Insanity – a perfectly rational adjustment to
an insane world.
R. D. Liang
Any Given Sunday
Sunday arrived with its normal fanfare: unconsciousness encroached by the hum of traffic, alarm blaring in-time with the rain tapping at the window. Early mornings were always difficult during the rainy season – especially Sunday mornings – but the weather would not shake my resolve.
A little rain never hurt anyone.
I sighed, squinting at the luminous numbers. Sure enough, 05:00 stared back, winking with each screech of the clock. Willing heavy fingers to work, I pawed the air until finally my finger hit the right button, tapping twice to dismiss the alarm. Silence engulfed the apartment once more and I settled back beneath the sheets, content with watching the storm.
The sun had yet to peek over the horizon, happy to let the moon have the spotlight a while longer. Still, even now the sky above the city remained fixed in dapper twilight, gray rain clouds mixing with the harsh city lights–
Unlike its celestial superiors, Mushiyori never slept.
A low rumble and the coffee pot began brewing in the kitchen, prepped in advance for mornings like this. Glancing once more out the window, the distant lights of downtown beckoned beyond my pale curtains, faded blue and violet neon lights reaching with greedy fingers. The night walkers would be turning in soon, leaving the clubs, bars and other establishments for their dens. I envied their freedom, their lack of care for social norms:
Their rejection of the light.
Movement beneath the sheets and I smiled, peeking beneath the creamy folds. Toki lay sprawled from my chest to my waist, comforting bulk widening the space between both breasts. This had been our sleeping arrangement since he was a kitten: no matter how I fell asleep, when morning came I always woke with him laying on my chest, ear flush with flesh as if to hear my heartbeat. At first, it was a bonding tool, something to help him feel safe. Now, I wasn't so sure.
Maybe he thought my boobs made good pillows.
One green eye opened as I rubbed his head, purrs vibrating both ribs and clavicle. The coffee pot's chime pulled a yawn from him, black toes stretching before he snuggled back down with a 'humph'.
I smiled, securing him with my hand and slowly sitting up. "Come on, Toki, you know what that means." Neither eye peered up this time though he groaned as my back straightened, causing him to tumble into waiting arms. "Time to get up."
I swear he pouted, ears drooping as he tucked his head beneath my elbow.
"Look, I'll make it up to you tonight, okay?" Lifting him to eye-level, I buried my face into his fur, smile widening at his purr. "We'll go for a walk around the neighborhood, just the two of us – we haven't done that in a while."
Yes, Toki – my fully grown cat – enjoyed going for walks. Though good luck leading him on a leash. No, my boy would have nothing less than strolling at my side, not one step ahead or behind.
We'd discovered this through his many attempts at following me to work.
Rising from the bed, I set him back down before slipping from the room. Toki didn't follow but then again, I didn't expect him to. A cat after my own heart, he preferred to sleep until at least nine every morning, a luxury I'd been unable to enjoy for quite a while.
Not bothering to turn on a lamp, I drifted to the record player, selecting an LP by city-light. Soon enough, Liszt's I: Adagio sostenuto assai (attacca) filled the apartment, strings and enchanting keys guiding my steps to the bathroom. Deep cellos acted as a backdrop to the thunder outside, each instrument doing its part to take my mind far away, to someplace dear–
Anywhere but here.
II: Au lac de Wallenstadt found me on the living room floor, going through morning stretches with care. Starting from the neck and working down, I waited until each muscle group pleaded for relief before moving onto the next, unwilling to show mercy even on a day off. Sweat dotted my brow at the various ab exercises, trickled down my spine as my hamstrings sang with the violins of III: Allegro moderato (attacca), dripped into my eyes while working through flying dogs and other glute stretches. Finally, during the final notes of IV: Allegro animato, my body submitted and crashed to the floor with the cymbals, labored breathing filling the apartment as the player's arm returned to it's stand.
Another beep and I sighed, forcing aching limbs into action. Replacing Liszt with a fresh record – a Nat King Cole collection – knowing feet guided me to the kitchen and too soon a black cup of coffee rested in my hands, heady aroma soothing paper-thin nerves.
