On March 1st, he returns from his office late and runs into her by the elevator. The day has been unusually warm. The night is mild. Ayamei is wearing make-up. It accentuates the slant of her eyes. The bright red lacquer of her lips adds a mysterious contrast to her face. Her hair is tied back in a long braid revealing a pair of long jade earrings. They wish each other a good evening. He eyes her from head to foot, notices her pretty pointed shoes. She walks toward the entrance, he toward the elevator. The echoes of their heels resound against the walls in a sharp-dull duet. He turns his head. She turns hers. She smiles, perhaps, before crossing the threshold. The hem of her coat lifts as she walks out; a purple skirt fades into the night.
