At thirty-one he thought he’d finally get it right. But after waking up stuporous from several bottles of wine and sleeping pills, he wondered if next time he might have a go at an even numbered year.

Now he’s forty and sitting at the bar at a Pronto in Ginza, killing an hour before a date. He’s listening to two half-drunk women arguing the good and bad, mostly bad, about Japanese men. They’re both apparently still single, and way too picky, then he discovers they’re much older than they look.

As they whinge and groan and laughingly complain, he’s amazed how the women can believe the drivel slurring from their tongues. And when they leave, leaving a complete mess for the waitress to deal with, he muses if this year might be the one.

Funny, the things you remember while trying to forget…

Outside, rain.

Inside, cozy at a table in the darkest corner of the room, Mizuki reflects into Cabernet Sauvignon.

“The wind’s blowing like it’s the end of the world,” she whispers.

I look at her, comforted by the fact it’s her I’m here with tonight. It’s been a month of constant challenges, all splinters and nails, aggregately taxing to the nth degree. Relentless problem after problem, work and money not there, nightmares and dayscreams because nothing seems fair. An overwhelming spinning plates existence lately resurrecting dead-and-buried memories from a lifetime ago.

Like it’s the end of the world…

The way she says it, casually lipstick, almost makes me want it to happen.

“More wine?” I suggest.

Mizuki smiles for a second.

“Of course.”

…After another bottle and more all lost to intoxicating conversation, it’s rather obvious I’ve missed the last train home.

“Oh-no, the time!” she apologizes.

“No worries, I don’t care.”

Mizuki beams; the waitress notices and rushes over the bill.

“So let me care for you tonight.”
.
.

.

Only she could.