Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and the Care of Natto

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and the Care of Natto
It was night.
On the table, a small plate.
Brown beans.
White threads.
The man was looking at them.
With a very serious expression.
"...Poor things."
"What is?"
"These beans."
"They are natto."
"That is why."
He nodded.
"They are disliked for their smell. They are avoided for their threads."
A beat.
"But inside, they are not actually that bad."
He looked out the window.
"They remind me a little of an acquaintance."
I did not ask who he meant.
He picked up his chopsticks.
The threads stretched.
Long.
Even longer.
"...Good."
"What is?"
"They seem to be broken, yet they are not."
One bean.
Silence.
Another bean.
Silence again.
Before long, he laughed quietly.
"I have it."
"What is it?"
"These beans need a name."
He thought for a while.
He thought quite hard.
"...Natto."
"That is just what they are."
"It is a good name."
He seemed satisfied.
"Sir."
"Yes?"
"You have to eat them all."
He looked a little troubled.
"Does one have to eat what one has cared for?"
"They are natto, after all."
A long silence.
"You,"
he said,
"you must be responsible for what you have drawn out."
"...Sir."
"Yes?"
"Did you just say that to the natto?"
"Yes."
He nodded.
"Both I and the natto are a little surprised."
One by one, slowly, he began to eat.
The plate became empty.
All that remained was a single white thread.
He wound it around his fingertip.
"It is strange."
"What is?"
"Even though it was only one plate."
He looked at the thread.
"I am a little sad to part with it."
That night, stars were out beyond the window.
The aviator,
for the natto he had cared for just once,
had developed,
if only a little, an attachment.