Catch and Release

Sushi-girl

He meets the American who’s been japanized, living the better part of seven years in Tokyo as a successfully recorded pop singer, and doing an Americanized radio DJ gig on the side, now deciding to return to America because she can’t stand the loathsome role of women in Japan and started turning into a Japanese thinker unconsciuosly because most of the men have affairs anyway which she slowly started to accept but inside really rejected, but she did sell alot of records and liked being famous even if it was across the globe but still was happy to be sitting with him, a typical but classic and harmlessly unpredictable American male who wouldn’t think twice about planting an unexpected kiss on her small and very appealling asian-like lips that had the nicest heart-shape and cushiony feel, even though it took more than one try after the two martinis and bottle of wine they shared because she’s totally unused to having a man show any public display of affection because in Japan the men wait until the very last minute to make any move whatsoever, usually in a cab, and then proposition the women to a “love hotel” which serves as neutral ground and preserves the privacy away from the very thin walls that most apartment dwellers contend with in Japan, and besides,  Japanese men live a lie anyway because they have a wife at home waiting while they’re out carousing, perhaps with the likes of Cara, his date, who almost decided to play the game but then said No, and came back to Philadelphia where she could take him out and impress him with her totally fluent Japanese to the Sushi waitress who was explaining to them the slightly-seared sushi dish that he was trying to order last Saturday but couldn’t describe because he didn’t speak “the language,” and went on to say that this seared-one-side sushi, which is Bonito, not Tuna, is not found in many restaurants because it has to be so fresh, but he really doesn’t care anymore because he’s already trying to figure out how much further he can get in public in this corner table which has just enough room for two coffees and a dish of green tea ice-cream, where the only other people are this chain smoking platonic couple who totally don’t care, and when the adorably cute giggling twenty-something waitress leaves, he makes another move on those little heart shapes which now generously accept his advance, until she catches his hands, that have wandered just the slightest bit up the sides of her waist so the top of his thumb barely brushed the lower part of her right breast, which he suddenly realized was quite large, and she puts her two hands on his and gently but firmly halts any progress, intentional or accidental, and says, “okay, that’s far enough, and yes, they are real”, and “I think it’s time for you to be going home now,” because she knows that at Twelve Thirty AM, being two hours from home he could make an excellent case for rearranging their plans to include an American version of a love hotel in downtown Philadelphia, but would still probably regret it in the morning because he’d wake up and realize that even though she had nice breasts, pillowy lips, graduated Harvard, and spoke sushi, she was not the fish for him.

 

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