"The sound of loneliness, makes me happier"

You find it strange, seeing her among the crowds bursting from a row of ticket gates. It doesn't feel like any time had passed between the last meeting, and yet, it's been 5 months. You're both famished and you've both got no money. You've eaten a total of one meal in Shinjuku during your life, but she expects you to choose a place.

You step into an unpretentious soba (buckwheat noodles) joint full of salarymen bracing themselves for the commute back to the suburbs. The soba is nothing special, but at 350 yen, you can't complain. She's leaving in a few months, as originally planned. The only addition to her plan is her new boyfriend. You are glad she's able to finally open herself to another person in that way. You are even more glad that you can think that without any trace of jealousy.

Stepping out into the cold, you start looking for a watering-hole. Heading to the narrow streets of West Shinjuku, you hope for a cheap bar among the discount electronics stores. There's nothing. She tells you about her fetish for hip bones, and how when she looks at sculptures, that's the first part that she observes. Her boyfriend has gorgeous hip-bones. She wants to show them to you.

You skirt the south of Shinjuku Station and head north into the seedy neon of Kabuki-cho. Being there with a girl is a different experience. Even the pimps in this country seem to have some code of behaviour, not approaching potential couples. You enjoy this immunity, free to observe them preying on loneliness in the cold. Opposite a cosplay bar with a giant gorilla hanging from the wall, you find a tiny yakitori (grilled chicken) place tucked away next to an entrance to a hostess bar.

There is one counter inside and one table. You sit in the corner, watching the other patrons. Two Korean women are talking to an aged salarymen. Predictably, he pays and leaves, after which the women start putting on make-up - presumably for the evening's work. She comments that she finds it crass when women leave lipstick on their cigarette butts. You vaguely agree.

The oddness of your conversation strikes you at that point. What language are you speaking? It's not English. It's not Japanese. What is it? It morphs depending on who might be listening, and what you talk about. Does anyone else talk about what you talk about? You doubt it.

You order a bowl of spiced octopus tentacles and a bowl of raw sliced squid, pickled in salted squid brains. Goes well with the chu-hi (fortified bubbly rice wine), which is a little rough in its pure form. You move onto ame-shu (plum liquor) - your favourite. Melancholy enka drifts out of the bar's speakers, perfect for the occasion. She's not too keen on it, finds regret meaningless. You vaguely agree, changing the subject to the shape of people's ears.

The night seems warmer than before. You talk about how people smell. She wants you to smell her boyfriend. You promise you will. The crowds at Shinjuku Station are phenomenal. Wrapped in the fragrance of drunken salarymen, you board the train. It's strangely comfortable, pleasantly detached. She has an odd way with words: "They are like potatoes. Just that some potatoes are nicer than others." You'd never thought that way, but after all, you decide that your fondness for potatoes is somewhat reminiscent of your fondess for people.

The parting is as casual as the meeting. One part of the crowd takes her. One part keeps you. In the end, you're just glad to have a friend.