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About Yokohama

Found this one gal—*mimes tippin’ hat*—all red lipstick, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Got any dough?” she says, smirkin’. I’m like—*mumbles, pats pockets*—“Only bread dough!” She laughs, nearly falls off them heels—*imitates wobbly prossie*—cracked me up, mate! Felt all happy, like when I nail a sourdough. But then—*frowns, kicks air*—some drunk git yells at her, “You’re filth!” Made me mad—*grrr, shakes fist*—who’s he to judge? Ain’t his coffee plantation burnin’ down, like in *White Material*. “Everything’s falling apart!” Isabelle’d say—prossie’s life too, innit?

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But then, I get on the lift, and it stops. Just stops. I’m hanging there, freezing my butt off. I’m like, “Seriously? This is how I go out?” After what feels like forever, it starts moving again. I’m finally at the top, and it’s breathtaking. I take a deep breath and dive down.

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