It begins the same way as always. "Let's have some lemonade." An invitation, one I accept, as always. He makes his own, and it is always shocking to drink. The sweetness and sourness seem to battle on my tongue, and it is so, so cold. It's never enough.
"You smell like lemonade." Another kind of invitation, offered with a smirk. Once again, I accept. The scents of sex and lemonade fill the room, another kind of sensory overload. Afterwards, I'm left feeling empty. Like always.
Later that night, I walk along the streets. There, alone in the almost-dark that covers Tokyo, stands a man. He is, like so many, unremarkable. Unshaven face, loosened tie, messy hair, disheveled white shirt – disheveled everything, actually – the salaryman on a drinking binge. His eyes widen as I approach, and he starts as I come perilously close to him, a rude invasion of personal space that seems seductive. "You smell like lemonade." Said in awe this time, rather than invitation. Like always.
I press up against him. My mismatched eyes widen slightly for a moment, before I smile. Then, I strike. Once again, my sense of smell is assaulted by an overpowering combination. Sakura and blood, my favorite.
Finally, it is enough. I smile in bliss as I complete the ritual that will feed the Sakura under my care.
Kamui says I smell like lemonade. Therefore, lemonade always makes me think of Kamui.
I'd much rather smell of sakura and blood, and think of Seishirou-san.