Patrick felt the weight of Kiri on his arm as he struggled awake, though he wasn’t sure he’d even slept. Jenna was still asleep against the wall with her hair splayed out and her legs angled like she’d just kicked a soccer ball in her sleep.
The eight-tatami floor was a chaotic jumble of bags, clothes, pillows, futon covers, and blankets. In the corner were meditation cushions, yoga mats, and a compact stereo system with a tower of relaxation CDs. Kyle had been using the tatami room, more of a box than a room, for meditation or yoga. Kyle had always been there for him, but meditation seem like him. Maybe it was his girlfriend.
Like Patrick, Kyle was Boston Irish, from the well-off suburbs of Boston, while Patrick was from the poorer south side. That difference meant little in Tokyo far
