TCP 23 - Iwamotocho

They stand, a wall between them, she standing nonchalantly, relaxed, yet somehow excited, her expression as if filled with the satisfaction of winning a game, her right arm extended towards he, on the other side. Her hair is long, simply cut. Her dress is synthetic, worn not by choice but rather by regulation, but she makes the best out of it; her socks pulled up to her knees - their red emblems perfectly aligned, the top button of her neatly pressed shirt unbuttoned - the collar spread over the neck of her beige cardigan, the sleeves of which are pulled past cuffs of her dark green blazer and over her knuckles - exposing nothing more than her finger tips. He, dressed in the same outfit - save slacks in exchange for her skirt, a certain ruggedness for her cleanliness, and a missing blazer, rests his right arm upon the chest-high barrier separating them, with his tilted head resting upon that arm, his right cheek pressed firmly upon the wool fabric covering his forearm. His left arm extends out to her right, a tear dropping from his eye and onto the sleeve of his cardigan, as he gently clasps her finger tips. She turns her head, her fingers slipping from his grasp as she walks away, her train now approaching.