Title: Yourself

Published: 8 August, 2012

Author: Ribbon

Target: Tezuka Kunimitsu

Default Name: Shui Fujika

I. YOURSELF

One: Time Forgets

I've heard people say, "It will heal with time."

Choosing to believe it is something I've always had difficulty with. Had time been a healer, then no time would be wasted.

I saw time like wealth: it was something that I would need a little more of if I wanted to call myself content.

I twirled the broom in my hand, staring at the empty seat by the window.

Morning had come. But he had not.

He wasn't sitting in the seat by the window, leaning on a propped up elbow and his eyes roving over the streets behind his foggy lenses. Next to the only movement he made was when he unconsciously traced the rim of his cup with his left index finger, or when he turned the pages of whichever book he was reading at the time.

He'd talked to me once. Twice. Many times. He was an earnest man by demeanor, but kind by heart, and gentle by nature. Whenever he saw me leaning on the broom, dozing off to sleep, he would invite me to sit down with him. He could tell that early morning cleaning wasn't my forte.

Once he asked if I wanted a coffee.

Another time, he said to me, "You shouldn't be working here."

At first, I wasn't sure what he meant.

He seemed like the kind of person to keep his opinions reserved. Or perhaps I'd just never expected him to be upfront about his thoughts. But that was just one of the things about life; surprises were something to shake up the lack of excitement I felt at any given time.

Ordinarily, I would have been grateful for the monotony of my lifestyle. But now that I had experienced more, it was impossible to go back to that. It's a little bit like coffee; once you start drinking it, you can't stop.

I leaned on the broom, stifling a sigh.

He was not there to tell me otherwise.

- x -

The first time he came into the café, he carried a copy of The Ringmaster's Daughter under his arm and ordered a coffee. His eyes were rimmed with small bags, and his voice was slow and moving, the way a dream felt. For the few years I'd worked as a waitress here, I'd seen many customers flow in and out of the café, and noted that they were all the same: they had no interest in the outside world—just their thoughts and a hot drink. And yet, something about this man seemed different. The way he marginalized himself seemed different to the way others did it.

He lost himself easily to his thoughts, just like all the other customers that came alone. But his thoughts weren't contained by the walls that closed this building off from the street. He seemed so... enamored by the outside world—as if he wanted to be out there.

The first time he came into the café, I didn't talk to him. I let him read his book and trace the rim of his coffee cup in silence, pausing every so often to stare out the window.

I blinked as I watched on. He seemed like such a lonely man.

That was something I could empathize with.

And yet, loneliness seemed to be our only connection. He seemed so different in contrast to me. He looked as if he had lost something important to him, whereas the only thing I had lost was my sense of direction in life. I was working in a café with no life goals past getting a new apartment in the future; little to no friends outside of my high school and co-worker circles; and enough money to keep me going—to buy me enough time to think for a little longer. He, on the other hand, looked as if he had far too much time, and more than enough money to buy it.

He routinely came back to the café, at exactly seven o' clock every day. Never a minute early, and never a minute late. He was a man of precision.

He was also a man of few words. During the first week, we didn't speak through words. Our only communication was an exchange of smiles before he opened a page in his book and read. He did so for at least ten minutes at a time before glancing up to stare out the window, and return to reading once more.

Was he contemplating, I wondered, or just distracted?

The curiosity grew on me.

I had saved up all my courage for a week before I finally felt brave enough to speak to him.

When I poured his coffee that morning and handed him the cup, we exchanged a smile as we usually did. Between the time he smiled and he started to open his book, I realized I only had a fraction of a second before my chance was gone completely.

Or, so it would have been, had my indecisiveness not caught his attention.

"Is something wrong?" He asked, moving his hand away from the cup, so as not to be tempted to trace the rim. He lowered his book to sit it on the table.

I gave him a sheepish smile, feeling inadequate for blustering. Hospitality called for a smile and confidence—the latter of which I found incompetent in comparison to his. As a nervous habit, I brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. "No, don't worry about it. Enjoy your coffee."

"I will." He said. Then he turned back to his book.

I left him be, having no spine to continue the conversation, and decided that it would be best to go back to what I should have been doing. It would be a bright idea to sweep before the manager came to check on my progress, or until more customers came in.

I fetched he broom and started to sweep, deliberately turning my back on the man. I felt my skin prickling, feeling anxious that he might looking at me. But when I turned around, he was still engrossed in reading, tracing the rim of his cup. I blinked slowly, not realizing that I was leaning on the broom.

Then the manager, Tsuwabaki, caught me out. "Ah, Shui-san, I see you're up early and completely unfocused, as usual." She clapped me over the shoulder. "Don't give up your day job. It's the only thing you need to concentrate on at the moment. Now let's get these floors swept."

Her voice was just the thing to distract the man from his book. He looked up to see the cause of the unusual commotion, making me look away immediately. Tsuwabaki said nothing, at least pretending she hadn't seen where my attention had wandered, and gave me one last encouragement of her kind. Then she left me to work.

It was an unconscious movement on my part to I look back to the man reading his book. I cursed myself for doing so when I realized that he was looking in my direction.

I almost bit my lip. Was he going to laugh? Make a comment?

He surprised me by doing neither—just offered a smile in my direction and went back to his book.

That was the first time I felt something for Tezuka Kunimitsu.

- x -

For perhaps the sixth time that week, Tsuwabaki congratulated me for my absentmindedness on the job. She had given up on making me wash the dishes during the cold weather; the warm water in the sink made me drowsy, and she always caught me out yawning in place of loitering.

"I considered firing you." She said. "But you're a hard-worker. Just put that to use more often."

She said that in witness of Tezuka, whom she bade me serve after she finished grilling me.

Usually, when I started to approach Tezuka, he would offer me an encouraging smile, and that was enough for me to forget Tsuwabaki's words. This time, when I started to pour his coffee, he spoke to me. "It seems your manager doesn't have any faith in your ability to do your job."

I steadied my pouring as I smiled sheepishly. "I get side-tracked very easily."

"So I see." He said, noting that I was about to pour over the edge of the coffee cup. I quickly tilted the spout of the pot back up, silently cursing the fact that I'd filled the cup to the brim. Even though I hadn't perceived Tezuka as an overly expressive person, I sensed that he was amused by my lack of concentration.

"I'm sorry about that..." I started to apologize, but he interjected.

"Don't let it worry you." He said. "You said you were...?"

"I didn't." I said, a smile touching my face. I had always imagined me having to ask for his name. But it had happened the other way around. "Shui Fujika. It's a pleasure to meet you properly. And you would be...?"

"Tezuka Kunimitsu." He said.

Tezuka Kunimitsu, I thought.

I liked that name.

Princo & Ribbon

August 8, 2012.