Stifling a yawn, Yumi Ishiyama grabbed her bag and closed the wooden door of her apartment with a slam. She tossed her keys into her pocket, gathered up her uncooperative hair into some semblance of order, and blearily marched forward. Footprints dotted the pavement in an assortment of sizes and directions, but Yumi couldn't bring himself to care much less appreciate the artistry that was New York City at five thirty nine in the morning in December.
Her routine stop before class, a small, warm bakery in the corner of an intersection was bright with premature Christmas lights. There was a stereotypical bell hanging from the doorway which made an annoyingly high pitched sound whenever someone came in. This was only a minor annoyance and nothing compared to the momentary high Yumi got when she sipped the recently brewed coffee -- two sugars, milk, and a spoonful of cream -- as she unwound the scarf from her neck. Here her attire seemed ridiculous; a heavy coat, jeans, an old pair of sneakers, a long sleeved shirt, a sweater, and a colorful scarf that contrasted with her pale skin and colorless eyes.
If Yumi was feeling particularly gluttonous, she would order a bagel -- toasted, cream cheese and a bit of strawberry jelly, please --, but today she had a pharmacology exam and she didn't have time to eat, especially since she failed her driving test at seventeen and been on foot ever since. The trains were full of people and Yumi was only sociable after ten in the morning, and the buses full of the kind of strangers your parents warn you about. Besides, there was something peaceful in walking down the street, watching people that she'd never meet, imagining stories about their lives and where they were headed. Or, if she was feeling particularly sleepy or pessimistic, Yumi would plug herself into her ipod and forget the world.
Her parents who were strictly old fashioned, were very much against her being a university student in New York City, but since she was thirteen, Yumi's biggest dream was to be as far away as humanly possible from her parents. She loved them a great deal and would be eternally grateful for putting up with her for eighteen years, but enough was enough. Yumi wanted a complete change of pace so she'd risked herself and moved from Paris where she'd grown up to the Bronx, New York. It was oddity for a Japanese girl to grow up in France, and Yumi always stuck out like a sore thumb. In New York she was the same as everyone as it was a rarity that two people were similar, much less the same.
Yumi spoke Japaneses, French, and English fluently and with a 4.0 grade point average, acceptance into NYU had been a breeze. Apparently, the application process and the placement test were an incorrect representation of what life as a student in NYU would be like. It was like hell, with a very expensive price tag. Still, Yumi couldn't help but love it if just for the sheer challenge of it.
Yumi ignored the tinkling of the stationary bell as the door swung open, she shivered a bit as the wind from the outside spilled into the bakery. The door closed soon enough and Yumi resumed the blissful experience that was coffee.
"Je suis desole," he spoke French and sounded oddly shy. A heavy accent dangled from his words, but it was neither French nor American. "Je suis --"
"I'm sorry honey," the owner of the store, a tall, shrewd woman with a high voice interjected. "We only speak English here." To her credit, she sounded sincerely sorry. Yumi wasn't particularly interested in being a good samaritan but she could identify with not knowing the native language and being new and disoriented. Standing up, lamenting leaving her coffee behind, Yumi reached the counter. She pulled out a couple of bills, intending to pay.
"Thank you," she said, her Japanese accent unmistakable. Turning to the stranger, she smiled at sincerely as possible. "Can you speak English," she asked in french. The boy who appeared her age, a year or two younger perhaps, smiled.
"I'm sorry," his English was better than hers. "I just got off a flight from France and I'm a bit lost. I hadn't realized that a different country meant a different language."
Yumi quirked an eyebrow, he scratched his head self consciously. "I'm just having a blond moment, that's all."
Yumi wanted to point out that he was brunette but bit back her commentary.
"Mind if I sit with you," he elaborated. "I don't know anyone else ..."
"Um," Yumi hedged. "Sure, but I only have ten minutes until I have to go."
"Not a problem," he grinned. "Oh, and by the way, my name is Ulrich, Ulrich Stern."