Ray Kowlski woke up and decided he was in Tokyo.

He stood in the center of his apartment, which was a studio with a kitchenette that consisted of a hot plate and a sink that leaked, and he closed his eyes and imagined the noise. The traffic, the people, the neon signs buzzing in Japanese characters he could not read but could almost understand if he squinted hard enough.

When he opened his eyes, the apartment was still the apartment. The same stained ceiling, the same creaky floor, the same window that looked out onto the brick wall of the building across the alley. But Ray did not care. He was in Tokyo. He had always been in Tokyo.

He put on his coat. It was a brown jacket that had been brown thirty years ago and was now the color of dried mud, but in Tokyo, it was fashionable. He put on his hat. It was a fedora that belonged to his father, who had been dead eleven years, but in Tokyo, everyone wore hats.

He walked out of the apartment building and into the street. The street was Main Street, and it was a Tuesday, and it was raining, and there was one other person walking, a woman with an umbrella who did not look at him. But in Ray's version of Tokyo, the street was crowded. The woman with the umbrella was part of a crowd of thousands. The rain was not rain but sakura petals, pink and delicate, drifting from trees that grew along the sidewalk.

Ray walked to the bar. The bar was called O'Sullivan's, though in Tokyo it was called Sake no Miya, and the beer was not Budweiser but Asahi, and the bartender was not Sully but a young woman named Yuki with dark hair and a smile that reached her eyes.

But Sully was there, behind the bar, pouring Ray his usual. "The usual, Ray?"

"The usual," Ray said, and sat at the counter.

Sully poured the beer. It was Budweiser. It was always Budweiser. But Ray drank it anyway, and it tasted like Tokyo.

"You look different today," Sully said.

"Do I?"

"Yeah. You look like you've been somewhere."

Ray smiled. "I have. Tokyo. Beautiful this time of year. The petals are falling."

Sully nodded, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Sully nodded a lot. Ray was not sure if Sully believed him or if Sully had simply stopped caring.

Ray drank his beer. He thought about his day in Tokyo. He had visited a temple, ancient and golden, perched on a hillside above the city. He had eaten sushi at a counter that overlooked the sea, the fish so fresh it tasted like the ocean itself. He had met a woman named Akiko who taught him how to fold origami cranes, and she had folded a thousand of them, one for each day of the year, and given them to him in a glass jar that caught the light and scattered it across the walls in rainbows.

In Main Street, the jar did not exist. The woman did not exist. The temple did not exist.

But Ray carried the memory with him, and the memory was real, and that was enough.

He finished his beer and paid Sully and walked home. The walk home was through the park, and in Tokyo, the park was a garden, a zen garden with raked gravel and moss and a pond where koi fish swam in patterns that seemed almost intentional, as if the fish were trying to communicate something to Ray that he was almost smart enough to understand.

In Main Street, the park was a patch of grass with a broken swing set and a bench that had seen better decades. The bench was where Ray sat. He watched the rain fall on the empty grass, and he imagined koi fish swimming through the rain, their scales flashing gold and orange and white.

"Nothing to win," he said to no one.

The words came to him sometimes, unbidden. Nothing to win. Nothing to lose. Nothing to do but walk through the worlds in your head and drink your beer and go home.

Ray went home. He took off his coat. He took off his hat. He hung them on the hook by the door, next to the hook where his father's hat had hung for eleven years before Ray took it down and put it back on.

He made dinner. Pasta with tomato sauce from a can. He ate it at the table, watching the rain through the window. The rain was steady, the kind of rain that lasted for hours and then stops for no reason, as if it had simply decided it was done.

After dinner, Ray washed the dishes. He dried them. He put them away. He sat in his armchair and turned on the television. The television showed a game show, and Ray watched it the way he watched everything, with half his attention on the screen and half on the world he had visited that morning.

Akiko's hands, folding the origami cranes. The temple on the hillside. The sushi bar overlooking the sea. The koi fish in the pond.

All of it real. All of it not real. The distinction had stopped mattering years ago.

Ray went to bed. He lay in his bed, which was a single mattress on a frame that squeaked when he moved, and he closed his eyes and let the world dissolve.