Two bitter sips and a song later, I wiped perspiration from the floor before stepping into the bathroom once more, turning the shower on full-blast. Though cold showers were best after a workout, I couldn't bring myself to plunge into frigid water. Not out of weakness, though. No, hot showers were best for the mind, steeping me in forgetfulness–
Perfect for Sunday mornings.
Seven o'clock blared from the wall clock as I crept back to my room and turned on the light, hair dryer in-hand. Toki grumped at the intrusion but nothing more; he was used to this by now. Five minutes later dawn found me at my closet, hair a foggy halo about my head. Knowing fingers found today's attire: a pastel blouse, rose blazer and blue cotton pants, each dyed a child's shade:
Each carefully selected for Sunday.
Slipping on white stockings, I dressed with care, making sure no wrinkles emerged before working on my hair. There was no need to look at the photograph beside the clock; I knew its lines perfectly. After a quick brush, I parted my hair before gathering both ends into low ponytails, turning to the mirror in the corner. Springy skin, dark eyes which refused to look at anything head-on, broomstick hair, an outfit from a long-dead department store:
Time had sped back over a decade.
A final beep and I downed the rest of the coffee, thrusting house keys into an outdated bag before hurrying to the genkan.
"I'm going out!" I called, pulling on a polished pair of brown loafers. Of course, Toki didn't answer but it was better to let him know I was leaving than for him to find out on his own.
Three shredded plants had proven that.
A brisk walk and ten minutes later I was on the outbound train, sandwiched between a robust man and a pre-med student. Neither attempted to make conversation so I didn't either, content with clutching the overhead strap and waiting.
Sunday wasn't a day for words, anyway.
Eiichi Sanatorium lay exactly forty-five minutes outside Mushiyori. Once a mountain-side villa for an esteemed family, the property changed hands several times after the Meiji Restoration before finally being bought by Project Eiichi., a rising mental health corporation, in the 80s. Though the turn-of-the-century architecture remained a highlight of the facility, modern pleasures such as tennis courts, a track and volleyball field, swimming pools as well as a sprawling greenhouse had sprouted from the earth, pleasuring young and old alike. The feat cost a small fortune – parts of the mountain having been carved away for lack of space, unheard of for a small country facility – yet somehow Eiichi flourished despite the cost, welcoming more and more patients yearly.
Breathing in crisp air, I took the walk up with care, admiring the hand-carved blue and gray stone steps. One hundred steps to be exact, each multiple of twenty curving away from some rock face or another. The path sported no handrails, no crude metal or cement. Rather, the fortified walk appeared to have sprung from the mountain itself, speckled granite peering up from either side. The facility's veranda was welcoming as ever, aged oak creaking as I made my way inside.
Once a parlor in a bygone era, the reception hall retained the room's original charm. Unpainted walls bordered with plush-cushioned chairs, a blue Persian rug blanketed the floor, guarding against disturbances only noisy feet could make. A chandelier dangled from the ceiling, a dainty thing trimmed with gold and crystal. Soft lavender and Japanese pine perfumed the air, giving the place a scent only old buildings possessed. Collectively, the room held its breath, waiting; though for what, I couldn't tell. An anomaly immune to the passing of time:
Specifically why I chose this place.
Within minutes the receptionist – a woman fresh out of university with a bright smile and doe eyes – had my name in the computer, pointing me toward a refreshment table which held a water cooler and plastic wrapped treats. Bowing, I stepped away from the cumbersome desk and sequestering myself in the nearest chair, glancing at the front door before pulling out a paperback. The story itself was interesting enough – a soldier on the brink of death, spirited to another dimension by a compassionate sprite – but no matter how hard I tried, the words refused to register. Lavender tugged at my brain and before I knew it, rather than the aged soldier I saw the green-eyed man from Black Lotus, gaunt and leaden-eyed.
