Monday Night in Kichijoji

A cockroach climbed dangerously close to my bare ass on the tile entryway to the department store as a man stooped down to hand us a foil wrapped slop of yakisoba. My stomach, aroused, peered inside at the fat slimy noodles. It was sticky summer and the lights had halos. The soba was perfect, coating my palette with savory brownth. Dan watched me eat politely, skinny and pale and dainty, and when I was finished we sang for another 30 minutes. A chef with a towel on his head came out to squat near us. We sat up taller now that we had an audience member. When we were done I got on my bike. A man from a passionate country whistled and yelled at me to come back but it was too late. I was already riding past the banana store lunatic who was inside a phone booth tonight, listening with painful beauty at the dial tone.