I got off the train at the terminus along with three or four million other people. It was a crowd of brightly coloured Yukata, orange haired lads and mothers shepherding their excited children. Everyone was moving in different directions to exits their feet seemed to know by heart. In the middle, I felt like a rock in the sea. I lost Kazumi in the crowd near the escalator. I decided to call it a night and head back to the hotel. I could at least report I had found her.
After standing on the wrong side of the escalator at each level I emerged into the body of the station. Sandals tapped towards the ticket barriers beyond which a homeless men was settled down on a cardboard mattress. No bowl out for money, and bare feet sticking out of dark suit pants, as if a salaryman had stopped dressing halfway and decided to throw it all in. I took a detour to the toilets.
The same smell as all men’s toilets all around the world greeted me: old, old ammonia. Two or three urinals were occupied, a father was asking from outside a cubicle if his son was finished. I went straight to a basin and turned on the tap. Bending over, I washed my face in the water. The water was cool, but the humidity had left a film of oil on my face that water couldn’t cut. I needed a shower, a clean shirt, and a bottle of whisky. I stood up and on the way saw water dripping off my face in the low mirror. I also caught sight of another face, hair standing up above a crooked brow, and a gap in his teeth.
The white tiles turned murky brown, blood drained out of my head. I heard a crack as my head hit the floor.
