At a bustling lunchtime restaurant in downtown Shinjuku.

“I wonder when we will see each other next.”

Instead of a planner, he spreads a deck of cards from the inside pocket of his linen blended jacket on the table.

“I can decide by magic tricks or fortune-telling.”

‘No, or’ he raises his index finger, bends down and gently lifts the box from the briefcase at the foot of the stool. The box is nested. Unlock the box and take the box out, then take another box out of it, then another box out of it, then another box out of it. Inside the last box is a vague bouquet. Behind his glasses he gives up on flower reading and places the bunch of dried plants on a napkin to wait for the food to be served.

The broccoli forest boiled. White rain dressed with vinaigrette sauce. French roast coffee is a well at the end of the world. Scoop after scoop with a spoon, only the desolation spills out.

Scarlet Tokyo Metro cars are now running underground in Buenos Aires. I wonder if the petal I once inserted into the gap between the moquette fabric seats are still in the train. Cherry petal perched on the hat of my father like a butterfly from the Shinjuku Imperial Gardens. I stood on tiptoes, picked it up with my fingertips and held it tightly in my palm, took the metro. May I not lose my father in the crowd. May the petal not wilt in the stuffy air. May the butterfly not fly away in search of happiness. When I finally surrendered myself to an empty seat, I fell into an involuntary deep sleep.

Then they all went far away.

…

hiromi suzuki is a poet, fiction writer, artist living in Tokyo. Her writing has appeared in 3:AM Magazine, RIC journal, Berfrois, Minor Literature[s] and various literary journals on-line.