well, and our chats by the roadside come into full bloom. Me: “It’s hot today, isn’t it.” Yamamoto: “Summer’s hot—that’s only natural.” Me: “True enough, but I said it as the standard social pleasantry.” Yamamoto: “If it’s not a more interesting opener, the day turns dull.” Me: “Then let’s make it duller. Mr. Nakamura’s shirt today suits this hot summer well.” Yamamoto: “Of course it does—he’s got substance, so whatever he wears suits him.” Me: “As expected of you. I stand corrected.” And so the talk goes on. That playful Mr. Nakamura is no longer of this world. When I asked toward the heavens, “Mr. Yamamoto, this summer is abnormally hot, you know,” I felt as though a voice came back: “You’re an oddball too.”