K mounted his bike and pedaled in the most unlikely direction. The firmament looked hopeful after a night of rain and Tempozan Harbor smelled of changing leaves. 'E o-tenki' he thought 'what a co-worker had told him meant the sky when it looked gold and unbearable without humidity.

The alleys were thin and wet in Minato-Ku. A few Japanese women were out on the streets wearing flower print aprons and mopping the concrete in front of their wire fenced buildings. Shadows in the shapes of dinosaurs morphed in and out of the street while old men in lawn chairs looked up to the sky, trying to find the stegosaurus spine bordering the sidewalk like huge palm leaves.

K rode past, tried to smile and be pleasant but kept pedaling, trying to forget himself. He swerved to the right and saw at the end of an oblong alley an overhead sign that read Fujiyama Cafe. It was a clandestine haven. Red peonies and purple lavender were arranged in a semicircle with petals sticking out like tongues. A chorus of blooms sang to the audience of white flake petals scattered on the ground from a nearby cherry blossom.

As K gained closer he saw an old man sitting, singing, strumming a guitar, just in front of the entrance. The melody reminded him of some country tune. What could've been someone like Willie Nelson impersonated by a Japanese. K couldn't help but smile when he parked.

'Ohayo gozaimasu,' the old man muttered, and blinked, and nodded, seeming blind with transparent silver eyes.

K nodded as well and sat near the old man. A frail waitress came out to take K's order which was already prepared in his mind. He had the same every morning. A cup of coffee and some toast 'onegais shimasu.' The country song ... 'lost forever, oh my darling ... Clementine?' reminded K of home and he listened to the whisky voice sing its long biography. The old man's eyes were sodden and damp, blinking repeatedly, trying to push tears off his eyelids.

When the waitress returned and served K's breakfast ''Onegais shimasu''she looked at the old man and then back, apologetically smiled. 'Sumimasen,' she said, opening her fingers as though she were stopping traffic. K waved his hand up and said 'daijobou.' It's fine. He wanted absolutely nothing to change; everything was as subtle and quiet as what he had hoped for.

He started to sip his coffee and admire the sakura across from the cafe. It was fiercely brimming and delicate in thousands of coin shaped petals. A breeze that passed made it tremble, without shaking too vigorously, and the branches broke into millions of speckled pieces, flooding every pixel of what K could see. Pink and white colors collectively swirled like a cyclone, like some chimeric monster incredibly gentle and dizzying. Paper wings landed at K's feet, just over the arches of his shoes.

The old man stopped strumming his guitar and reached his weathered fingers trying to touch the weather of shades, trying to mind it to pass through his skin. He smiled with his mouth agape and yellow deformed teeth peeked through.

'Tsuma des' he said. 'Tsuma des.' The old man crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, letting thoughts untie and settle. Stood dead-still in that position.

'Sumimasen, demo ...' K whispered and shook his head. He didn't understand what he was trying to tell him.

The old man adjusted his position more upright and pulled out a photograph from his breast pocket. He showed it to K tentatively as though its value was worth more than paper and print. It was a portrait of a couple beside a tree trunk, under a cherry blossom similar to the one across from the cafe. The young couple were sitting on the grass having a picnic 'tupperware and a bottle of wine over a checkered blanket. The old man pointed to the photograph and then pointed to himself ' K understood ' and then he pointed to the young lady in the photograph. 'Tsuma des.'

'Ah ... wakarimashita!' K cried jubilantly; smiling at the old man's adorability. But the old man pointed to his wife once more 'long black hair with pearls in her eyes ' and crossed his arms over his chest in an X. He shut his eyes and leaned back again, like a stiff board. Stock-still.

The waitress came out of the cafe and started rattling xylophonic scoldings in Japanese, nudging her father at his shoulder. Started apologizing over and over to K. 'Gommenasai. So sori,' smiling and laughing at how partly ridiculous she thought K might've assumed senile old men to be.

All K could say was 'daijobou.' Nod his head to the meaning that stung its clarity. He sensed his own emotions become so weightless with hardly any gravity to them.

The waitress walked back inside and the old man picked up his guitar, began strumming the guitar again. Same melody; same key. K apprehensively held out his arm to touch him ' as though the old man might disappear ' but when he was near touching, a breeze rushed down the street again. The sakura blossoms rippled as they had before.

The old man closed his eyes; and K leaned back into his seat. They sat mesmerized at the whirl of light confetti over the concrete. K closed his eyes too and gave into what was crawling up his spine; let the flood fill his sapphire gems.

Inconsequentiality struck an unspoken silence; the old man thought so too 'mourning details; fading images, overlapping; the unearthing of new sounds to new tongues; new friendships.

It was a forlorn melody through the air as the sakura danced in cursive. The sun opened its mouth for the petals to reach the clouds and once above the cafe, sakura looked down to the applauding shadows underneath. Eyes blinked intermittently. Home became closely familiar; and solitude rested in a corner heaven. Both K and the old man rested into their seats without speaking again to one another. Let the sound of 'Clementine' strum through the rest of the morning.

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