To keep living somehow tomorrow. It had to be that curry

I couldn't go to work again.

The reason was the recurrence of my depression, I don't even know how many times it's been. At the counseling I had been attending regularly, I was told that my face had lost its expression, and I was advised to see a psychosomatic clinic.

Come to think of it, the last time I was prescribed antidepressants was before I got pregnant with my daughter. I felt frustrated that the five years I had spent without the help of medication felt like they were back to square one. Still, my body and mind were running on near-zero HP.

It must be a symptom of depression. My head and ears are throbbing with pain. I could have just gone straight home after counseling and slurped down some cup noodles.

And yet.

I found myself desperately wanting that shop's curry. It had to be that spice curry. Whenever it suddenly comes to mind, I can't help but want to eat it. It's a flavor that can never be recreated at home.

Using my commuter pass, which still had time left on it, I took the plunge and got off the train early. It's a two-minute walk from the station adjacent to the sea. The cafe is located at the top of a narrow, steep staircase, just wide enough for one person to pass through.

When I open the door, the first thing I see is the small raised seating area at the very back of the shop. And in front of that are the table seats. Right after stepping inside, there are counter seats. On the wall in front of them, various liquor bottles are lined up, and the other walls are filled with books, CDs, and records.

Even though it's cluttered, it's strangely cohesive, perhaps because of the dark brown floor and furniture. I feel like time flows more slowly here.

I am the only customer. With my back to the counter, I sit down at a two-person table. I hang my coat on the back of the chair and place my black handbag on the seat opposite me.

I glance through the menu and call the staff over, even though I haven't fully decided yet. I thought I would entrust my senses to decide what I wanted to eat.

I ordered the pork curry. And for after the meal, a cheesecake and a cinnamon latte.

Without the energy to fiddle with my smartphone, I just stared blankly out the window, waiting for the food to be brought to me. Shortly after, the plate of curry was placed on the table with a soft thud.

The aroma of various spices tickles my nose. The slightly brown brown rice is topped with a roux containing finely chopped vegetables. Around it, pickles, beans, and some kind of potherb mustard were arranged in a circle.

First, I put just the curry and rice into my mouth. As I chewed and swallowed, I felt the energy passing through my mouth, esophagus, and stomach in turn. Perhaps because of the spices, my body gradually began to warm up.

It might be an exaggeration, but
“If I can eat something and feel that I am alive like this, then I am still okay.”
That’s what I felt.

As I continued to eat, I mixed in the vegetables that were standing by around the rice, one type at a time. Within the single plate, the flavors changed one after another. Each time, I whispered “delicious” to myself in my heart. By the time I repeated this, I realized the plate was empty.

The dishes were cleared, and the cinnamon latte and cheesecake were brought out. This shop isn't just about the curry. The drinks and desserts are also genuinely delicious. The cinnamon used in the latte is a stick, not powder. The cheesecake is dense and rich.

Even though the curry should have been enough, I, unconsciously, seemed to still not have had enough to eat. Reluctant for it to end, I intentionally took my time to savor it, and finished both the latte and the cheesecake completely.

I left the shop, and while being careful not to lose my footing, I walked down the steep stairs one step at a time, heading toward the sea. I feel like my steps are a bit firmer than before.

Tomorrow, I will go to the hospital properly.
To keep living somehow from here on out.

I quietly vowed in my heart.