75. Golden Week: Day Three - 7:20 AM Departure, A Miracle on a Suddenly Crowded Train (Part 1)

"Haa…" I sighed.

The train's decently packed, and an unfamiliar breathlessness makes me queasy. "What a mess, adding to my workload," I muttered. A staffer's colossal screw-up dragged me into an emergency morning meeting. Normally I'd still be asleep. What cruel fate forces me into this dawn nightmare?

"…Awful headache," I grumbled. Not from the screw-up or strategizing, though. Last night's call came while I was drinking. Stumbled into a random host club, scanned the wall of hosts, picked my night's favorite, and had him glued to my side. Sat hip-to-hip on the sofa, arm around his broad shoulders, flashing cash.

My usual game when I find a good one. A glass opened, a tip promised, pure nouveau-riche hag vibes. Men who'd sneer at women grovel for me then. My one-night pick, face paling, chugged for the cash. I smirked, watching him struggle. Almost done for, I thought. Planned to skip work and take him home, until the phone rang.

"Hyouu," I answered, snapping to work mode. My tone must've been foul. The newbie secretary sobbed mid-report, and the veteran VP took over. Routine client trouble, a complaint, but the culprit was a second-year greenhorn, and the mess needed me to settle. Morning meeting set, I hung up with a sigh and cut the night short.

"Kid, sorry, party's over… huh?" I glanced over. My pick, beyond pale to ashen, sprawled defenseless on the sofa. Tempting sight, but no hauling that home. No takeout tonight, sadly. Still, I reached for his shirt collar buttons for a consolation peek.

A female staffer rushed over. I stopped her with two fingers, a fat bill pinched between, pressed to her chest. "Quick job. Tipping him, that's all. This is yours," I said. She took the cash, stepped back silently. Well-trained joint, huh? I'm no perv, just crave a warm touch sometimes.

Turned back, undid three buttons. Collarbone and a hint of pecs peeked out. Tanned salon skin, tacky but provocative. Fingered a lower button. "Ahem," the staffer coughed behind me. Fair enough. Stuffed some bills in his shirt gap, savored the feel, and left.

Next day, hungover and pent-up, I skipped driving. An accident in this state? Disaster. First public transit in ages.

The train rolled in, moderately full. "Right, morning trains," I murmured. Golden Week for some, not us suits, all comrades here.

Time to join the crowd. Hunted a less-packed car, but they're all similar. "Board that men's car, and I'm toast," I muttered. Male-only cars up front and back look comfy. Women aren't legally barred, but if the guys cry "perv," I'd lose any fight.

No proof beats a false claim. Even here, a man could grab my hand, yell "molester," and ruin me. Never happens, though, just kids with parents or old couples, maybe.

I glanced at the men's car, then boarded a regular one. I was tired after standing for ten stops, my was breath still boozy from last night. Luck struck, though. A seat near the door opened, and I nabbed it.

End spot, vertical handrail right by my face, perfect for a nap. Bag on my lap, arms crossed, I tilted against the rail, using it as a pillow. Flawless setup. Sleep hit fast. I dozed off, lulled by the train's sway.