Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“I’m shocked that he didn’t give you the whiskey.”
“Me too. Lychee sake is such an odd thing to have after something that crazy. A drink so sweet and delicious that smells like fruit treats.”
“Maybe that’s why he gave it to you. . .so that you could still have some sweetness left.”
“That could be true. Jobon was always protective of me in his own way.” I thought back to him. “Anyway. . .he passed out in his room, and I ended up stealing the rest of the bottle.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I hid it in my room and drank until I puked all over the place."
She winced. "Your poor stomach."
"My poor housekeeper."
Nyomi chuckled.
The jazz slowed to a crawl. Those five musicians began coaxing sin from their instruments. The saxophone crooned low—aching, stretched-out tones that slid across the space. The bass thrummed next, steady as a heartbeat. Hesitant and elegant, the piano offered minor chords that bloomed and faded.
It was all so soft, breathy, yet restrained.
I closed my eyes and let the music move through me. Strange—I’d never cared much for jazz. It had always felt too Western, too chaotic.
But this?
This was something else.
It was pain, refined.
Sorrow, shaped into structure.
In fact, many of the notes reminded me of the shakuhachi flute—those breathy, soul-deep notes the monks played in the mist-covered mountains of Mount Kōya and the remote forests near Kumano.
Music meant for silence, for stillness.
Some of the bass’s notes even resembled the koto—plucked slowly in old Kyoto tea houses and temple courtyards, each string telling a story older than war.
The melody was similar to the mournful cry of enka ballads drifting from radios in the back alleys of Osaka, never shouted, never loud, but aching all the same.
This jazz didn’t sound Japanese.
But it felt Japanese.
And because of that—the music, the food, and the way Nyomi’s eyes lingered on mine—I felt like I was in a new home. One shaped from her laughter and the ache in her voice when she spoke about her past. One stitched together from the stories in her cooking and the scent of plum and amber that clung to her skin.
Home.
A place where nothing was asked of me but to feel.
I opened my eyes and turned to her. “You picked these songs?”
She nodded. “Yeah. This set felt right. I wanted us to be able to talk without distractions… but I also wanted us to groove a little, too.”
I smiled. “Do you play jazz a lot?”
“On rainy days when I’m just lying on the couch under tons of blankets and reading a great book. Or maybe at night, when I’m just sitting by the window, sipping a glass of wine.” She looked away then, toward the wall, but I could see she wasn’t seeing it.
Her mind was somewhere else.
Remembering.
“There’s this tiny spot in my apartment where I can see the Bruckner Expressway curve, all lit up like a golden ribbon. And if the night is clear, I can just make out the Empire State Building glowing like a crown in the distance. It's quiet from up there. Just the occasional siren, or a car stereo too loud. But when I light a candle and crack the window open—just a little—I feel like the Bronx wraps her arms around me.”
Something about the way she said it made my chest pull tight.
I thought about the cocktail. “You live in the Bronx?”
“Mmhmm. In Mott Haven to be exact. It’s a small one-bedroom apartment in a high-rise building. I don’t have tons of furniture, and I like it that way. Just me, my thousand books, notepads, and millions of pens I swear I’m going to organize someday.”
My lips curved. “Is Mott Haven a nice area in the Bronx?”
“Well. . .” Nyomi chuckled. “it depends on what you’re looking for—and who you ask.”
Enchanted, I slid my arm around her shoulders again, pulling her closer. The warmth of her body melted into mine, and I let my thumb brush gently across the top of her shoulder.
She nestled against me, and I knew that she didn’t even know what she did to me, how just leaning in made me feel tamed.
Oh, Tora.
I breathed her in. “Tell me more.”
“Mott Haven is a part of an area they used to call the Piano District.”
“Why?”
“It was home to numerous piano manufacturers. Now it’s changing. Lots of new wine bars, random art pop-ups.”
I could hear the fondness in her voice.
“I have lots of Afro-Caribbean neighbors, families that have been there for generations. And yeah, sure, the safety’s still hit or miss, but there’s soul. I don’t feel invisible there. I feel like I’m part of something still growing.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“It’s also right by the Harlem River, so I can see Manhattan if I squint hard enough.”
I savored more of the cocktail.
“There’s a mix of old brownstones, warehouse lofts, bodegas on every block, and more murals than billboards. Plus, the area has artistic, yet gritty energy. On a regular Saturday there is salsa playing from a fourth-floor window while another person grills on the fire escape and just like clockwork right at 12pm, these two older women will sit on the stoop and argue about some TV show they watched together.”