Chapter 48Jamie straightened up when Hiroshi slid onto the chair across from her in the dim light of the jazz kissaten coffee shop in Shinjuku. The bruises on her face had lightened into a coloring that no longer detracted but seemed to accent her vitality. Her silk shirt, a deep indigo blue, was pulled tight over her breasts. Their eyes met before they said a word, and they both looked away.
“One of the few jazz coffee shops left in Tokyo,” Hiroshi said, asking the waiter for a cappuccino. “It’s been here since the 60s.”
“I love the album covers on the walls. They still play records here?” Jamie looked around the brick-walled underground shop.
“Vinyl never went out in Japan.” Late-fifties jazz played over the speakers, Miles Davis—sad, slow, spare, elegant.
“I thought you were trying
