He hates to talk, and loathes being talked at. He will be professional in the shop, but Omi prefers him to work in the back, doing the arrangements or deliveries, while one of us works the till and deals with the customers. Aya appears to be content with this. He is good at arranging flowers – when he is in the mood – and has taste and skills, and from what I see, knows his ikebana stuff.
He has moods. They usually won't show in his face that tends to be cool and unmoved, but in his actions: the way he treats things and people. He freely takes his irritation out on others, most often with the silent treatment, or by being hissy, and only when he is pushed will he explode in a nasty bout of temper, usually yelling and violently throwing things about. We learned soon enough that when his moods do show on his face, it is better to walk away quietly and hide, especially when he has his damn big knife close. Yeah, he really can be an ass.
He knows colours: black, black, red, and more black. Except for his orange sweater, it's all he ever wears. Purple, by a stretch, if I count his contacts. And he won't buy new clothes. We realised pretty late that, perhaps, this had nothing to do with him being fashion blind or stingy: he was mourning. Besides, the dark rags won't show blood stains, and I have to remind myself that he does not go out clubbing or anything like that. Not even to the pictures.
Aya has never stopped grieving.
Sometimes he'll buy a few bottles of good sake to get drunk, and downs it in the confines of his bedroom, alone, sitting crosslegged on his futon with some blood-curdling flute tunes looping on the CD-player. It would shove anyone into bleak depression. I checked the dates when he does it: unsurprisingly, they coincide with days that must remind him of the events that tore his life apart.
I think I can understand that.
Next chapter: Laundry