Two girls sit talking a few feet away in First Kitchen. The place is a kind of second-tier fast food chain whose name, when spoken by teens like these, sounds just like "fucking." They play with their food and cell phones absently, passing the time in idle chatter.

"So which do you think is worse, stalkers or chikan," one of them asks the other. (Chikan are public gropers who exploit the cramped conditions on trains and buses to fondle women and young girls. Schoolgirls dressed in the sailor-suit top and pleated skirt that form the standard girl's uniform here are a favorite target.)

"Hell, I don't know. They're both fucking gross," the other replies.

"Yeah, but if you had to pick one or the other, which one would it be?"

The girl thinks about this for a time. Her hair is dyed blonde and cut in a short bob. She's sporting one of those tanning booth tans that looks a little orange, and her legs are thick from too many lunches at fak-kin. Her face is set in a tight, wistful pout while she considers. Finally, she says,

"Alright. I'd take the stalker. I mean, at least they're in love with someone in particular, right? Chikan love anything with a pulse and accessible panties. Go grab your wife's ass, know what I mean? Chikan suck."

"Hell yeah they do. Fucking chikan."