10 Jan Love Over Rice

It’s 4am in Tokyo. Aside from energy drink fueled students and boisterous after partiers, most of the city is fast asleep. But the Tsukiji fish market roars to life as fishermen bring their plentiful bounty of bluefin tuna for auction. John carefully picks his mark. The massive fish fetch thousands of dollars, and he must choose wisely before investing his restaurant’s hard earned cash into a specimen. He eyes a particularly large fallen beast and makes his move. There is competition, but John prevails. Pleased with his victory, he instructs his transport team to relocate his prize into the frigid confines of the freezer at Kuro, an omakase-only sushi bar at the outskirts of the city. Once there, Chef Ichimura will expertly slice and prepare the fish for the night’s customers. John trusts his chef implicitly, and moves on to the next order of business: breakfast.

It’s now 5am, and the market bustles with renewed fervor. Tourists have gathered in anxious anticipation and the doors have just been opened. John is lucky to earn a seat at his favorite sushi bar, Daiwa, and is greeted by a familiar face behind the smooth wooden countertop.

“The usual?” the chef asks rhetorically in Japanese. John nods, bleary eyed and too tired for words at this hour.

John lazily enjoys the pristine slices of a variety of white fish surgically placed atop the chef’s signature brand of shari (sushi rice), when a woman rouses him from his morning stupor. Her platinum blonde hair stands in stark contrast to the sea of black that typically dominates the city.

She sits next to him, and carefully removes a camera from her neck as she settles in for her meal.

“A tourist no doubt,” John muses to himself, clearly intrigued by her beauty and clear interest in the art of sushi. “Why else would she arrive so early, and choose this vendor?”

She makes no acknowledgement of the restaurateur as she struggles through broken Japanese to place her breakfast order. John seizes his opportunity, and translates in a language that was once strange and foreign, but is now fluent for him.

“Thank you,” she says, relieved. “Clearly my Japanese needs some work.”

“No problem at all, Daiwa is an old friend. You were doing quite fine by the way, just a bit more practice,” encouraged John.

She smiled.

“I’m John, by the way,” he said.

“I’m Sarah,” delicately extending her hand.

John had grown accustomed to the subtle nods of greeting in Japanese culture. As he grasped her hand he was taken aback by its warmth. A warmth that traveled to his core. A warmth that he had not felt in some time.

Their eyes met and suddenly the sushi counter became a distant second to conversation.