Kitamura led me through the wood, carrying the dry guitar case on her back. I guessed from our earlier interaction she wasn't very social, perhaps a bit shy, and, as I'd expected, we spent most of our time in silence. At first, I sort of trudged behind her, but, with a sharp glare, she invited me to walk at her side. She wasn't any more talkative this way; but I suppose it was some company, at least.
The wet dirt was soggy, and there was a soft wind coming after the rain, lightly shaking the trees back and forth at a steady rhythm. Twigs snapped underneath my feet, and I was still, to fill in Kitamura's awkward silence, kicking pebbles, or trying to catch sight of any interesting-looking person. I found nothing of the sort, however. We soon reached Ueno Park's entrance. There, Kitamura awkwardly turned to me, as if she meant to reveal some important secret.
"Erm, Chino-san, don't you have classes?" she asked. I shrugged.
"I do."
"Are you skipping?"
I guess, from her perspective, it might've seemed like a big deal. But really, considering my deadline, it was all very pointless to me.
"Yeah."
The way Kitamura stared at me in disbelief made me think I'd come across some very stuck-up, traditional girl; but, after a moment, she rushed to me, grabbed my hand, and shook it like she meant to snap it off.
"Well, I am too! So it won't bother you to come to my house, no?" She said so loudly I skimmed my surroundings to see if anybody was peering at our little scene; but, to my luck, no.
"If you want, but... have we met before?" I asked, surprised by her energy. She and I couldn't coexist on that front.
"Hmm? No. Why, have we?" Kitamura said, tilting her head.
"So do you just invite strangers to play with you, then?" (I silently wondered if it was a musician thing). "And, I've said it already, but I don't play any music, okay? What do you want me to do? Watch you?"
The light in her eyes dimmed as she let go of my hand and avoided my gaze, fidgeting with the straps of the case.
"Ah, no... that's not it. I just thought, you see, that I should keep talking to you."
"...I don't understand. Are you in love?"
"No!" Kitamura laughed. "But there's something about your eyes, and what you said to me, that seemed interesting." She said, the sparkles returning to her eyes. "Maybe you and I could get along. Because, you see, usually people don't talk to me for this long."
It was half-depressing to hear. I thought she was an interesting character, and besides, I had nothing to do this afternoon. Maybe the world would gain another music prodigy tonight? That'd be one way to leave a mark on this world, no matter how small. But I was digressing, obviously.
"Kitamura-san, where do you live?" I asked.
Without answering, she violently (I'll excuse her on that) took my wrist. Kitamura insisted that we take the shinkansen from Ueno to Shinagawa, and during the short travel, we talked about nothing and nonsense.
"Chino-san, are you a delinquent?" she once asked me.
"What? Why would I be?"
"Ah, I don't know."
"Don't say strange things, then," I said, folding my arms.
"But why are you skipping?"
"I could ask you the same thing, Kitamura-san."
"Maybe, but that doesn't answer my question, no?"
I thought for a bit, then said, "There's no point." I hoped she knew by my tone that I wasn't going to elaborate further. "And what about you?"
"Me? I needed the extra time," she said.
I raised my brow. "For what?"
"Well, I'll show you, Chino-san."
We got off at the station and began to stroll the streets of Minato-ku. Given it wasn't night-time yet, I didn't have to suffer all of those psychedelic neon lights and the complaints of drunk salarymen about the economy, or some thorny subject like that. Because we'd walked past lavish neighborhoods, I half expected Kitamura's family to be well-off; or, at least, better than mine, so I could taste for a moment what the wealthy eat for dinner. But she led me through a tight, damp alley, still perfumed by alcohol and lust, until, having escaped to a wider avenue, we stopped in front of what seemed to be a bar (the frontage was so rundown it was hard to tell whether somebody actually lived inside). Some decorative flowers were placed next to the doorstep, and Kitamura was written in bright purple neons over an ancient sliding door. One ajar window occupied the left wall, occasionally slammed shut by the wind. Was Kitamura the daughter of Yakuzas? Now, that'd surely be an interesting way to end my life, I guess. No, no! I need to stop thinking like that.
"Is that... it?" I said, still hoping for Kitamura to say, Ah, you got me! Let me show you my pretty apartment instead, or something along those lines.
"Yes? Yes it is." She nodded with a bright smile, entering.
What first assaulted me was the smell of cigarette smoke. It was everywhere, in every corner of the room, as if a hundred junkies had gathered in there for a century. I coughed once or twice while Kitamura walked right in without caring about me. Covering my nose, I snuck a glance around the place. It certainly was a bar; there were clusters of couches surrounding a low, round table: maybe four or five scattered across the room. Neons on the high ceiling alternated between red, purple, blue, and green, looping infinitely, like a permanent visual hallucination at the corner of my eyes. On my immediate left was a large wooden counter, whose lustre reflected light like a mirror; and behind it, I saw, in the proper tradition of bars, shelves full of colorful bottles, containing some very unwise liquors. I felt like my presence here was a joke. The lingering cigarette smoke made me cough again.
Kitamura, having leaned her instrument against a wall, was preparing what I hoped was a glass of water behind the counter. It wasn't odd to see her in this role; it was as if she'd memorized the motions through experience. But, then again, I guessed it wasn't plain water she was used to serving, but those shiny bottles on display behind her.
I walked over to the counter with red eyes.
"Can't you open windows? How can you breathe in here?" I said spitefully.
Kitamura chinned up at me, her expression apologetic. "Yes, sorry. I'm used to it, so it doesn't bother me. It's my brother, probably. I think he's just left."
"And you live in here? Seriously?"
She bit her lower lip. "Usually, he smokes outside. But I told him I'd be late today, so maybe he didn't care. Chino-san, are you okay?"
"I'm fine... cough, I guess."
She ran over to my side, a glass of cold water in hand.
"Here. I'm sorry, we don't have soft drinks."
I gulped the liquid in one motion. "Really? In a bar?"
Kitamura chuckled. "It wasn't selling well."
I guessed, from the way she said it, this was a reasonable explanation.
"Does your family run this?"
"Ah? Yes, we do. But anyway, Chino-san, that's not interesting. I need to show you something quickly."
Once again (I really needed to tell her to stop), grabbing me by the wrist, she brought me up a staircase behind the counter, blocked by a high fence. We spiraled upward, struggling to keep our feet to themselves in the tight space. There was a single, quite long corridor on the first floor, lined by a rugged, spotted carpet. Old foreign paintings decorated the walls, from which came the suffocating scent of dust.
"We're here. It's my room."
It was the very last room, to the right. A narrow, red, worn-spot door.