In the red light district of Tokyo, a girl’s time is worth ¥1000 per hour. They line up on neon streets, a procession of maid outfits and school uniforms, catering to any kink a customer may have. But they are rarely chosen. Holding flashy signs with their prices proudly posted, they mingle among each other, hoping for–but not expecting–a customer.

One girl, barely 17, stands apart from the rest. She bares a forced smile and small paper sign reading ¥500 that she flashes at each passerby. She stands in high platform boots, wobbling in the wind and flattening her plaid skirt against her ass. When an icy wind blows through the streets, she pockets the sign and hugs her school blazer closer to her chest. 

An old man with an unsteady gait wanders down the street. His oversized sweater and khaki pants do nothing to disguise the fact that he’s a tourist. But he turns away from the light up billboards and pays no mind to the giant Godzilla figure bursting from a nearby building. He looks at his feet as he approaches the nearest group of girls, nervously reaching into his wallet. They shake their heads and frown at the green US bills he offers up. He tries this again and again, offering his foreign currency to at least a dozen girls. The young girl in her school attire observes him.

As he meanders away from the main street, she follows and catches his arm.

“Sir?” He balks at the sound of his own language.

“You speak English?”

She shrugs and scrunches her nose as she says, “Little,” and then retrieves her price sign. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a $20 American bill. She takes it, examines it, then walks away.

“Hey!” He hurries after her as best as he can. 

She doesn’t wait for him as she enters through a glass door and disappears behind a corner. 

“Goddamn.” He moans as he tries to follow, knowing he will never catch her. But just as he passes through the door and rounds the corner, he catches sight of her at an exchange counter. She speaks in Japanese to the attendant. The attendant fishes in the drawers behind the counter and reemerges with almost ¥3000. She accepts the money, not even realizing the old man has caught up with her until he plants a hand on her shoulder.

“You can’t just…”

But his words fade away as she hands the money back to him. She then unfolds her price sign again and shows it to him.

“Oh… here.” He pushes the money back her way.

“Thank you,” she utters and bows her head–not grateful, but accepting.

When she takes off again, she makes sure he’s following this time as she leads him back into the artificially bright streets. The “love hotel” she works at has chipping pink wallpaper and a poorly painted window sign declaring its romantic atmosphere and low prices. It smells of dirt and sex. The room she takes him to is decorated with heart-shaped pillows and a mirror on the ceiling. Sitting before the mirror, she lets her long silky black hair out of her ponytail and removes her blazer. Her eyes lock with his in the mirror for an awkward moment before he coughs and excuses himself to the bathroom. 

He emerges with his face washed and hair–or what was left of it–combed over. The girl has removed her shoes and now sits on the bed, hands in her lap with her head down. It looks like she’s praying. Instead of climbing into bed next to her, as she expects, he takes a seat on the overstuffed couch in front of the television and clicks through the channels.

She peers over at him.

“Do you wanna watch something?” He asks. She doesn’t understand.

“Movie?” He repeats, selecting a classic: My Neighbor Totoro.

Then he reaches into his bag and pulls out an assortment of sweets—chocolate, gummies, and salty popcorn.

“You’re not allergic to nuts, are you?” He inquires. Her brow furrows.

He picks up a pack of peanuts and points to the allergy warning on the back.

Her eyes light up in understanding. She shakes her head, staring at the magnificent display of sweets in front of him.

“Then you’re welcome to anything here” he offers, hands sweeping over the banquet. She creeps over, sitting across from him on the couch and reaches for a licorice as he shoves handfuls of buttery popcorn into his mouth. 

“I love this movie.” He adds, shifting over so that she can sit without physical contact with him. 

“Me, too,” she adds, eliciting a wrinkled smile from the old man.

They watch most of the movie in silence. Each remains on their respective sides on the couch, slowly eating away at the boundary of sugar between them. 

As the credits roll, the old man stirs, turning a sickly shade of green.

“Excuse me.” He staggers towards the restroom and all of the sugar reemerges in a violent gag over the toilet. The girl jolts up and rushes to the bathroom door, but when she steps in to help, he pushes her away and closes the door.

Unsure, she looks at the mountain of candy wrappers on the couch, glances back to the bathroom door and knocks.

“Go away.” He yelps, so she quickly gathers her things and leaves. 

He groans when he hears the front door slam. Unable, or maybe just unwilling, to move, he closes his eyes on the marble bathroom floor. His sickness has overcome him.

In the one year he’s known he was going to die, he hasn’t told anyone. Not even his daughter, whom he traveled all the way to Japan for. She’d ditched the US and her family for a fresh start years ago. They hadn’t spoken since. But the diagnosis had put everything in perspective. Her old man wanted to apologize for everything he did to hurt her and push her away, but when he got to the door of her new address, he froze. He hadn’t had the courage to knock. Instead he took out a notebook and slipped a ripped-out scribbled note under her door.

And now he’s pathetically panting on the cold tiles. He couldn’t even pay for someone to be with him in his final hours.

He never makes it to sleep though, because someone shakes his shoulders till his eyes flit open. It’s the girl. And she’s returned with tea. 

She tries to sit him up and hands him the warm cup of chamomile. He takes it, but can’t lift it to his lips. She crouches down next to him and helps him take a sip.

Once he sets the cup back on the floor, he starts talking. He knows she can’t understand him and he knows that they are just acquaintances. But he’s all alone, so he tells her everything. And she listens, not understanding the words, but knowing the desperation in his voice. Though she understands little, he believes that she understands enough.

When he finishes, she helps him to his feet, but his muscles won’t cooperate. She manages to drag him out of the sickly smelling bathroom and lay him on the bed. His body sinks into the soft cushions, shrinking in the expanse of blankets. He sees himself in the mirror, the shriveled old man that he’s become. And he sees her next to him, concerned and caring. He doesn’t want this to be her image of him. But he won’t be able to fight the pull of sleep much longer. She sits in a chair by his side, terrified but holding on, until he falls asleep. 

Then she removes his wallet and dials 119.