(Tokyo, 2006)
It’s 0:11 at Shinjuku’s South Exit and the skinny lovers are climbing the stairs hand-in-hand toward the ticket gates.
From the bridge just above I can see the glowing screens of their cellular phones and for once they seem like fireflies: the boys and girls have captured a glowing piece of ecstatic neon Shinjuku and are carrying it home carefully, cupped in their hands.
Midnight is the time of taking down. A helmeted blue suited guide waves traffic through with his uplifted flashing orange wand. Lovers draw their hands across each other cheeks from brow to neck.
I thought this was the hour of hurry and regret. There’s none of that. On a steel fence that encircles a single tree a young man and woman still sit, dangling their legs.
One big hair boy with a silver duffel tugs at his crotch. The clock’s immense minute hand moves forward one.
It’s 0:12 and they had fun and still were good. They are in time, will make it home tonight.
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