The bartender placed a glass of whiskey in front of him.
"That woman over there, the pretty one, she said you look as miserable as she feels," he said by way of explanation.
Tenma glanced over his shoulder mechanically, too tired and depressed to even consider caution. The woman was pretty, much too pretty to be sitting in a bar alone, and for a second, all thoughts of ethics and murder were replaced by a warm, tempting image of her body against his. Top or bottom, he did not care. He ordered a second of whatever she was drinking – a mimosa, the mildly amused bartender told him – and brought it over to her table in the corner.
He did not know whether it was the alcohol or a general effect of stress and distrust that suddenly made him latch onto any normal human contact, but he found his tongue loosening. Physically becoming lighter, losing the stiffness that it acquired over the days of silence and solitude. "Why miserable?"
"My father has Alzheimer's," she said. It seemed to him that she couldn't make a choice between avoiding his eyes and staring him down. Abruptly, she forced herself to look, and blushed.
"He was diagnosed a while ago. But now it's gotten to the point where he can't recognize me. His own child."
"I'm sorry."
"What's worse, though, is not that I feel bad for him. I feel bad for myself. Because I'm afraid it will happen to me as well. What if I inherit it? What if I become infirm and... and... defunct like that? Will I even know that I am me? Will I have a sense of self? Or will I just walk around the house in my underwear without any clue as to what time of day it is and what to do as I wait to fucking die of uselessness?"
"I'm sorry," he said again, feeling inadequate. It was true that he had problems of his own, perhaps greater even, but they were heaped on him by himself, for the most part.
"So, what's your story? I don't want to sit here and wallow in my own selfishness. I am repulsed by myself enough as it is. What happened to you? Death? Divorce? Disease? Money problems?"
"I don't even know where to begin."
She smiled, sipping her mimosa. "As they say, begin at the beginning."
He felt a sense of weariness at her words. He came to her to forget about his problems, not dredge them up; and, either way, he could not talk about them even if he had wanted to.
"No," he said at length. Not curtly, not unpleasantly, just with pure exhaustion. She understood. She nodded.
"Where are you originally from?" she asked to switch the subject.
"Japan," he said. Even though it was more prudent to lie, he refused to do it. She nodded thoughtfully.
"I used to date an Asian guy. He was Thai. People think it's offensive, but I've always found Asians prettier. Your features are so much more distinct, so much sharper... more dignified. We look blurry and animalistic next to you. It's as though God made you with more decisive strokes than the rest of us."
Tenma smiled nervously, having no idea what to say. Race was a touchy subject in Germany, with people either trying to overcompensate for their fathers' Aryan notions or retaining them with vitriolic lust, but he had never heard the issue of Asians broken down in such cosmological and sexual terms.
"I guess I can understand the aesthetic preference," he said finally. "I guess you could say I like blondes more."
Looking confused, the woman ran her fingers through her hair, holding a strand of it up against the candle's light. He thought he was being blunt and forward, suggesting that he was attracted to her, but as her hair was more brownish than blonde, and looking simply red in the glow of the tealight, she did not know what to make of his comment.
He decided to try again.
"Do you want to... Would you like to go somewhere else?"
She nodded and let her hair fall. "Lets go."