The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

19
“FURUSAWA TOOK ME to the Kōrakuen,” said
Tōru at breakfast the next morning. “We had a ride in
the teacups, and then we had Chinese noodles for
dinner.”
“That’s nice,” said Honda, showing his false teeth. It
should have been the bland, insubstantial old smile
that went with false teeth; but Honda seemed to be
genuinely pleased. Tōru was wounded.
Since he had come to Honda’s, Tōru had known
every morning the luxurious pleasure of scooping up
the meat of an imported grapefruit, cut into sections
by a thin curved knife. The rude abundance of juice, in
the faintly bitter, glossy white meat of fruit ripe to
bursting, sank into his lazy morning gums with its
warmth.
“Furusawa has bad breath. I can hardly stand it
when we’re studying together.” Tōru smiled an
equivocal smile.
“I wonder why. Do you suppose he has stomach
trouble? But you’re too fussy. You can put up with that
much. You’re not likely to find a more able tutor.”
“I suppose not.” Retreating a step, Tōru finished his