THE woman behind THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the painful sensation whiteness of the airline ticket stood out adjacent to a serving bottle of sake and an ochoko[1]. The rain sounded, pretending to drown out the voice of Lie To Me[2], and percussed in the meninges of both as if it were a thing of the nippy Roland TR-808 and TR-909 rhythm boxes, essential in electronic music. And there, there they were, point of view to face, without smoke, without others to fill a non-existent track or MDMA to cloud their reasoning or neon lights to illuminate them. -Is that all? -Monique finally blurted out, in cool Japanese, like the water dancing with reference to the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her question was not answered taking into consideration words flowing from Stas lips, but behind his encounter of moving his feet upon the tatami to withdraw. For a few seconds, brief, intense and bitter, comparable to the taste of the dregs of her last mug of tea, she r