Visitation
"You should go home, kid."
Ginger curls part beneath a hand that sports a worn down middle-fingernail. "It's none of your business."
"Folks come in here who you wouldn't want to meet." There's a little of a warning and a little genuine concern in the tone. Hard to tell which one is the stronger intention.
"Yeah, I guess. Bring me some more tea."
"...Okay."
A boy and an old man share the stale air, boy scrutinizing the board before him. At the cash register, the old man puts away a twenty yen coin. It clinks against the metal tray, the sound too loud in a too-quiet room.
The kid makes a scuffing sound with his shoe, against the dingy floor. He's wearing black-and-white loafers, in a pattern usually preferred by girls. One hand taps his school briefcase absently– or not so much; it sounds like the rhythm to a popular song.
"Getting pretty late." The old man's comment is offhand, but too coincidental given their conversation minutes ago. "Isn't it past your curfew?"
"Look, it's your place. You can kick me out, but I'm a paying customer. I'd hate for you to get a bad reputation."
For a kid, he's got an underlying sharpness. It's a little surprising, but the older man has seen it before. Not too much, though.
"Play me a game."
The offer is inviting; at this time of night business is slow; too late for some people and a little early for the other crowd, but it's his policy not to play Go with customers. Then again, they won't be betting, and there's no one else here, so the kid must be lonely. He picks up a tray with the teapot and his own cup, carries it over and pulls out a chair. Up close, the boy doesn't look like a middle school student. Not much older than his own grandson, maybe.
"Nigiri."
Black goes to this strange, sharp kid. He starts: a good, solid move. "I'm Shuu."
"Shuu, huh?" Apparently the kid doesn't realize he's supposed to give his own name. They play in silence after that, the clock's sluggish clicking lost on them. It's a quick game; Shuu wins, smiling. He didn't have much of a lead.
"You'll be a good player when you're older, son."
"Again."
"What?"
"Let's play again."
"Well, I don't know..."
Almond-shaped eyes stare up at him, almost too wide to look innocent. "We could make it a bit more interesting."
Shuu really isn't terribly comfortable putting stakes on a match with a kid– one who jut lost to him, no less– but he agrees anyway, setting the stakes at five yen. Not too much to lose, but enough to be a lesson.
They play much more quickly this time; the child's moves retain their strength but are played rapidly, and Shuu loses his focus. He makes two deadly mistakes: the first, outside the game, was to underestimate this boy because of his age; the second, he becomes too preoccupied with a small but heated battle near the left edge to realize he's lost nearly all of his liberties in the upper right-hand corner. In the end, the difference is four points, with komi.
Shuu hands over the money, mouth slightly agape, just as the bell signals another customer.
"I'm Mitani," says the kid with a tiny, tiny smile. "And I guess you're right. I should go home. See you around, Shuu."
Mitani breezes out the door, his shoes clicking in a Doppler-effect as he trudges up the stairs. Hollow, echoing, and Shuu feels like he's met a ghost.