He is wandering between Tokyo bars. A woman is crying in the street. “Why are you crying?” he asks.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, oh.”

They go to a hotel. There is a greasy mirror on the ceiling and cheap lace around the bed. They undress. They fuck. Afterwards they lie together in the darkness. There’s a full moon outside. She watches the mirror. He doesn’t sleep. After a while, she rolls away from him, sits on the edge of the bed, lights a cigarette. He watches her. He’s mostly sober, mostly tired. It is raining. He falls asleep. When he wakes up she is still smoking, still sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to him.

She leaves in the morning. He wakes up to the sound of her dressing. He falls back asleep as the door closes. He doesn’t know her name. He is hungover.