at the midpoint of the arched stone bridge, looking back down the long approach — torii gates in diminishing sequence, stone lanterns flanking a path of wet paving slabs, the compound utterly empty, low cloud pressing the silhouettes flat — she has stopped mid-turn, facing the empty approach she just walked, breath just visible in the cold air
The stone on the arch was wet. Not from current rain — from the night before, which had passed through and left everything slightly darker than it should have been at that hour. I crossed the bridge at Sumiyoshi just before seven and stopped in the middle because I could. No one else was there.
The approach from the bridge — three torii in sequence receding into flat morning grey, stone lanterns unlit, path empty
The carp in the pond below were almost still. One moved, slowly, then stopped, as though the effort had clarified something.
I'd put on the cardigan before leaving the station and worn it like a coat because the cold at Sumiyoshi at that hour doesn't announce itself — it settles, into the shoulders, into the collar of the inner layer. The wide-leg trousers were heavy enough that the wet hem wasn't a problem. I let it happen.
at the midpoint of the arched stone bridge, looking back down the long approach — torii gates in diminishing sequence, stone lanterns flanking a path of wet paving slabs, the compound utterly empty, low cloud pressing the silhouettes flat — she has stopped mid-turn, facing the empty approach she just walked, breath just visible in the cold air
I turned and looked back at the approach. The torii in sequence, the stone path, the lanterns not yet lit. Completely empty. That's the only version of this place I've ever wanted. I've been here four times now and only twice have I managed the timing. You have to be there before the city has made any decisions about the day.
I stayed on the bridge longer than necessary. The sound was almost nothing — distant traffic on the main road, the water below doing very little, my own breathing.
The first tour group appeared at the outer gate around seven-thirty. I heard them before I saw them — the low shuffle of a coordinated group, someone's luggage wheel on stone. I went the other way.
Bowl of tofu in dark dashi broth, one soft nameless piece broken at the surface, steam rising, laminated Japanese-text menu taped crookedly to wall visible behind
at a narrow counter lunch spot near the base of a tall glass tower in Abeno, the laminated menu taped too high on the tiled wall behind the counter, steam rising from bowls on the grill surface, no English anywhere, the storefront glass to her left reflecting the wet street outside and the grey tower above — spoon held just above the dark broth, not eating — reading the reflection of the street in the counter glass
Abeno later. Lunch at a counter near the Harukas base, a place with no English anywhere and a laminated menu taped to the wall at the wrong height. I had tofu in a dark broth with something soft I couldn't name. I finished it.
On the walk back I passed a conbini with a vase of plastic cherry blossoms in the window. Pink, faded, slightly dusty. They'd been there all season — maybe longer.
Plastic cherry blossoms in a convenience store window — pink faded to near-white, one petal filmed with dust, street grey reflected in the glass behind them
What she wore
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I wore the cardigan like a coat because the air at Sumiyoshi at 6:45 is the kind of cold that doesn't announce itself — it just settles.
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The trousers had enough weight to hold their shape in the rain — I wasn't precious about them getting the hem damp.
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I put the gold chain on because evening earns something — even a small one, even just for walking back.