A young man sits alone at a bar, poring over a magazine. A rare caucasian in a mega-city of Asians, his solitude at the busy hub of social interaction is highlighted. Sturdy hiking boots tap out the rhythm to a lively Irish song that a live band is playing in the middle of Shibuya. His foot stills and he switches to keeping the beat with a flat hand against his thigh. He pauses to clap at the end of the song. At the start of the new one, he falls back into the mindless movement of the melody, his free hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. His messenger bag, resting on the table in front of the seat across from him, acts as his late night companion, signaling his disinterest in human interaction.
Brown hair is combed forward and flips up a little over his forehead. He has two distinct, but thick, eyebrows. When he stops keeping time with his hand he jiggles his right leg and plays with his fingers – idly picking at them, curling his left ones into his right, flicking his index finger against his thumb. His head bobs as his hand forms a fist and bounces off his leg, just above his knee, up and down. His free hand fidgets with his face, rubbing and pushing against his cheek, scratching at his nose. He has a full face, and is wearing a polo shirt and plaid shorts.
He is drinking a deer, but it’s not Guinness, and his fingers look long against his leg and when he lifts his hand, he lifts with his wrist, the shape from forearm to wrist to hand like the sensual curve of a woman’s back.
After he finishes his drink, he lingers for a moment, memorizing the band, the taste of the beer fading on his tongue, one foot turned to go, one pointed to stay. His gaze catches on our table and for a moment there is a possibility, but I glance away and he leaves. I record the pattern of the salt and sweat-damp patches from his shirt onto the back of my receipt.