She shielded her eyes as the harsh wind whistled between the buildings, its howls of anguish scraping against the skyscrapers and screeching past. Above her enormous buildings towered, mirrored fronts reflecting more mirrors from adjacent buildings creating a infinitive effect. She lifted a pale hand above her eyes in case the sun decided to creep from behind its clouded covering and gawked at her surroundings. If she craned her neck into a ninety degree angle upward she could just about see the top of a tower.

Her dainty fit pattered along the busy Shinjuku street where men in tight business suits screamed into microscopic Nokias and hailed taxis with their free hand. Amused by their cropped hair and fancy collars, she almost stumbled as one knocked into her with his metal briefcase, as he bustled past, blinded by his haste and a sudden gust of wind. With a small, “Gomen” he bowed and continued on his hand waving even faster than before for transportation. Instead of building up anger she ignored his carelessness and continued on.

With one final rhymatic clop she arrived at her destination, the largest and tallest structure. She paused to examine her reflection in the rotating doors, tucked a stray hair back into her kanzashi bun and readjusted her kimono. Made of the finest silk it radiated a vibrant crimson, patterned with ocean waves lapping up the sides. Tiny golden flowers christened the wave forming an elegant border. A matching golden stitched obi wound across her stomach, sucking all air from her lungs. A slight smile crossed her pale painted face, as she pride fully smoothed out a few creases. The silk red blossoms covered her entire head in a halo of contrasting color against her ebony hair. Three small hand crafted rows of brighter faux flowers dangled from the wreath, so intense they tinted her ghostly face in a splotch of pink. Noticing two interested eyes intensely observing her on the other side of the window she puckered her painted lips and enthusiastically kissed the glass.

When she entered the building a few minutes later the same young man readjusted his tie, cleared his throat and attempted to ignore her presence. Although he sipped his coffee and pretended to read the morning paper, she felt his eyes drift past the letters and onto her back. A broad grin crossed her dollish lips in pleasure. Juveniles could barely hide their emotions let alone their desires.

Wrinkling her nose in delight she approached the friendly receptionist while slightly turning her head to bask in her glory.

Give it a minute she thought pretending to search for her identification card while waiting for his reactions. When the twenty year old could keep his lust contained no longer he slowly set down the crumpled headlines and approached her.

She watched him approach.

A slight, fake moan of relief escaped her lips as she pulled out her access pass and handed it to the guard.

“Thank you Ms. Ito” The man behind the counter stopped for a brief second in shock before regaining composure and continuing on, “Mr. Sanji is in a meeting right now but you can go up and see if he is done.”

In a matter of seconds the man’s gait slowed, faltered and eventually halted. She could almost feel the color drain from his tanned face as reality set in. After a few minutes of pondering he instantly turned around, grabbed his paper and marched out the front door like a commando soldier, back ridged and eyes widened with fear.

“Domo Origato,” she replied, flashing a dazzling smile and giving the fleeing man one last look before entering the elevator.

As she raced up sixty stories her stomach suddenly plummeted straight to her feet and not just from the ascent. For a geisha to decide by herself when to confront her master and settle problems and even to consider causing problems was taboo. It was no wonder the bell hop standing beside her kept his distance and sternly refused a single glance in her direction. To him she appeared a tainted, shameful woman who should commit hari-kiri immediately. The same thoughts traversed through her mind as doubts began to fill her empty heart.

Not wanting to dwell on the consequences of her actions she wiggled her foot in the itchy tabi socks, wondering if a cal louse had formed between her toes. Whoever thought geta clogs were comfortable had never endured them for fourteen hours a day in extraneous weather in a modern society where Nikes bolstered inlaid comfort soles.

People’s minds switch to the strangest subjects when they are nervous. Some who have stage fright imagine themselves naked, others on death row shout out obscenities. Rikku’s mind focused on her father. As the Freudian psychdynamic theory suggested her repressed childhood memories flooded before her, building upon her anxiety.

