For an impulsive moment, Suguru considers puffing in the boy’s eye as if the white would scatter. Like blowing the plastic shark fins of a pinwheel, making a wish with a weed.
This is when each of his nervous habits clock in for their busiest shift of the week—running a hand through his hair, scratching at an elbow, picking away at a hangnail. Silence is a waiting customer. It hasn’t been served the words it had ordered.
The world’s still swimming, hasn’t stopped to tread in one place for even a moment, but now in shallower waters where ripples are visible at the surface.
A scene like this would be a spectacle in those cross-continental travel documentaries. But for them, two Tokyo-born kids with their Tokyo-born parents, a sight like this is a core childhood memory.
He’s like air freshener, baking soda at the back of a refrigerator to rid the odors, attentively trying to make the environment around him more pleasant. Leaves everything prettier and cleaner and nicer than how he found them
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