|The wagashi was now stuck to the table. A sticky mess of red bean paste and sugar fusing itself to the black lacquered surface. It was Tokyo’s July combination of humidity and direct sunlight through a glass window that dissolved the sweaty cube, it’s perspiration spreading out like tendrils.The question now was whether to try and dislodge it and risk splitting the pristine gelatin that gave it the stillness of a frozen pond, or simply inviting her guests to join her at the aforementioned black and gold lacquered table.
||A poor knock off of a Meiji gem. A knock off gem that she had lugged to three different apartments. The low table measuring exactly to the center of her shins, with the bruises to prove it. The low table that Lucy had insisted she buy as a souvenir from the junk shop, in the alley, she can’t remember where. But she did remember the way the owner smoked a cigarette and did not look at her as she gesticulated widely to inquire about the price.