My friend Hiroki fell in love with a girl who painted.
He said they met at a bar somewhere in Shinjuku. A quiet basement place run by an old guy who liked jazz and drank whiskey.
Hiroki said her watercolor paintings expressed a feeling he didn’t have words for. Something like a blend of nostalgia, tragedy, and hope, as portrayed by gentle, flowing arcs of color.
He said she painted pictures like nothing he’d ever seen.
Her name was Toshiko.
From Snippets: Fragments of the everyday in Tokyo, as written by Hengtee Lim.
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