Everyone I know has left to go home and the time is fast approaching five a.m. Even Mino, the hyper-active co-owner of the bar, has slumped into a seat in the corner of the room.
I get up from my stool and wander behind the bar with my empty beer glass, and pour myself another. Mino's sixth bar-sense made him open his eyes and watch me. When I had finished he made writing motions with his hand and I dutifully scratched another mark onto my bar tab. The bar had a curious way of keeping tally of drinks, instead of using four straight lines and a diagonal to make a five and a 'gate', they'd use some complex pattern that no doubt made sense in Japanese, but to a gaijin was merely confusing.
I passed by the Canadians and strippers and eyed one blonde girl from Finland. She looked at me with eyes that told me she was just toying with the man who was chewing her hair in a teenage attempt at flirtation. I felt sorry for him. This was the kind of girl whom you couldn't trust, I decided.
You could sit on your barstool and dream of being back in The Office I suppose. Or, perhaps, you could be thankful that you're not drinking in the Slaughtered Lamb.