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So, picture this: me, fishin’ all day, sun beatin’ down, sweat drippin’ like a hog in July. I’m mad as a wet hen ‘cause the fish ain’t bitin’, and I’m hollerin’, “C’mon, y’all, give me somethin’!” Then—bam!—this gal sashays by, skirt shorter than a minnow’s tail. I’m like, “Well, slap my britches, is she one o’ them workin’ girls?” Ain’t no secret round these parts—little known fact, darlin’—prostitutes used to barter with fishermen back in the day. Fish for a quick fling! Ain’t that a hoot? History’s wilder than my hair on a humid day!

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, pouring! I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a little café on Shonai’s Nakano Street. It’s cozy, smells like coffee and pastries. I order a matcha latte, and it’s like a warm hug in a cup. I sit down, trying to dry off, and guess who walks in? The cute girl from the train! I’m like, “No way!”

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