"Sorry, the place is a little old."
The apartment is tucked away on the second floor of a weathered, Showa-era building in a quiet backstreet of Tokyo—in a neighborhood of Shimokitazawa that matches her alternative vibe. The exterior is clad in fading beige tiles, and the metal staircase rings hollow underfoot, marked by rust trails that look like veins running down the concrete.
But the moment the heavy metal door clicks shut, the grit of the city vanishes, replaced by a warm, dimly lit sanctuary.
The entryway is tiny, barely a square meter of concrete. The room is dominated by her collection of footwear: a pair of scuffed Doc Martens she wore to the supermarket sits haphazardly on the step, next to taller platform boots and battered Converse. A cheap plastic umbrella stand holds a clear vinyl umbrella, drying after the dawn mist.
The main room is a standard 6-tatami mat layout, the straw flooring aged to a golden honey color. It smells faintly of dry straw, old paper, and the sweet, lingering scent of clove cigarettes mixed with vanilla fabric softener.
"No, I think that it is comfortable enough, but I never thought that you would be living here." Nifuji wondered why Tayama lived in Shimokitazawa.
"Do you think I will be living in Koenji?"
"Yup."
"To be honest, I plan to live there, too, but it is closer this way, right?"
"That's true."
Koenji is famous as the birthplace of Tokyo's punk scene and retains a "gritty," anti-establishment atmosphere that matches her Doc Martens and piercings perfectly. It feels "lived-in" and raw. It resists modernization. It is full of narrow, tangled alleys, Showa-era (post-war) buildings, and "Live Houses" (small, dark concert venues) that play loud music. It is less polished than Shimokitazawa.
Yet, despite the suitability of Koenji with Tayama's image, Shimokitazawa is much more "curated" and trendy. It is also the capital of vintage fashion (furugi) and indie theater. It's very hip and has undergone massive redevelopment in recent years. The station is new, and many of the gritty old corners have been replaced by stylish pedestrian walkways.
Still, without a doubt, unlike Koenji, which was located in the Suginami ward, Shimokitazawa was located in the Setagaya ward, and his apartment also happened to be located in this ward, making them live quite close to each other.
If one made a comparison of a long, hell-like transportation and a close distance to her home that made it possible for her to come to her workplace by bicycle, it was clear which one she should choose, right?
Yet, even if this place was a little old, Tayama had made it undeniably comfortable.
Instead of a proper couch, a massive, plush beanbag chair in dark velvet occupies one corner. It is sunken in the middle, perfectly molded to her womanly shape. A crocheted blanket, surprisingly domestic and colorful, is draped over it—a stark contrast to her tough exterior.
A scratched wooden chabudai (low table) sits in the center. It's cluttered but organized: a stack of fashion magazines, a lighter, a half-empty mug of black coffee, and a small leather-cleaning kit she uses to maintain her jackets.
The beige wallpaper is peeling slightly at the seams, but she's covered the imperfections with band posters, art prints, and a tapestry of the Tokyo subway map. String lights run along the ceiling, casting a soft, amber glow that is far more forgiving than the harsh fluorescent ceiling fixture, which she keeps off.
Yet, despite all of those things, the one thing that attracted him was the personal touches that she put on her place.
A small, low dresser serves as her vanity. The table is overflowing with silver jewelry—rings, studs, and hoops for her many ear piercings—scattered across a velvet tray. A bottle of red hair dye sits on the edge of the sink, a reminder of the maintenance her bright hair requires.
"Sit down first. I will make breakfast for the two of us."
Tayama, or Yamada (her real name), turned her back toward him as she removed her signature black leather jacket, which she hung on the back of a folding chair, the arms creased from constant wear. It looks like a suit of armor resting after a battle.
"Then, excuse me."
Nifuji didn't refuse and walked into her place, as he observed the end of her room, the sliding glass doors that led to a cramped balcony, barely wide enough for a single plastic chair and a washing machine.
He could tell that this was her spot. A ceramic ashtray sits on the railing, overflowing slightly. From here, the view isn't of a skyline, but of a tangle of power lines and the glowing windows of neighbors—a quiet, private slice of Tokyo where she can smoke and watch the trains pass in the distance, safe inside her own world.
"The cigarette is over there. You can smoke there."
"Really?"
"Yup, don't worry."
"Thank you."
Nifuji took the crumpled cigarette packs on the table, took one of the cigarettes, and went to the cramped balcony, smoking as he observed her figure in the kitchen.
The morning light filtering into the apartment is softer now, less blue than it was out on the loading dock. Her kitchen is typical of an older Tokyo apartment: a narrow, functional galley barely wide enough for one person to turn around in, wedged between the entryway and the main room.
She shed the leather jacket, revealing an oversized, faded black band t-shirt that draped over her full figure, paired with loose grey sweatpants. Her bright red hair is piled into a chaotic, looping bun on top of her head, held precariously by a single elastic band, with stray tendrils framing her face. The silver piercings in her ears catch the weak daylight coming from the small, frosted window above the sink.
The scene is a drowsy, practiced routine. A small, slightly dented aluminum pot sits on a single-burner gas stove, the blue flame licking the bottom with a soft hiss. The water is just coming to a rolling boil, sending plumes of steam up toward the grease-stained exhaust fan.
Leaning her hip against the cold stainless steel of the sink, she tears open a crinkly foil packet of instant ramen—
"Is that the spicy Korean brand?"
The bright red of the packaging made him narrow his eyes.
"Yup, are you bad at spicy food?"
The smug smile on her face made him sigh helplessly, so childish, he thought.
"It's still early in the morning."
He was fine with spicy food, but he definitely knew that it was a bad idea to eat such spicy food in the early morning.
Only, his answer made her chuckle, before Tayama took another package of instant noodles while asking him, "I have the Sapporo Ichiban. Are you okay with it?"
"Yes."
"Okay, I will get that one, too."
"...." Nifuji.
He wondered whether Tayama was also bad with the spicy brand, too, but he stopped himself from asking that question, especially when she had decided to prepare him breakfast despite how exhausted she was.
The sharp sound seems loud in the quiet apartment. With an efficient, unthinking motion, she drops a block of dried, curly noodles into the bubbling water.
She stirs it with a pair of mismatched wooden chopsticks, her movements languid but capable. Next comes the flavor sachet, ripped open and dusted over the water, instantly turning the clear liquid into a cloudy, rich brown broth. The air quickly fills with the intensely savory, salty smell of MSG, soy sauce, and artificial beef flavoring—the universal scent of a quick, comforting meal.
She stands there for the three minutes it takes to cook, staring blankly at the magnets on her mini-fridge, occasionally swirling the noodles to break them apart. It's a quiet, unguarded moment of domesticity, far removed from the tough exterior she presents to the outside world.
Nifuji was mesmerized by that figure, thinking that she had a different side that he had never thought of, yet when he thought of her appearance, the gentle, dual side that she showed when she worked as a cashier in the supermarket, he thought that she might be so gentle underneath that rough, punk-like getup.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then, a sudden, rushing roar, yet despite sitting, his eyes kept on her until he heard her voice that scolded him.
"Oi," she called out, her voice cutting through the noise. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed over her band t-shirt. "Get in here. Unless catching pneumonia is part of your schedule today."
Yup, let's enter first.