He hadn't appeared at the cafe in a while, the stranger who shared my affinity for punctuality and routine. At first, I'd sought him out, lingering at Black Lotus when my schedule allowed, scanning the street for fiery hair and a too-loose tie. This only lasted a few days and when he failed to appear, my thoughts drifted to more pressing matters. However, each day his table remained empty, hungry for his books and thoughtless smile–
How could I have forgotten him so easily?
"Ms. Odawara?"
Snapping the book shut, I stood, turning toward the familiar voice. A middle aged man stood in the hall leading to the doctor's offices and examination rooms, holding the door open for me. Black hair flawless as ever, Dr. Fuye smiled, watching with tired eyes as I put the book away.
"It's good to see you. I hope you are well."
The normal exchanging of pleasantries and we were through the door, the fruit of a country founded upon good manners and formalities. More wooden walls greeted us as we traversed down the hall, a welcome exchange from the stereotypical white of most facilities. Oil paintings graced the aged planks every so often, delicate things hanging just above a vase of fresh flowers or some other decoration. The polished oak underfoot refused to give our steps away, absorbing each sound effortlessly as it had done for over a century.
Finally, as we turned into a corridor leading to the cafeteria and exercise rooms, I mustered the question. "How is she?"
The good doctor's face gave nothing away, though his fingers flexed against the clipboard he held. Dr. Fuye's skin had always been darker than mine, something I couldn't understand because he spent most of his time indoors. Still, I welcomed the bronze flipping first one page, then another, face the smile I was all too familiar with now.
"About the same as last week, though the other day was an especially good one."
I returned the gesture, lips curling automatically. "Oh?"
"As you know, she spends most of her time in the greenhouse now, tending to every plant, even those that belong to other patients." Here he chuckled, lines creasing around his mouth. "Her orchids finally bloomed and she wanted to show everyone; it was all she would talk about for three days."
Images of the elegant flowers filtered in, dainty petals stretching this way and that. "I'll have to see them later."
We turned into another hall then, the tell-tale smell of ammonia interrupting soft lavender and hearty pine. The residents of Eiichi were stationed in one of three wards: mild, moderate, and severe. Though some mild cases were treated as outpatients, most were admitted knowing they would never leave. Generally, mild cases worsened to moderate ones before, finally, ending in the severe ward, much like traveling up a one-way street. She'd begun like the other cases, happily abiding in the mild ward before a series of episodes pushed her into the moderate bracket of the sanatorium.
That was when I began pushing back the clock for her.
"She still has her ups and downs, though as you know, the bad days are beginning to outnumber the good."
The statement weighed against my chest, though I didn't allow it to dampen my smile. I knew that; of course I knew – though I couldn't fault him for doing his job. "Does it have to do with her medicine? Do we need to increase the dosage again?"
A negative hum and he shook his head, bangs falling across a graciously portioned forehead. "No, it is not an issue of medication – this is simply the nature of the disease."
I nodded and we drifted into the moderate ward, a shift notable only by the drastic change in the walls and floor, wood replaced by whitewashed concrete and tasteless tile. "What else?"
He cleared his throat, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "Well, she's been requesting to see Mr. Sato–"
"No." All kindness fled, then, face tightening against my will.
The doctor stopped, tapping the pages flipped across the clipboard. "Ms. Odawara, she has every right to see him. After all, he is her–"
"I don't care." I ground out, glaring at his perfectly marked documents, as if everything in the world could fit into their designated boxes. White paper backs stared at me, only concerned with patient confidentiality, though I knew what they hid. A choking diagnosis, one I'd worked to reconcile for years now:
Dissociative amnesia.
"He hasn't tried once, has he? After all this time?" The words sounded venomous to my own ears, though they were delivered quietly, much like leaves are carried on a mountain stream. "So why should I bring him here?"
Dr. Fuye sighed. "I'm merely voicing my patient's request, Ms. Odawara. That's all."
We finished our journey in silence, knowing feet carrying us to the right door. Bleached wood stretched nearly to the ceiling, discolored stripes gripping the top not unlike fingers, begging release. The number 31 marked this door from the others, metal digits surrounded by paper flowers any child could have made.
