Read Online Three Scenarios in Which Hana Sasaki Grows a Tail by Kelly Luce - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kelly Luce
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through the tangled hair that fell halfway down her back. He was in a good mood, at least. “The beach again sounds nice. And we could shower there. My hair is gross.”
“I had this dream,” he said, reaching up and fingering a lock of her hair. “You had your hair in braids. Have you ever done it that way?”
“When I was in high school, maybe.”
He sat up and began to divide her hair into sections. “Did I ever tell you how glad I am you don’t dye your hair?”
“All the time.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. “Do you just wind it around like this?” He swizzled two pieces together.
“Here.” She took the pieces and smoothed them between her hands. “You make three sections. Ichi, ni, san. Mitsu ami, dan-dan .” Her fingers moved nimbly as she recited the rhyme. “The boy chases the girl, captures her beneath him, the third comes between, like this, and from then on they are—” she paused, then left off the last line of the grade-school chant, which played on in her head: “a happy family woven together.”
“ Jaan !” she said instead, holding the finished braid out to him like an offering. He took it.
“Amazing how girls can do that to their own hair,” he said. “Like it’s an instinct or something.” He took her hand. “It’s our own little world up here. Do you like it?”
She did like it. “It’s like we’re flying on a magic carpet. Or explorers on the frontier.”
“My pioneer woman,” he said, and lay down, pulling her with him. The sky was brightening; a mile away at the town park the trees on Shiroyama stood silhouetted against it, like sentries keeping a polite distance.
THE SEASIDE WAS NOT AS CROWDED AS USUAL; many people had left town for the holiday. This put Lou in a carefree, happy mood, and when they returned home, hungry and sun-baked, the kitchenful of tools did not dent his good spirits.
They agreed immediately on a restaurant, a ramen place known all over the prefecture for its pork broth, and took a booth in back. Lou filled her in on the beer ladies. Kimiko, a woman of sixty who had climbed Mt. Fuji every year since she was in college, was back after a two-week illness. She’d been bedridden, she told them, and her husband, for the first time in his life, had had to prepare their meals.
“The guy didn’t know where to find the toaster,” Lou told her. “So he cooked the bread right on the stove burner!”
“Even I can make toast,” Yumiko said.
“Makes me think maybe I should learn how to cook a few things. We could take a class together.”
She loved this enthusiasm. Here was the Lou she’d taught in her pottery class, ready to try anything. “Why not?” she said.
After dinner they walked along the river. On Friday, the boardwalk would be packed with people dancing, drinking, and lighting lanterns; booths squeezed in along the riverside would sell everything from fried squid on a stick to giant pet crickets. But now they were alone on the dark walkway. Even the river seemed motionless, and the only sound they heard was the clacking of the one-car train that brought tourists to and from the seaside. Though it was too late for the beach, the train still ran, shuttling nothing but air.
In the silence, she felt she was expanding, beginning to take up more space in the universe. She wondered if this was what being an adult meant. Over the next few days, she and Lou developed a routine: mornings spent on the beach, the scorching afternoons whiled away at the oddly named Café Sometimes. The café was a lucky find, open during the holiday week and stocked with American board games Yumiko remembered from her days in Chicago: Connect Four, Monopoly, Life. A Grand Opening banner hung above the door. Always the sole customers, they basked in the attention of the owner, who fussed over them as if they were the new things.
In the evenings they picnicked on the roof. Yumikobrought up some clay and created a makeshift studio; the
“I had this dream,” he said, reaching up and fingering a lock of her hair. “You had your hair in braids. Have you ever done it that way?”
“When I was in high school, maybe.”
He sat up and began to divide her hair into sections. “Did I ever tell you how glad I am you don’t dye your hair?”
“All the time.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. “Do you just wind it around like this?” He swizzled two pieces together.
“Here.” She took the pieces and smoothed them between her hands. “You make three sections. Ichi, ni, san. Mitsu ami, dan-dan .” Her fingers moved nimbly as she recited the rhyme. “The boy chases the girl, captures her beneath him, the third comes between, like this, and from then on they are—” she paused, then left off the last line of the grade-school chant, which played on in her head: “a happy family woven together.”
“ Jaan !” she said instead, holding the finished braid out to him like an offering. He took it.
“Amazing how girls can do that to their own hair,” he said. “Like it’s an instinct or something.” He took her hand. “It’s our own little world up here. Do you like it?”
She did like it. “It’s like we’re flying on a magic carpet. Or explorers on the frontier.”
“My pioneer woman,” he said, and lay down, pulling her with him. The sky was brightening; a mile away at the town park the trees on Shiroyama stood silhouetted against it, like sentries keeping a polite distance.
THE SEASIDE WAS NOT AS CROWDED AS USUAL; many people had left town for the holiday. This put Lou in a carefree, happy mood, and when they returned home, hungry and sun-baked, the kitchenful of tools did not dent his good spirits.
They agreed immediately on a restaurant, a ramen place known all over the prefecture for its pork broth, and took a booth in back. Lou filled her in on the beer ladies. Kimiko, a woman of sixty who had climbed Mt. Fuji every year since she was in college, was back after a two-week illness. She’d been bedridden, she told them, and her husband, for the first time in his life, had had to prepare their meals.
“The guy didn’t know where to find the toaster,” Lou told her. “So he cooked the bread right on the stove burner!”
“Even I can make toast,” Yumiko said.
“Makes me think maybe I should learn how to cook a few things. We could take a class together.”
She loved this enthusiasm. Here was the Lou she’d taught in her pottery class, ready to try anything. “Why not?” she said.
After dinner they walked along the river. On Friday, the boardwalk would be packed with people dancing, drinking, and lighting lanterns; booths squeezed in along the riverside would sell everything from fried squid on a stick to giant pet crickets. But now they were alone on the dark walkway. Even the river seemed motionless, and the only sound they heard was the clacking of the one-car train that brought tourists to and from the seaside. Though it was too late for the beach, the train still ran, shuttling nothing but air.
In the silence, she felt she was expanding, beginning to take up more space in the universe. She wondered if this was what being an adult meant. Over the next few days, she and Lou developed a routine: mornings spent on the beach, the scorching afternoons whiled away at the oddly named Café Sometimes. The café was a lucky find, open during the holiday week and stocked with American board games Yumiko remembered from her days in Chicago: Connect Four, Monopoly, Life. A Grand Opening banner hung above the door. Always the sole customers, they basked in the attention of the owner, who fussed over them as if they were the new things.
In the evenings they picnicked on the roof. Yumikobrought up some clay and created a makeshift studio; the
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