ROUTE 1 -TOKYO-

It's a little past midnight.

When I start the engine, the garage air trembles faintly. I haven't decided where to go yet. Route 246, the Metropolitan Expressway, or Route 1. When I set off without deciding, I feel like the road chooses me first.

The night in Minato Ward has good tempo, right down to the spacing between the traffic lights. I check the give of the seat against my back, then match my breath. The moment I grip the wheel, my pulse is as obedient as a metronome. I don't look at the gauges. I don't need to—I can tell by sound.

A dark green mass flows past the window, and the presence of Shiba Park draws near. Red steel stands straight up in the night; Tokyo Tower is honest, as always. I tick the turn signal just once and slip onto the line that runs past the tower. Without saying it aloud, I sing it softly in my head. "Route 1, Tokyo—let's go."

Mita, Takanawa. My car reflects twice in the glass of the buildings, and the second me is just a little faster. Every time a sign comes near, I give a little nod. It's a habit. Won't go away. By the time I pass the arrow for Shinagawa, the metronome deep in my chest leans forward by a single beat.

I get on Route 1. Straight, a little right, straight again. The white lines look like notes. I sing with the pedal and keep the beat with the streetlights. "Smooth and steady, in control." I wrote those lyrics myself, yet they suit the late-night heart of the city so well.

Three lights stayed green in a row. I properly thank all three. I'm an airhead, but I value good manners, so. Politely, but without holding back, I drop another gear. I crack the window two centimeters, and the night wind leaves a note on my cheek.

I cross Yatsuyama Bridge. The shadows of the overhead lines fall at a slant, and far off, a freight train's brakes moan low. The Keihin lights blur, and the direction of the sea grows clear. The nav keeps reciting its recommended route, but I'm nodding toward a different road. The right answer gets decided while driving. It's always like that.

My throat is dry, so I grab a bottle from the door pocket. I turn the cap, stop it at a half-turn. One sip, and I look outside. The words "Toward Yokohama" glow especially bright in the upper right of the sign.

Tonight's color is probably blue. The blue that breaks toward the sea. But the color of the next story, I won't decide yet. The white of mist, or the white of hot springs—no, maybe it isn't white at all. Something colorless, something clear. I tuck just that hunch into the inner pocket of my chest.

I put the bottle back in the door pocket. I thought I heard a light click, but it was swallowed right up by the engine. I re-grip the wheel and slide the car into the outline of the night. The city lights are still plenty stereo, and the metronome is in a good mood.

Let's head out to the sea like this. By the time night touches the edge of morning, I'll surely be on a long straight. What color the story from there on was, I'll know soon enough. —Maybe not white, but a clear morning.