21. sun

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It's raining. Dewy and soft, silhouettes of people in the mist. She feels so horribly alone — Makima in Kyoto again, an apartment empty apart from stench of dog and uneaten food. Rain swells up in gutters, soaks through her T-shirt and so she stumbles into a phone booth and squeezes the water out of the cloth. It scratches her fingers as she wrings it.

It's here that she meets him. A boy — golden like a dream, a face that tastes of memories and her dead dog. It's round and full, almost Not Japanese. His mouth breaks into an easy grin as he sees her, as he draws flowers from his mouth and laughs out of her breathless lungs.

He's oddly sweet. It's endearing, she can't help but thinking, as he speaks — his sentences off-kilter, in almost hesitant Japanese as he tells her she's cute and gives her the name of the café he works at.

The rain dries out — the afternoon sun shines through the windows.

You'll come? the boy asks, like she's promised anything — anything at all to him. But Reze is stupid and the apartment is all walls and emptiness, so she says:

Okay.

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