FICTION
A PORTRAIT OF SHINJUKU Keng Xiong
rendezvous: entering a thundercloud —Miyako Yagi The distant typhoon just begins to hit Shinjuku, Japan, low winds raging songs through one half of the eastern island. The sky flashes green and purple as people scurry with umbrellas, rushing past the opening of an alleyway where a restaurant inhabits a slice of the corner. The space is small and compact, but the window is a spectacle. Its huge expanse fills the entire wall and creates the livelihood of space. The frame is intricately designed with golden flora and dark green curtains that drape over potted ferns. Inside this frame, the ceiling lights of this family-owned Japanese restaurant slowly wane as a young woman, Mari, grips a crooked broom and alcohol wipes. The white lights hug her small silhouette, dancing as it shines against the white backdrop. She is hunched over small tables smelling of lemon-scented wipes. Her eyes and nose water as strands of hair cover her face. Mari sits in this radiating silence as she takes out the airport ticket to America, her hands tightly pinching the piece of paper. She frowns and puts the ticket on the table. She looks out the window to where people are scurrying away under the glowing lanterns, their heads buried in raincoats flapping in the wind, and it is here that she hears the slap of shoes on cement. Mari tugs the ticket into her pockets and clutches the broom. She already knows who it is before the door opens. The glass chimes tinker as he bursts in laughing, the outside storm rattling the store for a moment before he’s on the ground on all fours, heaving
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