Only these weren't fashioned from a child's hand.
Taking a breath, I knocked. Three small raps:
Just like every Sunday.
"Come in."
I glanced at Dr. Fuye one last time, hand on the door knob. An assuring smile lit his lips before he motioned to his ear, to call him if he was needed. A needless reminder, but one I accepted with a nod. As he turned to go, I took in another deep breath, willing myself to stay in-character, to play my part–
Not that different from work, actually.
A decisive twist and door lurched forward, dragging me into her world.
I was ten years old when my parents ran away.
Well, to be fair, my father had been lost before then, victim of his own ego. Much like the fabled ghost in the attic, Sato Odawara remained locked in his study day and night, heedless of anything not written by his hand. I learned early on that he would not take care of me, that I had no place in his world, but that honestly didn't bother me because I had her. The woman who always cooked my favorite meals on rainy days, who could name any piece of classical music; the one whose feet brushed the floor when she danced, much like an artist creating a fine painting, who could sing to any flower and make it grow:
My mother was my whole world.
After giving up her career to support the dreams of her 'gifted' husband, mom couldn't believe her ears when I told her I wanted to dance at the age of three. That's my earliest memory: waltzing around our kitchen one summer morning, bare feet upon hers, laughing as she squeezed my hands. Chopin played in the background – her favorite composer – and her loose hair tickled my nose, thick strands stretching past her waist. She spun us around and around, heedless of the time until her food began to burn.
To this day, burned bread is my favorite thing to eat.
As soon as I was old enough, mom enrolled me in the local dance academy, scheduling classes every day except Sunday. We fell into a routine, then, one we kept for years. As soon as school ended, mom would pick me up and we'd ride the express train before walking the rest of the way to the academy, a twenty minute commute for a housewife with a young child. Then, she'd watch as I worked with other girls and boys learning various styles of dance, heedless of the class stretching well into evening. Finally, we'd go home, make dinner, and go to bed. A perfect routine, one which went uninterrupted for five years.
Until one night changed everything.
"Azumi?"
I bit my lip and closed the door, forcing my thoughts back to the present. Her room looked the same as it always did. Natural light poured in from the open window, warming the carpet and violet bedspread. Several draperies and paper creations hung from the walls, almost succeeding in hiding the hideous white brick beneath. A shelf took up one corner, filled favorite books, the spots nearest the sun devoted to a few potted plants. An Easter lily grew next to the window, faithful companion to the straight-backed chair facing the mountains.
Mom stood from that chair, brows knit in a frown. Only an inch taller than I, she'd always had a delicate face, one with perfectly set eyes and full lips. Someone had done her hair for her, glorious waves gathered in careful folds at the back of her head, stray strands resting against an elegant neck. While she stared, I was able to admire the kimono she wore, a cotton creation colored pale pink. Posture erect, scarlet obi fastened just so, she appeared ready to break into a traditional dance at any moment–
My eyes fell on her empty right sleeve, shattering the illusion.
"It is you." Her face softened then, squeezing any remaining good feeling from my gut. "What's wrong, darling? You look pale."
"No, I'm fine, mom." I shook my head, smiling for her. We met in the middle of the room, embracing each other like always. I fought to ignore the ghost sleeve beneath my arm, the lump of a shoulder meeting mine through layers of cloth. Acid bit my throat, chasing away the comfort of her touching my hair, my neck, my back. Willing myself to relax, I breathed in her sweet perfume, the unique smell of her shampoo, the lotion she'd used for years:
Still, the phantom arm refused to appear.
She pulled away, taking in my face and hair. Her eyes were surprisingly clear, the most lucid they'd been in a while, her smile the same as always. Maybe today would be a good day, one where we didn't have to play our roles and hide from the elephant in the room–
"How was school today, Zumi?"
And just like that, the kernel of hope shriveled, plummeting like a rock in the sea. "Mom, I'm not in school anymore. I graduated a few years ago, remember?"
