Autumn of 1819. The Edo period.

The diner had been silent. Respectable fittings, as men, with their tired wives, flooded in to the simple & steel chairs. Situating themselves to dine on poor, foreign wines, & exotic pastries,

Your chirimen kimono silked itself, gently, over the kind curves of your figure. Following the flow of gentle rhythm & kind respect, you were a woman who leaned into the attention of begging men, with no ring of your own on your classy fingers.

For shame, was it? To not put yourself to use, to not make yourself open to a greedy, & kid-breeding male,

How pathetic. The glow of paper & plaster lanterns, illuminating the floors, below tables, & below the drift of women's gowns & kimono's alike. Some bejeweled shawls, expensively ghosting over the creaking floorboards.

Poor women. Dolled up in iron-like makeup to ruin their delicate skin, & enlarge their humane-like pores, all for men who lingered on their backs & hungrily searched for affairs.

You situated yourself on a far-back throne. Tucked away in a deep corner of darkness. The flickering candle flames could barely kiss your features in an orange glow,

The room fell into a silence. A picked strum, melodic, wiring through the room with a compelling spiral,

That was new.

The platformed stage before the large floor pulled its draped curtains, neatly, a ruby-red velvet, apart, To reveal a kind woman. Soft, looking. Long, silky, black hair, wafting over her seated body with such perfection..slender, pale, & near glistening arms, neatly clasped around an aged biwa of sorts. The triangular pick, thick, & ghostly, between her sapphire-painted fingers.

Her head dipped with focus, as she began to melodically pry at the firm strings. Working the instrument with such, exotic persist... The sight was intoxicating. Captivating. Between the rattling tune, to how elegantly she carried herself..something longing, & distant about her heavenly-crafted figure.. Something unknown. As if her perfection had carried such a secret,

Her eyes met yours.