on a low concrete pedestrian bridge over a narrow urban river, sakura branches overhanging the railing from both banks, petals moving laterally across the frame on unexpected wind, the water surface pewter-grey under flat overcast, a man in a yellow raincoat with a straw-colored dog visible at the far bank completing a slow circuit — standing at the railing, having stopped mid-crossing, watching petals move sideways — not downward — across the water
The petals came down sideways. That was the first thing — not the trees, not the water, but the angle of it, the wind doing something unexpected with the direction. I'd crossed the bridge before I understood I was cold.
The Fukushima riverbank at that hour had almost no one. A man in a yellow raincoat, his dog the color of straw, both of them walking slowly enough that they seemed to be waiting for something. The sakura overhung the water and the overcast had flattened everything — the pink had gone grey-white, chalky, closer to the sky than to a color. I stood for a while. Long enough that the man and the dog completed their circuit and passed me again going the other way.
one pale petal pressed against a rusted railing joint, colour drained grey-white by flat overcast
The trousers moved in the wind. I'd known there would be wind. The petals told me before I'd even crossed the bridge.
at a narrow curved storefront window on a backstreet in a low-density residential-commercial neighbourhood, the glass reflecting bare-branched street trees and the opposite building's shuttered grey facade, a handwritten chalkboard sign leaning against the doorframe at an angle, overgrown potted plants flanking the entrance — just before entering — hand not yet on the door, reading the chalkboard, recognizing the handwriting from three years ago
By the time I reached Nakazakicho it was afternoon and warmer, the scarf already in my bag. The chalkboard outside the coffee-and-records shop was in the same handwriting as three years ago, leaning the same direction. The plants had grown or been replaced with something indistinguishable from what was there before.
chalkboard leaning its habitual lean, handwriting half-erased at the edges from years of standing outside
I had coffee. Dark, ceramic, the rim slightly thicker than it looked — the cup sat heavy in both hands. No one asked how I wanted it.
on a narrow footpath outside the same coffee-and-records shop, a wooden chair and small table against a rendered plaster wall, cloud shadow moving across the sun — the warm patch on the pavement contracting in real time as overcast reasserts itself — both hands wrapped around a dark ceramic cup held at sternum height, not drinking — looking up at the sky as the warmth on her face withdraws with the cloud
I stayed outside longer than I needed to. The air was warm in the sun and cool the moment I moved out of it, that line between the two shifting every few minutes as cloud crossed overhead.
The light was already going by five. Not dramatically. Just withdrawing.
the empty ledge where the cat was — a faint impression of warmth in the dust, one black hair caught on rough concrete
A cat on a window ledge above a shuttered gallery. Black, very still, watching the street with the patience of something that has made a reasonable assessment of what the street offers.
What she wore
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I wore the linen trousers because they move in wind, and I knew there would be wind — the petals told me before I'd even crossed the bridge.
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Nakazakicho in the afternoon is the kind of place that makes you want to look like you've been coming here for years — the skirt helped.
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I didn't change — I just put the jacket on, and somehow that was enough to make it evening.