She sits at the bar alone, sipping a glass of red. Her head heavy, chin resting in her hand. Soft music spills into the room from small speakers in the top corners of the ceiling. Psychedelic and strung out notes dancing from table to table. Her eyes show signs of deep thought, yet slowly move from person to person, observing her surroundings. Partly occupied with rumination, partly aware of others. The bar is crowded, though voices are kept low. Her slender wrist shines white underneath a small lamp next to her. A tattoo on the inside, along the line of the vein. The words aren’t visible. Occasional laughter rings out above the crowd, only for a ‘shush’ from somewhere else. The music stops. The edge of the record scratches a little. An old sound - a sound from another era. And yet, this is present day.

The bartender and owner, a short Japanese man with large glasses and a nice watch slides his way over to the record player. He moves with an ease and lack of urgency, somewhat comparable to a snake weaving its way, lazily, through long grass on a hot day. In the same way that a snake can afford to move this way, his grace and nonchalance gives an air of superiority. Grounded-ness. Not that he is venomous, only that the customers are of second importance here. Surrounding the tables and bar, on each wall the eye can see, are shelves with hundreds of records. As the scratching sound continues, he swiftly lifts up the next vinyl, blows any dust off of it, and after a close inspection drops the album down. Chatter quietens for a few moments, as people stop to appreciate what sound is coming next. The music could come from any genre, any era.

It’s a slow jazz piece. The saxophone and a black man’s voice fade as the chatter grows. The white wrist still laying on the bar next to the lamp. Wine glass almost empty. The other hand running fingers through her hair. A massage. Calm. Perhaps this bar has that effect. Her hand stops. Her mind caught on a thought, her teeth take a nibble at a fingernail. Only for a moment. Pausing at her lips, slightly stained by the wine. The bartender doesn’t make any conversation. No one really does. A deep breath. Another glass, please? The contact with the Japanese man brings her out of her own world for a moment, so she swivels on her chair to take a look at the people behind her. At one table, a Japanese couple lean in close. Not touching. The Japanese girl seems to be yearning for it; connection of any sort. Her eyes are wide and eager. Lapping up his story as if his words are all she’s eaten in months. The guy oblivious to any of this. He continues on talking. His elbow resting on the table, his hand waving all sorts of small gestures. They sip beer. In glasses.

At the end of the bar sits a man on his own. He’s not local, Westerner of sorts. Bigger build and tattoos all down one arm. He sits, hunched over a - beer? Hard to see. Could also be an Old Fashioned. Hunched as if hiding something. What’s he running from? Still nibbling at her fingernail, she looks to another table. A young Japanese man sits alone. Phone out. Taking a photo of his cocktail. He looks uncomfortable. Not venomous this one, she thinks. He is eager as well. Glancing around the place in search of a connection. Sending words up to the bartender, who appreciates a local in his bar. He smiles at her. The young one. She smiles, delayed and distant. Continues on her observation. A few couples that look Western. They sit and mutter things to each other. Not so interesting. And then, as she notices the second glass of wine bringing the feeling of her heartbeat to her head and resting wrist, she realises it is time to move on. A walk through the slightly cooler Shibuya. Who knows. She pays her debts, passing a few notes over the bar.

No words exchanged between her and the Vinyl Man. He nods, gravely. She nods, gravely, smiling as soon as she’s turned away. She slides her way through the low spoken crowd, just like a snake weaving through long grass on a hot day. Her hair swishes from side to side and her hips move with it. Cardigan slipped on, bag over shoulder, her exposed wrist gives one last flash of white before she disappears out into the busy streets of Tokyo.