pink neon

Signs on buildings are glowing with bright neon. He looks at them and doesn’t know what he prefers, to close his eyes to not get blinded, or to let himself be soaked in neon. The asphalt underfoot is wet from the rain, and he’s barely holding back to not lie down on it and put his face under the cold drops. There is a smell of vomit coming from the dark corner which he passes. This smell is almost everywhere here, it combines with alcohol and countless different perfumes. He’s going to another bar. There are so many of them on these streets that you have to strain to count. He remembers all of them. They greet him here as if he came home. One of the letters on the sign of the bar is burned out and no longer glows. The music sounds familiar, and the bartender waves his hand, greeting. He nods back. They pour him something new every night. He asked for this the second time he went here. Back then the bartender smiled at him, and now he gives him something obscure, but it tastes delicious each time. He tries to recall his name. Was it Yamada? Definitely. He is almost surprised, that he was able to remember the name, considering the amount of alcohol he had inside him each time he was here. Sighing, he comes to the counter. They have the same casual conversation every time. He sits right next to the bartender, slowly drinking what has been put in front of him, and talks. A guy sits down on a nearby chair and smiles at him. His smile is vague but relaxed, and his hair is almost neon pink. He smiles back. Yamada takes a look and tactfully moves to another part of the counter. A glass of whiskey appears next to the stranger. The stranger sips from it, and he can hear the sound of chunks of ice hitting the glass. They take turns glancing at each other for a few minutes until the guy finally speaks. “Matsumoto.” He twitches slightly, not expecting the phrase to cut the silence between them. “What?” he asks, putting his glass on the table. “My name is Matsumoto.” He thinks that this last name sounds damn nice. “Well, nice to meet you, Matsumoto.” Their conversation is almost the same as he has with Yamada. Nothing specific, no clarification, just phrases for the sake of phrases. Their smiles and getting wider and wider. They leave the bar together. As they walk down the street, their shoulders touch, and he can’t tell if it’s on purpose. They touch-touch-touch, and when Matsumoto whispers something directly into his ear, he seems to be ready to melt into this night. The pink hair almost blends in with the signs, turning into colorful highlights. He’s about to laugh. The rain is still dripping lightly, they walk down the street without an umbrella as the raindrops smash against them. It seems to him that it is almost a singularity. It takes a lot of time for them to get to his house, getting lost among the tangled streets of Tokyo. They go to the shower together. And all this touching-touching-touching again. Warm water pours down on them instead of rain, and Matsumoto’s lips taste like cherry and alcohol. They move to the bed. Their fingers are intertwined, and their lips are swollen from kissing. There is too much of Matsumoto. He’s everywhere, his wandering hands and pink neon. It blinds his eyes. He melts into it. Drops are still hitting the glass. This night was the only good night in many days. So good that by the end of it he tells his name. He almost comes just from the sounds of it being said in such a voice. In the morning he wakes up alone, only the empty crumpled half of the bed still reminds of something. The rain has already stopped, only rare puddles are left of it. He is alone again among the faceless streets. Only when he gets up, he notices a note on a bedside table, written in neat handwriting.

call whenever you want, yoshida.

*03-XXXX–XXXX*

matsumoto

It seems like he’ll melt into the bright neon after all.