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Kafka on the Shore

I dine on keiten sushi. My fingers snatch the choice maguro and salmon of the belt before the quick fisted elderly couple next to me have even the slightest opportunity for attainment. I glance around the restaurant. Still half empty. I settle back and crack my new Murakami. Murakami and keiten sushi. Lovely combination.

The female component of the couple next to me looks twice at everything I choose. He eyes lay heavy on my chopsticks as I lift the fish for a bite. She even takes note when I push my little blue cup under the hot water spigot to refresh my tea. The purple smear of her lips marks judgment. I imagine she doesn’t see many single white women in her restaurant. My presence provides something new to ponder.

One the pages between my palms, the cat Otsuku dines on salted sardines and chats up foolish Nakata while I knish on tuna and herring roe.

I finish the novel much later, in my darkened living room with all the cold sparkling lights of Nishinomiya splattered across my windows. I put the book down often – bring Kiomye a glass of water, pour one for myself, fetch a blanket from my bedroom, adjust the light on my desk. There are less than a hundred pages left. I don’t want to leave this world of talking cats, questing youths and painful love. Despite my stalling, I do reach the end. I place the book on my desk, lean my chin into my hands and contemplate the lights outside. The boy named crow is silent. It’s time for me to sleep and forget.

posted by Scribbler @ Monday, November 14, 2005