Day 26 & 27
The clocks hands hung heavy at eleven, the shutters were raised and the customers were seated. One customer sat at the counter, a book laid in front of him. I always wondered what he was reading.
Kurosawa came every Wednesday. Alone. Always alone. He sat in the same seat quietly and only spoke when making the reservation over the phone. He would state his name and his order, politely reminding whoever was on the line with him at the time that he wanted to sit in the chair closet to the kitchen as usual. I had never heard his voice.
Before he even stepped through the door I could feel my muscles tightening, pulling my shoulders up to my ears. The moisture leaving my mouth and moving to my upper lip, my voice betraying me, cracking like a teenager’s when he walked in. One of the waitresses forgot to remove the menu from his seat and I quickly grab it, the menu stealing what little dampness remained in my palms.
He struck me as a strict man, not on others, but mainly on himself. The words of my father floated into my mind. I wonder what kind of life one has to have to cover themselves in tattoos. It was easy to see that he was painted from his ankles to his neck.
Despite the ink, his skin was pristine, light radiating off its surface like a diamond that has avoided the filth of the world. Each tiny bite of the needle took a tiny portion of him, replacing it with a new, more resilient piece.
He wore clothing that you would only expect to see in a museum or history book…
