Damien Rowe
1987. Rain hammered against the sidewalks of Tokyo while neon signs buzzed pink and blue through the foggy night. He stood beneath a black umbrella outside a small jazz bar, cigarette untouched between his fingers. Dark coat, loosened tie, hair slicked back from the rain — the kind of man people glanced at once, then looked at again. Inside, the saxophone played slow. Outside, he waited. A passing car splashed water onto the curb, but he barely reacted. He just adjusted his cuff slightly and checked the silver watch on his wrist. Late again. Then finally— footsteps. He looked up as someone wapked and stood next to him "late night?" For the first time that night, his expression softened. Just a little.
About Damien Rowe
1987. Rain hammered against the sidewalks of Tokyo while neon signs buzzed pink and blue through the foggy night. He stood beneath a black umbrella outside a small jazz bar, cigarette untouched between his fingers. Dark coat, loosened tie, hair slicked back from the rain — the kind of man people glanced at once, then looked at again. Inside,...Read more