The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

gate. Two rows of lights over the red gate flashed
from left to right: “We will no longer be open in the
evening after November 23.” So the shining nights
would soon be over.
“How about it?” asked Furusawa. “How about a
good shaking in a teacup?”
“Well.” Tōru thought of himself in a dirty pink teacup,
now rather lonely and short of customers among its
blinking little lights. He thought of himself being so
shaken and twisted by it that objects became streaks
of light.
“Well, do you want to or don’t you? You only have
ninety-two days left till the examinations, but I’m sure
you have nothing to worry about.”
“I’d rather have a cup of coffee.”
“Such dissipation.”
Furusawa led the way down the steps of a
coffeehouse called the Renoir. It was across the
street from the third-base side of the baseball
stadium, which was like a huge trophy pouring forth
darkness.
The Renoir was larger than Tōru would have
expected from the outside. The tables were
generously spaced around a fountain. The lights were
soft and the carpet was beige. There were few other
guests.