French Cup: A Neighborhood Story

Chapter 1: -Kazuya- Under the Golden Lights

The early December air was making a chilling breeze, the golden lights strung about the back patio waving in it like friendly fairies. Their large yellow orbs created an aura like sunset, even though it was past 11PM. The songs playing softly on the loud speaker out here were too romantic, causing me to hold my clasped hands to my chest, dreaming about dancing with someone. The picnic tables looked too empty, the dark red umbrellas over them making it more romantic. The candles on the tables were long extinguished, the customers gone for the day, hours ago.

My nose turned up to the air, hopeful for snow. But, all I saw were the cold lights of the Modern, the new hotel that had gone up in the past year. So quickly built, an ugly gray building with no thought to the surrounding architecture, like a giant robot standing solitary against the black sky, watching over us like a military soldier. 

Bing Crosby was singing "It's Been a Long, Long Time" over my shoulder from the loud speaker strung up on a pole. Gentle tones, soothing me as I stared up at the hotel lights. So many of them were still on, though it was so late. 

It had just opened about a week ago. From what I'd heard, business was doing well. Their guests were already coming into shops along our street, picking through goods. Several complaints had been made, and Ayane of the record store had complained herself earlier in our coffee shop about a particularly ornery character who had come in to use the bathroom at her store. "Customers only," she'd told her. The hotel guest hadn't liked that and told her off.

"They're too frou frou for this neighborhood," Ayane had sighed, flicking the fringe on the sleeve of her vintage leather jacket.  "They don't fit in at all. It's a symbol of the times. They better not come into my store like that anymore." She'd let out an even bigger sigh. "But, I'm sure they will. Hey, you got any more fresh black coffee? How fresh is it? I don't like that old shit. That's a good boy. Go make some more."

She probably sounded just like that lady who'd invaded her store. 

"Coffee, Ayane?" Nikki had asked, coming up behind me just like he always did, giving me a startle.

"Of course," she'd said, raising her empty mug, satisfied finally. However, she narrowed her sharp, sixty year old eyes. "That hotel is going to be the downfall of this neighborhood, mark my words."

"We know," we'd both chimed together, hearing that phrase about a million times this week as the rest of the neighborhood paraded around in here with their own worries. 

"Hiro and Michael never should have sold it to them," she went on, now noticeably happier with her full cup. "I understand they sold the building for a lot of money, but with that, all of my old friends went bye-bye. I'm sure you're hurting, too. For them to have sold it just a year after your grand reopening? They didn't think about us when they did that. I guess you never really know someone."

Gazing up at the hotel now, I did miss the laundry that used to hang on the old balconies. It used to be small apartments, a former hotel that had been converted into cheap rooms to rent. A lot of artists and others who couldn't afford a big space in a newer, fancier neighborhood had lived there. They never lived in one place for long, but they'd definitely fit in with us. In particular, I recalled a fire dancer who'd performed in this very back patio two years ago. I'd wanted her to come back, but Michael had told me she'd moved out. Gone, just like the smell of her smoke on the wind. I still remembered her orange flames whipping in the night, mesmerizing all of us as we clapped for her, wandering and mystical music entertaining us over the speakers. 

I jumped as the music changed from a dreamy Billie Holiday song to the booming, big brass disco sound of Candi Staton's "Young Hearts Run Free". I twirled around, and Nikki was standing there next to a picnic table. His tall, lean form was fiddling around on my iPhone, messing with my Spotify. And in his other hand...

"Hey, that glazed almond croissant was for Yuko!" I gasped, scandalized. 

"There's more," he said, mouth obviously full. 

"I know there's more," I said, marching over to him. "I was saving them for her. She gets up so early to make her sweets. I was going to go over there and sit with her."

"You still can. What are you doing being up so late anyway, if you were going to do that?" He finally looked up at me, flicking his coppery hair back. 

"I got lost in the moment."

He smiled, his cheeks still full of pastry like a little, pleased boy. His fingers met my forehead, and I pinched my eyes closed as he flicked it. "You're going to get no sleep again. Stop daydreaming." He turned away so quickly. Maybe I was still under the influence of Billie Holiday and Bing Crosby, taken with the swirling December air, too near Christmas and the romance of it all. Wanting to be close to someone, missing how things used to be, missing my friends and their laundry hanging on their balconies, the signs of life.

"Anyway," he said, shoving the rest of the croissant into his mouth. He spread his arms wide, startling me again. His big, handsome hands made grabbing motions. "Dance with me." 

With this, I shrugged. A smile was on my own face now. He knew me too well. Knowing me, when I daydream. My hands took his, and he swung me around easily, starting to be a disco queen. 

Under the stars in the chilly air, we danced for a while. And unknown to us, across the way, within those cold lights of the Modern, some upset hotel guest was complaining about the loudness of our music.