“What? Sorry, I wasn’t listenin’. See the chick that just walked in with that blue-skinned dude? Hang on, she’ll turn around again … there! Look at the size of that. How do you think she sits on that thing? And shit, check this out — ha, ha, look at this gaijin fuck!”

Akki gestures his cigarette to the drunk man now lying across his table. Half of his red-skinned companions are removing his clothes by tearing them in long thin strips. The other half have removed their long red wigs and are giggling at the bite wounds they have made along his arms and throat.

“Well, my point is, we’re goin’ down the shitter, and I don’t mean the yoshiki-style. Think about it. Forks and knives. Pants on a woman. Christmas. All kinds o’ bullshit that were hard enough to take back then, and they’re still around! Don’t make sense for us to replace good shit with all this Western crap. Okay, fair point, their alcohol ain’t bad. It’s no sake, though. Can’t beat the home team. Nah, things oughtta go back to the way they’ve always been. All this foreign influence is just bullshit dumped on an already hardworkin’ society’s shoulders. It’s ’cause of all the suckin’ up we did to ‘fit in’ and keep up with the world that we had to get rid of things that made this country what it was: perfect.”

Hino puts her shades back on and accepts a cigarette from the tray of a passing waitress. Before turning back to the window, Hino mutters in Japanese, “Boke.”

“I heard that.”

The restaurant is in full swing now. Tables on the ground floor are occupied, but the customers are quiet. Their mouths are kept full by a small, efficient army of kimono-clad waitresses, pink, blue, and lavender butterflies flitting up and down and around the restaurant to keep patrons fed and happy. Many of them work in pairs to carry heavy rainbow arrangements of fresh sushi, steaming bowls of noodles, wide platters of sizzling skewers of meat drizzled in warm sauces, and giant ice-cold pitchers of beer dripping beads of condensation. The decor and spotlights overhead make the restaurant look more like a giant kabuki theatre than an exclusive establishment for fine dining. Those who are not eating or drinking wait patiently for another performance. The waitresses only have a moment to take dishes and glasses away and wipe down the tables before another crowd of guests swoop down on the chairs, relieved after an hour of lining up. The room is as dynamic as the city nightlife, but with a much wider assortment of characters.