Night-time Finances

Kitschy french curtains and my reflection

Gross.  We're all sitting, all five or six of us; the number changes throughout the night.  First, it's two.  Then, four.  And then five, and the number keeps climbing up.  And we sit in this Japanese-turned-hipster-sort-of-atmosphere, with liquid tofu that coagulates into a solid after three minutes, and bacon-wrapped mushrooms and controversial photographers and aspiring fashion moguls and painted black walls.  It's just a whole mish-mosh mess of people.  And the thick-ankled waitress who, it seems, can't get one thing right.  Poor thing, her energy's off-kilter.  Bad feng shui.  Her bed's probably facing a mirror.

So, we drink too much sake and we drink too much Asahi.  There's too many toasts and one toast, in particular, by the sixth participant, is directed to the Chinese year of the Rabbit.  And that's exactly what she says as she holds up her porcelain shot-glass, maintaining eye contact with the rest of the six-personed party.  "To the year of the Bunny!"  Cheers.  "And what does the rat signify," I ask her.  Rat?  They're confused.  No, bunny.  Oh.  "And what does the bunny signify?"  It's old re-kindled friendships and a whole bunch of nostalgic junk.  Interesting.  And number four, who sits across from me, with his high-tech digital, is snapping somewhat-posed candids, tilting his camera every which way.  And a glass cup falls to the floor into eight or nine shambles, liquid everywhere.  And he shoots that too.  A lightning bulb flashes and everything in this dimly-lit room lights up for a quick moment, then goes back to normal.

Hah!  Then, something happens.  For a second, everyone's very quiet.  Their faces are rectangled-out by iphones, and they're thumbs are too animated, and they dial in twitter-updates.  Something about "Don't sweat the petty things, but don't pet the sweaty things," another toast said by number three, with a lipstick-red turban wrapped around her skull.  And everyone's a bit tipsy.  The bill comes, which is a smaller amount than what's originally anticipated, and I throw a crinkled 20 dollar bill into the crease of the table.  The gentlemen, with their statement-eye-wear, frames slightly too big for their faces, stare ahead.  But, they look beautiful.  And the ladies, dressed to the nines, but lacking any sort of effort of course- like they were born in these clothes, and what's a girl to do?  Change her outfit?  After all these years?

Four of these people continue their evening onwards and the two of us cut it short.  And the night ends up in his kitchen, kitschy French-drapes partly open.  And outside his window is black.