Rising Sun [antikvár]

Actually, I was sitting on my bed in my apartment in Culver City, watching the Lakers game with the sound turned off, while I tried to study vocabulary for my introductory Japanese class. It was a quiet evening; I had gotten my daughter to sleep about eight. Now I had the cassette player on the bed, and the cheerful woman's voice was saying things Uke, 'Hello, I am a police officer. Can I be of assistance?' and 'Please show me the menu.' After each sentence, she paused for me to repeat it back, in Japanese. I stumbled along as best I could. Then she would say, 'The vegetable store is closed. Where is the post office?' Things Uke that. Sometimes it was hard to concentrate, but I was trying. 'Mr Hayashi has two children.' I tried to answer. 'Hayashi-san wa kodomo ga fur . futur . . .' I swore. But by then the woman was talking again. 'This drink is not very good at all.' I had my textbook open on the bed, alongside a Mr Potato Head I'd put back together for my daughter. Next to that, a photo album, and the pictures from her second birthday party. It was four months after Michelle's party, but I still put the pictures in the album. You have to try and keep up with that stuff. 'There will be a meeting at two o'clock.' The pictures on my bed didn't reflect reality any more. Four months later, Michelle looked completely different. She was taller; she'd out-grown the expensive party dress my ex-wife had bought for her: black velvet with a white lace collar. 15