: Lawson’s has swigs of anti-hangover juice. We roam Susukino looking for Booty Bar. “It’s this way!” “No, I swear, it’s this way.” Our roaming is accentuated by the bags we carry. A. and her onigiri. A "private party". The dancefloor is barren, upstairs is a hunter’s lounge and the girls parfait, I vodka tonic. Dancing to Janet, to Amy Winehouse, Rihanna. A performance; pint sized hip-hop dancer, two boys and I see double. Knock over a drink. “Gomen ne. I feel really bad about spilling your drink. Nomimono? Can I buy you another?” Rum and coke. There’s a fancy handshake I don’t quite understand. Girls in lingerie. There is a reason for the pole. They swing and suspend like the room is spinning and us with it. Their movements are Showgirls, their outfits Victoria’s Secret. We part ways. The capsule hotel for me. The bath room is near empty, the tinkling music; a random and melodic arrangement of the same 8 notes. My capsule is lonely alone.
* * *
: There’s someone in my apartment. No, there isn’t. I’m not in my apartment. Soft and smooth gray and charcoal pajamas. This box I sleep in is cool against the soles of my feet. Pale blue light through the edges of the shade. Check card? 14:00? Yes. Yes, check out. Silver and smooth, the Sapporo sky in the late morning. Robinson’s, the middle class shopping experience, red banner sales. Y. running late. Nakajimakoen erased in white, bare trees like dark veins against the sky. Crows shout, dogs in jackets being walked. Zuccafe 22 for lunch and we stay for hours. Y. leaves for Greece soon. E, A, and I walk towards the station, stopping along the way, a photo-op with a sewing mannequin, a denim jacket with gold buttons and zippers. The massaging chairs in Bic Camera with オムライス for dinner and melon soda floats. Bus is warm and drowsy; we’re hampered by bags and worried about frozen pipes. Home is strange after 36 hours away. Sleep will be easy, welcoming, and not long enough.
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