Everything seems so unfamiliar, and so very familiar.
“Why don’t we go someplace more quiet?” She wasn’t asking. Stomach butterflies mixed with an inebriated bilious churning. I entertained the prospect of going back to her place or my room.
Her reflection mingled with the dotted lights of Shibuya’s nightscape. I wasn’t ready to leave the murmur of soft voices, a hallmark of top-floor hotel bars where they pipe the likes of Miles Davis and John Coltrane through ceiling speakers. An unmanned grand piano seemed to wait on a small circular stage, and servers flitted back and forth in the yellow glow.
She leaned in and rested her finger on the lip of my cocktail glass, then smiled and tilted her head. Her springy curls bounced with the movement. She was waiting for me to take the initiative, but I just wanted more booze.
“Where were you thinking?”
“Your room is just downstairs, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That works.”
She was forward. Very forward. I wasn’t sure if I liked it or not. Our server stopped in front of our table. I ordered two more drinks. The table lamp brightened, not much, but enough for me to notice. She sat back into her chair, and a wet silence separated us. She looked across the bar, tapping her long fingers against her thigh…