The bedroom is syruped by the sunrise, dust motes floating in the golden screen of light that hangs from the narrow gap of the curtains.
Kenichi watches her as the dust motes waltz dreamily in the hot slant of the rising sun. In the half-light of the dawn he almost thinks he can see a faint cherry blush in the caramel of her cheeks.
Mariko is silent, immaculate, the rise and fall of her chest almost imperceptible in the dim violet and purple shadows over the cushioned headboard. Very tenderly - his tobacco stained finger tips shaking for the first time in too long - he places his hand on the hot skin of her shoulder.
Kenichi can remember when Soineya was just a small block of office space, but now it was somebody's approximation of a school girl's bedroom - pastel-pink curtains hanging to make walls around a soft sprung mattress and love-heart pillows where office desks and computers used to be, an oversized teddy-bear with a black ribbon at a jaunty angle fills up the corner of the bed. The décor is not platinum standard.
But it was the girls that people came to see.
They were dressed cutely in teeny pink pyjama tops with puffed and crimped shoulders and suggestively dipping necklines. Nothing below the waist but a tiny pair of panty-shorts and starched black stockings that stretched all the way up past the knees, leaving a hand-span of warm skin on display. There were only three of them working there that day; a beaming blonde ganguro girl, a blood-hot girl with adult curves and a full-moon face, and Mariko - a doe-eyed girl