ROUTE 1 -TOKYO-

A little past midnight, I fired up the engine and the air in the garage trembled, thin and tight. I still hadn't decided where to head tonight. Route 246, the Shuto Expressway, or National Route 1? If I just pull out without choosing, it feels like the road will choose me first.

In Minato's ward at night, even the spacing of the traffic lights keeps good tempo. With my hands on the wheel, my heartbeat is as honest as a metronome — I don't need the gauge; I can hear the speed. A dark green mass streams past, and as the presence of Shiba Park draws near, the red steel of Tokyo Tower comes into view, standing straight up out of the night. One flick of the blinker, and I slip into the line that runs alongside the tower. I sing it under my breath: "Route 1, Tokyo — let's go."

Mita, Takanawa. My car flashes twice across the glass of the buildings, and the second me is a touch faster. Around the time I pass the arrow for Shinagawa, the metronome in my chest leans forward by a single beat. Soon, onto National Route 1. Straight, a slight right, then straight again. The white lines look like notes; I sing with the pedal and keep time by the streetlights. "Smooth and steady, in control" — the lyric I wrote myself suited the late-night heart of the city almost too well.

If three green lights line up, I'm grateful for all three. Politely, but without holding back, I drop in another gear. Crossing Yatsuyama Bridge, the shadows of the overhead wires fall in slanting lines, and somewhere far off the brakes of a freight train moan low. The lights of Keihin blur, and the direction of the sea grows clear. The nav announces its recommended route, but I'm nodding toward a different road. The right answer gets decided as I drive. It always does.

Suddenly my throat is dry, and I take a sip from the bottle. In the top right of a sign, the words "toward Yokohama" burn especially bright. Tonight's color is probably blue — a blue that runs out toward the sea. But the color of the next story, I still won't decide. The white of mist, or the white of hot spring steam — no, maybe not white at all, maybe something colorless, no color at all. I tuck away nothing but that premonition into the inner pocket of my chest, and I slide the car into the contours of the night. Let's just head for the sea. By the time night touches the edge of morning, I'll surely be on a long, straight stretch.