The screech of the sax harmonized with the kettle. The glasses are tinkling slightly as accompaniment. I am struggling to think. Or rather, I'm struggling to hold on to a single thread of thought. Finding comfort in the sound. How loud they're playing in this cafe.

'Big Boy' indeed. The name of this jazz kissa on an alleyway in Jimbocho City. Three 50x50 cm mahogany tables by the entrance. I think it's about 11m2 in floor space, and only 60% of that is for customers.
The windows are lined with wiring, latticed with a diamond pattern. 2 large window panes for each wall that faces the street (the bar sits in the corner slot of the alley's crossroads). The door, a yellow japanese wood that opens outward, is sandwiched between these window panes. Angled at 45 degrees to connect the two. Each window screens the world outside with a cold filter. They walk by, some catch us watching. I'm sat front row to this screen. There's only one row of tables, so I suppose I'm also on the back row.

The name invites itself, really. The man to my left, late 60s I presume. Stylishly bald. Also facing the screen, but not watching. His eyes are closed. His attention is buried in the track that is currently playing. Probably thinking about his last affair. Deep indigo jeans paired with a comme des garcons / nike air max that make me feel confused in a wonderful way. On his torso, an ironed shirt. White, pinstriped with black lines, like his moustache.

Another man to my right. Hair on this one. His back is against the window. The overhead light is warming his worn skin. I see him clearly. Arms folded. His spoon is turned upside, to show its job is done. I can't see the tip of it, but I imagine the tea has dried on its end. These details all feel so unimportant, which makes it important to me.
Old enough to be the left man's younger brother by 3 years difference. No moustache though.
I hear him sniffling, but no tears seem to be forming each time I glance over. It feels like he is crying for me.
Defending against his emotions, he reaches for his teacup and just before the dam of his feelings overflow, the track switches. He's safe.

I see myself in his eyes. Maybe because he's sniffling for me. 'Big boy' indeed.

A young woman enters now - beige trenchcoat, black beanie to match her shades. Chiselled face. All the big boys straighten up.

The owner: Yatashi. Our main big boy. Proud of his creation. He moves with an energy that I can only describe as 'paced whimsical'. His haircut matches his wife's, medium, rounded, grey. They work the bar with purpose. I wonder who he loves more; her or his records. They cover these walls like the music they play.

Bald big boy looks at me. He caught me. I look away.
Beige trenchcoat, black beanie and her shades now sits on the table next to me. She's looking at me. I look away.
Down at my cup for the fifth time during this record.

Droplets on the glass fall through my veins all the way into my toes. There is peace here.
So many things to think about that I'm probably escaping but calling it rest. Soon enough they'll catch up to police me again, but for now, we'll just sit here. The world continues as I do. Like the umbrellas that glide across the screen, let it all walk by.