The ceiling became a temple ceiling, painted with gold leaf and ancient symbols. The squeaking bed became the creak of a wooden boat on calm water. The rain became the sound of waves lapping against the shore.

He was in Tokyo. He had always been in Tokyo. He would always be in Tokyo.

Morning came. Ray woke up and decided he was in Paris.

He stood in the center of his apartment, which was a studio with a kitchenette that consisted of a hot plate and a sink that leaked, and he closed his eyes and imagined the noise. The traffic, the cafés, the people speaking French in voices that were either angry or romantic, Ray could never tell which.

When he opened his eyes, the apartment was still the apartment. But Ray did not care. He was in Paris. He had always been in Paris.

He put on his coat. It was a brown jacket that had been brown thirty years ago and was now the color of dried mud, but in Paris, it was a trench coat, and trench coats were fashionable. He put on his hat. It was a fedora that belonged to his father, but in Paris, it was a beret, and everyone wore berets.

He walked out of the apartment building and into the street. The street was Main Street, and it was a Wednesday, and it was still raining, and there was one other person walking, a woman with an umbrella who did not look at him. But in Ray's version of Paris, the street was the Champs-Élysées, and the woman with the umbrella was part of a crowd of thousands, and the rain was not rain but a fine mist that made everything glisten.

Ray walked to the bar. The bar was called O'Sullivan's, though in Paris it was called Le Petit Café, and the beer was not Budweiser but Perrier, and the bartender was not Sully but a man named Pierre with a mustache and a scarf.

But Sully was there, behind the bar, pouring Ray his usual. "The usual, Ray?"

"The usual," Ray said, and sat at the counter.

Sully poured the beer. It was Budweiser. It was always Budweiser. But Ray drank it anyway, and it tasted like Paris.

"You look different today," Sully said.

"Do I?"

"Yeah. You look like you've been somewhere."

Ray smiled. "Paris. Beautiful this time of year. The mist makes everything look like a painting."

Sully nodded. "Sounds nice."

Ray drank his beer. He thought about his day in Paris. He had visited the Louvre, and the Mona Lisa had looked at him and winked. He had eaten croissants at a café on the Left Bank, and they had been the best thing he had ever tasted, better than anything, better than life itself. He had met a man named Henri who told him that art was not about what you saw but about what you made others see, and Ray had understood this the way one understands a mathematical proof, immediately and irrevocably and with no possibility of disagreement.

In Main Street, Henri did not exist. The Louvre did not exist. The croissants did not exist.

But Ray carried the memory with him, and the memory was real, and that was enough.

He finished his beer and paid Sully and walked home. The walk home was through the park, and in Paris, the park was the Luxembourg Gardens, with their bronze statues and their rose gardens and their fountains that caught the light and turned it into diamonds.

In Main Street, the park was a patch of grass with a broken swing set and a bench that had seen better decades. The bench was where Ray sat. He watched the rain fall on the empty grass, and he imagined diamonds falling from the sky, glittering as they fell, disappearing into the wet earth before they could be picked up.

"Nothing to win," he said to no one.

Ray went home. He made dinner. He washed the dishes. He sat in his armchair and watched television. He went to bed.

He closed his eyes and let the world dissolve.

The ceiling became the ceiling of the Palace of Versailles, all gold leaf and painted frescoes and chandeliers that weighed more than Ray's entire apartment building. The squeaking bed became the sound of carriage wheels on cobblestone. The rain became the sound of a thousand conversations in a thousand languages, all speaking at once, none of them listening.

He was in Paris. He had always been in Paris. He would always be in Paris.

Morning came. Ray woke up and decided he was in Rio.

He stood in the center of his apartment, closed his eyes, and imagined the music. The samba, the bossa nova, the drums beating from every street corner, every balcony, every heart.

When he opened his eyes, the apartment was still the apartment. But Ray did not care. He was in Rio. He had always been in Rio.

He put on his coat. He put on his hat. He walked out into the rain.

The bar was called O'Sullivan's. Sully poured his beer. It was Budweiser. It was always Budweiser.

But Ray drank it anyway.

Because in Rio, it tasted like samba.

And that was enough.