Kawashima Miki nodded: "Do you know who composed that piece just now?"
"Janacek." Kasahara Fukaeri answered accurately.
"Janacek." Kawashima Miki repeated, as if committing an important agreement to memory.
The Ferrari drove into Yoshiwara, the headlights illuminating the roadside greenery in a lush emerald glow, and familiar scenes came into view. Kawashima Miki drove into the parking lot, parked the car, and turned off the engine.
The two sat motionless in the car, waiting.
Everything in the car had stopped. The sound of the air conditioner faded away, the lights vanished, and only the subtle scent of rose air freshener, ingrained over the years in the dashboard and seats, lingered under their noses.
Kasahara Fukaeri thought for a long time and finally came up with something to say.
"Life is born unfair."
"Whose words?"
"John F. Kennedy."
"Who is he?"
"The 35th President of the United States."
"Oh, the one who was assassinated in an open-top car."
"Not going home?"