I immediately wished I could take the words back because her face fell, hand ducking back to her side as both brows rose. The happiness in those bright eyes faded somewhat, joy giving way to darker things: confusion, anxiety–
Fear.
"It's alright, happens to everyone." I said, voice soft as I led her back to the chair. After a moment's hesitation, I grinned, giving her the best gift I could muster – she'd always said I had her smile. "Let's talk about you. I heard you did something pretty cool the other day."
Her eyes widened and she flashed a grin of her own, delving into the story while I sank onto the edge of her bed. In no time at all, she was lost to her narrative, wrist flinging her hand this way and that animatedly. We'd discovered years ago that, just as I couldn't hold a conversation without touching my hair, mom couldn't talk without using her hands.
The fact that she'd lost her arm years ago hadn't slowed her tongue at all.
So, I listened to her tell me about her flowers, each of which had names. She'd always named plants, even when I was a kid, but after coming here the practice became even more significant to her. Mom chose each name with care, plucking the most obscure, asinine names from literature and assigning each to the plant which best fit the bill. The random names began as a mental exercise, something to keep her thoughts anchored when her mind didn't want to be her friend. However, at some point naming plants had become an elective rather than a game for her, one she took seriously.
She still had fun with it, of course.
"But Benno wouldn't be outdone!" Mom giggled, tutting about her blue orchid, her oldest flower. "Svengali may have beat him in blooming but Benno is still the tallest – don't tell Anais, though."
I smiled for her, watching the stitched flowers breathe against her breasts. When most people think of Japanese women, images of docile, pale girls with slim waists and flat chests come to mind and, while that may be true for some here, such has never been the case for us. Mom and I had the misfortune of inheriting ample bosoms from my Grandma's side of the family. Honestly, that's the only thing I didn't like about my body: at five feet, two inches tall and weighing one hundred and twenty pounds, a thirty-seven inch bust did nothing but earn me stellar nicknames like Chesticles and Rack City.
Thanks, Grandma.
"Zumi, would you do something for me?"
I blinked, tearing my gaze from the soft cloth to smile at her. "Sure mom, anything."
"Will you dance with me?"
Immediately, rot raked across my tongue, rising from some forgotten corner. I coughed, digging in my bag for a lemon drop, a peppermint – anything to keep from looking at her. Mom had no way of knowing I'd given up dancing; even though I'd told her too many times to count, the news only upset her and was wiped from her brain before the week was out, anyway. Though I kept up with lessons for a while after that night for her sake, once we admitted her here, there was no reason to continue:
I'd lost both my mother and my love for dancing.
"Mom, it's–" I bit my lip and sucked on the candy, trying to squeeze out all the flavor at once. "It's been a while since since I've practiced."
She laughed, waving her hand. "Two weeks isn't that long, Azumi, though it must seem that way at your age." My lips curled higher and both hands tightened their grip on my pants, desperately trying to quell rising discomfort.
Mom's eyes traveled to my lap, brows rising as she met my gaze. Staring into her eyes, I saw my nemesis: the shapeless shade gathered around her pupils, the wild, warped beast that had taken my mother away–
I wished I could tear that color away.
A mischievous twinkle lit her eye and she leaned forward, hand cupping her mouth. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."
Her attempt at humor twisted my gut but I laughed anyway, rising alongside her. "All right, mom. What style?"
Rather than answer, she went to the CD player by her bed – a poor replacement for the record player in my living room. Shuffling through various cases in the nightstand drawer, she finally picked one and set it in the dock, shut the lid, and pressed play.
The smile on my face became real and I shook my head at the tune, allowing her to drape her sleeve across my shoulder before placing her hand in mine. Mom took on the male role – she always did – and sent us waltzing around the room in perfect time with Ellmenreich's Spinning Song. There was no reason to worry, my body remembered the steps perfectly, so I could focus on her: her rosy cheeks, her smile, her laughter bouncing off the walls as we lost ourselves in song after song. Dancing was the one thing her brain hadn't taken from her, so I couldn't deny her this–
I'd never been able to deny her anything.
