Rakugoka Sushi House – The Confession
As soon as the little metal chimes hanging on the door rang out, Rakugoka-san made eye contact with Mariko-san. Each customer, even first-timers, had their own vibration, generated their own harmony. The way they pushed open the door, how the air rushed in, the slight squeak of the rusted hinges–each a part of the equation that informed the sushi chef and waitress how they should prepare the environment.
The man sat down without removing his coat. Unusual, as the tiny restaurant was always monitored for optimal temperature for client comfort, especially during the dinner rush, but it had been an unusual evening.
A steaming cup of green tea was waiting for him.
“Irasshaimase,” Rakugoka-san said.
“Evening,” the man replied, looking surprised but satisfied to see the hot tea. He took a swig as if it had been sake instead. He showed no reaction to the scalding liquid hitting his tongue. Mariko-san was beside him just as the cup came back down, pouring a fresh refill from a copper pot.
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