The Last Slow Dance in Roppongi

It was the last slow dance in Roppongi. I was there dancing with a girl I’d never spoken a word to. A Japanese girl, with soft cute face, almond eyes, dressed smart-— but otherwise difficult to describe. Her right hand rested quietly on my chest. She felt feminine and oddly familiar like the incarnation of some Ernest Hemingway goddess made real.

It was the last slow dance in Roppongi. The natural attraction of Italian car jocks and girls with eyes for diamonds and glitter was over. They'd all gone home to bon vivant lifestyles. Done too was consumer frenzy, and the click-clack of designer heels on rain soaked concrete.

Note by slow note that music was playing softly as if to cleanse the testosterone so carelessly spilled on the dance floor. It felt as if all my bop heros in heaven were saying, "all is well". It was the last slow dance in Roppongi, so I kissed her.