Mom had never been the same after the attack.
The hospital personnel didn't believe her story, neither did the police or the media. Then again, I couldn't blame them for that: who would listen objectively to a manic woman with a shell-shocked child, right arm mangled beyond recognition, her daughter drenched from head to toe? Sure, they knew something had happened but didn't believe mom's account, even after the limb was amputated and her mind wasn't clouded by medication. If she'd told them we'd been in a car accident, assaulted by a stranger, or even fell into an inconvenient place in the river, they would have ate that up; but no one wanted to hear the truth–
No one wanted to know monsters were real.
They didn't take my words seriously, though that was to be expected. Kids make stuff up all the time and are easily influenced by their parents. I learned quickly not to talk about it, but that left mom as the sole witness to a story the world was not ready to hear. The police turned deaf ears to her claims, the media treated her as some extravagant joke, and the neighbors began horrible rumors, namely that she'd acquired the injury while trying to run into the arms of another man with me in tow.
All of it was too much for her.
The breakdown happened while I was at school one day in Autumn. Mom had been fine when I left, listening to violin concertos on her record player while moving breakfast dishes to the sink. Dad emerged from his lair somewhere between nine and ten that morning not because he'd heard anything suspicious, but because he was hungry. He found her standing in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by broken plates and bowls, shifting between numbering the shards and staring at her bleeding hand. Of course, he took her to the hospital and the school was notified but by the time I got there, it was too late. Mom had tucked herself deep inside her mind, leaving only a shell behind. She'd found a safe place, a haven where demons didn't exist–
My mom was gone.
"Long day?"
Ebisu's soothing bass pulled me from my thoughts, a slow ascension to say the least. Mom's laughter rang in my ears still as I glanced around the suddenly barren confines of Black Lotus, which had been in the throes of the after-work rush a moment before.
I glanced at the clock above the register, blinking as the numbers came into focus. There was no way:
How had I lost two hours?
Ebisu set a steaming cup before me, coffee char-black with a dab of honey, just like I liked it. "On the house."
For the first time in a long time, I stared at the cafe owner, watched as he wiped down a nearby table. At an even six feet tall, Ebisu could have been a bodyguard or professional fighter in a past life. Meaty misshapen knuckles hidden in the stained cloth, he mopped up spilled tea and bread crumbs without complaint, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to reveal scarred forearms. Shifting muscle struggled against tailored pants, threatening to bust one of the various seams at any moment. His shaved head took attention away from a thick nose that had been broken more than once, pale dome waxed to perfect smoothness. Ebisu had no facial hair to speak of other than a pair of thin eyebrows, which he kept trimmed as meticulously as he did his perfect fingernails. To any passerby, he would appear to be a body builder forced into a host's suit, the victim of a cruel joke:
How did such a man come to own a hole-in-the-wall cafe?
"Want to talk about it?"
I barely heard the soft question. Ebisu remained focused on his work, back to me, offering the option of ignoring the inquisition.
An offer I graciously took him up on. Adjusting the straps on the black number I'd slipped on before coming here, I lifted the steaming cup, allowing the moisture to soak my pores before taking a sip. The coffee burned all the way down, bringing me back to reality in a way nothing else could. "How were things here today?"
He shrugged, an easy lifting of one shoulder. "Same as always. One guy got a little carried away right before you got here but we took care of it."
I smiled, taking another sip. "Sent him packing?"
"Of course." He smirked, eyeing a table near the back, probably where the man in question had been sitting. "I'm running a cafe here, not a brewery. If you want to get drunk, stay home. Can't handle your liquor? Go somewhere else."
Along with countless teas and coffees, Black Lotus sold a limited selection of booze, though not the cheap kind you can get just anywhere. Ebisu sold quality alcohol at stiff rates to dissuade any but those who could handle social drinking from buying, and even then he refused to sell to some customers. I'd never bought any here myself because I didn't drink, something Motaru couldn't understand even when I told him the reason why. The thought of losing control of myself – whether it be to a substance or anything else – terrified me, turned back time to that Sunday night fourteen years ago:
Coincidentally, I'd also never been in a serious relationship.
