inside a small drip-coffee counter, a single window seat facing the service street — the glass slightly fogged near the sill, the interior warm and dim against the flat white exterior light, bare plaster walls, a wooden ledge wide enough for one cup — the coffee cup has just been set down; both hands have withdrawn from it, hovering an inch above the ledge
The notebook has three lines in it. I'll delete them later.
I knew I would come back here on the last morning. I'd known it since day two, when I found it — the drip coffee, the window seat, the street narrow enough that the Saturday deliveries have to stop the van and work from the back. The same coffee, the same seat. I didn't decide this. It just arranged itself.
The overcast outside is complete. No shadows anywhere. The colour of the pavement and the colour of the wall of the building opposite are nearly the same — both a kind of grey-white, both even and flat, the morning not performing any particular time of day. The coat is back on. Same coat as the first night. It smells like the city now, which is what I wanted without knowing I wanted it.
The deliveries come in sequence. A produce box, handled by one person. A bag of something white and dry. A flat of eggs set against the wheel of the van while the driver crosses something off a clipboard. None of it is for me to understand. That's the point.
narrow two-lane service street in a low-rise Fukushima neighbourhood, barely wide enough for a van — concrete walls the same grey-white as the overcast above, no shadows anywhere, a stopped delivery van with its rear doors open, a flat of eggs resting against the rear wheel — seated inside the window, watching the driver cross something off a clipboard; coffee cup on the sill, not lifted, not set down
The coffee is dark and the cup is the same weight as Tuesday. I don't write anything else.
When I leave I take the long way to the station and pass the ramen counter from the first night. It's closed at this hour. The metal shutter has a small dent at knee height that I don't remember from last time, and I'm not sure I would have noticed before this trip. Maybe it was always there.
in front of a closed ramen counter — a corrugated metal shutter rolled fully down, the paint worn pale at the edges, a small dent at exactly knee height, the shopfront set into a low concrete building on a quiet backstreet, the pavement still faintly damp from the night before — she has stopped walking; one hand is slightly raised, not touching the shutter — registering the dent, or about to
A street cat crosses ahead of me, unhurried, and turns into a gap in a low wall.
single ceramic cup of dark drip coffee on a pale wooden counter, steam barely lifting
metal delivery van parked in the narrow lane opposite, driver's clipboard resting on a flat of eggs against the rear wheel, produce box on the pavement
closed metal shutter of a ramen counter, a small dent at knee height, the corrugated surface catching flat grey morning light
What she wore
day7-scene1
I wore the olive jacket because it's the last morning and I didn't want to think about it.
day7-scene2
The trousers are the kind that make a Saturday feel like a decision you made deliberately.
day7-scene3
Charcoal sweater, black trousers — I've been wearing versions of this all week and I still don't think it's boring.