His first prideful words echoed throughout her head. She chocked back a subconscious sob and bit her bottom lip to keep from crying. At thirteen she barely understood the concept, let alone the consequences.

As her older sisters watched in jealous rage, Rikku eagerly was swept away by the glamour, wealth and respect her new position held. At first she embellished in her lavish lifestyle as the fourth geisha in line to the infamous Yakuza boss Mr. Sanji. Being his newest and youngest prize she gained most of his attention, praise and gifts. Besides his previous women harbored no hard feelings; in fact they seemed to regard her with sympathy and enjoyed the freedom from sex and other laborious activities. But now with five years of wisdom she felt drained and sleazy. Once proud of her lifestyle she now found poverty more respectable. When he discarded her for a newer model she felt reality set in. To him, she was a robot, comparable to his modern microwave or plasma TV, objects he traded in and upgraded every five years.

Recently though she’d weaseled her way back into his heart and bed. Catching the flirtatious new girl enraptured by their cook was enough to send her out on the streets, to live a lonely life in the bowels of Shabuja. For no respectable company nor man would hire a disgraceful geisha. Rikku thought if Mr. Sanji once again adored her, the passion for her life would automatically return. But when he spoke of male heirs to her and not of children she found her fantastic, idealistic family image buckle beneath the burden of social status. Sex became tedious. Twice a week on Tuesdays and Saturdays they attempted to fill her barren womb with life but failed. Twice a week she dreaded Sanji would quit and abandon her. Anxiety set in. Fights ensued.

Now she approached his office door prepared to face his wraith when she turned in her resignation. The tarnished oak door stood ajar and in her wooden shoes she easily baby stepped her way to the frame unnoticed. From inside two contrasting voices battled for dominance. Rikku lifted her fist to gently rap upon the wall when the whiny economic advisor’s words froze her.

“She isn’t good stock. Her background is a disaster waiting to happen. Poverty plagued, over-opinioned half-breed is what she is. At forty-two you can’t afford to waste time and energy on fruitless attempts. You need a powerful, trained son now! One with her blood could never sustain your role and you know it.”

Rikku’s turned cold with fear.

“Hn…” her master grunted in thought, “Over-opinioned?”

“How can you let her run your company sir?”

Mr. Sanji sighed, exhaling a drawn out puff of air, “You are right” She heard papers shuffled about, crumpled and then discarded, “These plans weren’t my ideas. She is interfering too much. It will be taken care of.”

The advisor’s whiny voice raised an octave in accommodation of his victory, “It will be handled immediately, sir--”

“It will be taken care of,“ Mr. Sanji sternly continued his sentence, “by me.”

At that moment, Rikku’s body went numb, seizure like spasms stretched across her arms and legs. She felt as if all the blood had rushed forth from her body, slithered down her spine, and puddled about her feet. When she regained control of her limbs, her flight or fight instinct kicked in. Blinded by her tears, she struggled to the elevator, unaware of what buttons her manicured nails slammed. If Sanji found her ease dropping, she’d suffer a torturous death, of blood draining. And even worse, while her last earthly hours seeped from her drop by drop, his annoying advisor would prod and provoke to ensure damnation. Sometimes she wished someone would just take a katana and slice off that man’s head.

Then it struck her.

A small, reassuring smile crossed her ghastly, dollish face.

Later that night she lay in their small sleeping bags. Glazed over and cold, her two hazel orbs patiently waited. Every once and a while they shifted around the room, before returning to the rice paper doors. With one hand she stroked the hand woven tatame mat; the other hand rested beneath her fluffy downy pillow clutching an intricate katana. The steel warmed and sweated beneath her fingers. Upon one edge her finger outlined a tangled dragon and shishi dog locked in battle. Passed down from ancestors in the Meji era, her master spoke with conceit about the reputation this sword embodied.

Empowered by heritage she grasped her past and present in the same hand, and prepared to forge a bitter sweet destiny for herself.

And all she had to do was wait.