My eyes traveled to the now-familiar empty table, devoid of both books and that ghost of a smile. That dark shifting in mom's eyes reminded me of the haze clouding his and, once the thought struck earlier, it refused to leave. Dusky vermilion stayed with me as we danced, haunted the train ride back to Mushiyori, spied on me when I changed clothes back at the apartment. No matter what I thought, said or threatened, his apparition stared on, gaze imploring though for what, I didn't know.
Finally, I set the cup back in its saucer, garnering Ebisu's attention. "Do you know anything about the guy who used to sit there?"
He glanced at the table in question, raising a perfect brow. "You're going to have to be a little more specific, Odawara. Lots of people come and go here everyday."
"Trust me, you'll know this one." I shifted in my seat to meet his gaze head-on. "Looks like a foreigner until you get a good look at his face. He's on the tall side, pale, with long red hair that's usually tied back; a bit too thin for the suits he wears. Also, he's got green eyes, like the ones you see on commercials advertising trips to Ireland. He always carries a book with him and never speaks to anyone." The wooden chair creaked as I leaned forward, unable to gauge Ebisu's thoughts for his face never changed. "Know who I'm talking about now?"
Ebisu chuckled then, a sound I'd never heard him make. "My, someone has a good memory." When I didn't respond, he went back to wiping another table, gathering glasses in his big hands. "Yeah, I remember the guy. Haven't seen him in a while though."
I watched him walk to the sink, steps nearly silent against the tile behind the counter. "What's his name?"
Running water and I knew Ebisu would take his time answering me. Finally, after washing eight glasses he called back. "Why? You got business with him?"
Cheek sucked between my teeth, I chewed for a moment, considering. Did I have business with him? Why couldn't I forget about this man and his monster books? Why did his eyes and paper smile find me in the night when we hadn't even met?
For the hundredth time this month, I asked myself what was wrong with me. "Something like that."
The squeaking of a faucet and Ebisu reappeared at the counter, drying his hands with a fresh towel. He held my gaze without blinking, mouth set, never once stopping the towel revolving around his hands.
Finally, those stone-carved lips moved. "He goes by Minamino."
My brow furrowed at that. "Is that his name?"
"Far as I can tell; it's what he places his orders under."
A healthy pause and I nodded, testing the strange name on my tongue. Definitely a surname, though one I'd never heard of. "Mind doing me a favor?"
"Depends on the favor."
I bit back a smile, motioning to the table. "If I leave a note here, will you make sure he gets it? I'll put his name on it."
He wrinkled his too-flat nose. "I'm not a carrier service, Odawara."
"Oh, come on, Ebisu! Just this once?"
It also helped that in all the years we'd known each other, this was the first time I'd asked anything of the big man.
After a moment's contemplation, he sighed, moving onto the next table. "Just leave it there, I'll get it later."
An anxious bubble I didn't know existed dissolved in my chest at this and I immediately dug in my bag for pen and paper, items I'd learned long ago to never be without. The words came easily enough, effortless lines fueled by glazed green eyes and those strange books.
Finally, I downed the last of the coffee, folded the paper and penned his name on the back, careful with the odd character combination. Tucking the corner beneath the saucer, I stood with my bag, pushing the chair back under. "Need me to do anything?"
"Don't be stupid. This is my place, not yours."
Though the words were gruff, I heard the tiny bit of warmth underlying them, a warmth I only knew existing after knowing him for so long. "All right, I'm off then. Good night, Ebisu."
"Night, Odawara."
His words lightened my steps as I let the night take me.
A/N: Hello and welcome! Thank you for those who have followed, favorited and reviewed! I read them all and they always bring me joy.
Also, thank you WhatWouldValeryDo for beta-reading!
So, we got a more personal look at Azumi as well as her state of mind. Kurama's up next chapter, see you then!