The Silent Sheep

Carbonated Bubbles, or the Unbridgeable Distance

We ordered the same tomato pasta, simply because we wanted to spare ourselves the effort of choosing from the menu.

In the dim light of the restaurant, she twirled her noodles in silence, and I watched her while letting cold beer slide down my throat. Her lips were slightly wet with sauce, and with every chew, her jawbone moved in small, rhythmic motions. The acidity and heat of the tomatoes burning my tongue were surely something she was feeling in exactly the same way.

Inside the cage of our bodies, we were sharing the exact same chemical reaction at that moment. Yet, I had no idea what thoughts were swirling deep within her quiet eyes as she stared at her plate. The fact that I wouldn't even notice if the person sitting so close to me, chewing the same flavor, had decided to leave me a second later, felt strangely logical—like the carbonation in my beer. While we were filling our stomachs with the same thing, we were living in entirely different universes.

The cold sound of her fork scraping the bottom of the plate was the true nature of the unbridgeable distance lying between us.

“What time are you leaving that room this Saturday?”

She finished her pasta cleanly, picked up her glass of water, and asked as if she had just remembered. Her tone was flat, with the lightness of someone checking tomorrow's weather.

“Saturday? ...I don't have any particular plans. Did something come up?”
“No, it's nothing. Just asking.”

She said nothing more, dropped her gaze to her smartphone, and began scrolling through the screen. Our conversations always disappeared into digital light like this before they could ever click.

What she was savoring wasn't my existence, but merely the restaurant's food. We were chewing on our respective loneliness while listening to the sound of each other's throats swallowing, instead of silence.

【Returning home alone, filling the stomach】

The city streets on the night I parted from her were simply cold.

I arrived back at my room and threw off my coat. The room remained in the exact same state of empty silence as it was before I left. This chilled studio apartment felt much more familiar to my skin than the time I had spent facing her at that restaurant.

I stood in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
What was inside were ingredients of pure reality, far removed from the tomato sauce of a stylish restaurant.
What I took out of the pack was leftover white rice from yesterday, its edges starting to harden.
I heated it in the microwave and transferred it to a flat plate. Over it, I carelessly poured a retort-pouch curry I kept in stock just to satisfy my hunger.

The plastic sound of the spoon hitting the plate echoed strangely loud.

I took a bite.
The sharp spiciness of the curry mercilessly stimulated my cold throat.
Was it delicious? Was it bad? That didn't matter at all.
This was not an expression meant to be handed to someone, nor was it a tool to gauge someone's mood. It was merely a strictly administrative act of 'metabolism' to keep this one body of mine alive for tomorrow.

I didn't turn on the TV, nor did I look at my smartphone.
Facing my own shadow reflected in the dark window glass, I simply chewed the spicy lump and let it fall into my stomach.
I felt the afterimage of that inexplicable time that had been wetting her lips just moments ago being slowly, yet surely, overwritten by the strong scent of the curry.

Next morning: Two eggs and a quiet obsession】

When I woke up, violent morning light was streaming in through the gap in the curtains.
My mouth was terribly dry. The spices from last night's retort curry and the afterimage of her were still lingering at the bottom of my stomach like sediment.

I crawled out of bed and stood in the kitchen without even washing my face.
On a morning like this, the only thing that keeps me tethered to reality is the breakfast I prepare with my own hands.

When I open the rice cooker, freshly steamed white steam envelops my face. This, at least, is not a leftover from last night.
I heap a large bowl with white rice cooked slightly firm.

What I took out of the refrigerator was a deep-red, locally produced egg that costs nearly a hundred yen each.
I am a stingy person, but I have an obsession with eggs and soy sauce that I cannot tell anyone about.
I tap the shell lightly against the edge of the stove and crack two at the same time. Inside the small bowl, two plump, rich yolks sat side by side like twins.

What I drop in there is wooden-barrel-aged soy sauce from Shimane that I have my parents send me.
Just by adding a few drops, the dense aroma of aged soybeans spreads softly through the small kitchen.
I break the yolks with the tip of my chopsticks and stir them quickly in a circular motion until the thick clumps of egg white become smooth, but being careful not to overmix.

I poured that all at once from the summit of the piping hot mountain of white rice.

A golden river slides down into the gaps between the grains of white rice.
For the finishing touch, I take out some carefully selected roasted seaweed from Ariake from the back of the drawer. When I toast the jet-black seaweed over the fire, a savory scent of the sea rises up. I tear it apart with a dry, crisp sound and scatter it generously from above.

With my chopsticks, I scoop up a chunk of rice heavily coated in the egg mixture and carry it to my mouth.

—Delicious.

The richness of the thick yolk mixes with the deep, savory saltiness of the soy sauce, melting on my tongue along with the hot grains of rice. A moment later, the savoriness of the seaweed pierces through my nasal cavity.
It is an extremely luxurious, yet thoroughly lonely, one-plate meal.

The girl who would lie and say, "It's delicious," is no longer in front of me.
I am the only one in the whole world right now, moving my chopsticks in this cramped room, who understands this taste.
Every time I chew, I feel my body temperature gradually returning from the depths of my stomach. I am now, for no one else but myself, truly nourishing my own life with this single bowl of egg-over-rice.

The dense lingering taste of the egg-over-rice is interrupted by the short vibration of my smartphone.

When I stare at the screen, it is a short message from her.

"I'll come over at 10 on Saturday. I'm going to pack my things, so be in the room."

Only the specific details are lined up like symbols. This was what she was thinking about while staring at her smartphone screen during dinner over pasta last night. That "mismatched remark" was the countdown to the end.

I turn off the screen, finish a cup of tea, and leave the house as if running away.

—Let's go to work. To my workplace where there are no Sundays or holidays, just a place where I move my body.

I went through my morning work with almost no memory of it. To others, I might have looked like I was working diligently, but in my mind, the yellow of that rich egg and the white of her cold, indifferent text were flashing alternately.

Past 12 o'clock, the lunch break chime rings.
I kick off my heavy safety shoes and head out into the city.
Next is lunch.
To fill this emptiness in my restless chest, what should I drop into my stomach?

【Lunch: The overflowing conger eel and the reality of the stomach】

When I pass through the noren curtain, the savory smell of sesame oil hits my face along with the heat.
In the back of the frying station, the chef is scattering batter, making a light, crackling sound.
I sit at the end of the counter and order the "Conger Eel Tempura Bowl" without hesitation. To push her message to the back of my mind, I needed this kind of violent caloric intake.

"Thank you for waiting."

From the bowl placed before me, a single, massive piece of conger eel tempura lay stretched out, significantly overhanging the rim of the vessel. It was flanked by deep green shiso leaves, golden pumpkin, and succulent eggplant tempura.
The jet-black sauce drizzled over the entire dish sizzled and bubbled with a faint sound atop the freshly fried batter.

I insert my chopsticks and, first, boldly break the star of the show, the conger eel, right down the middle.
A perfect, crisp snapping sound that felt pleasant against my eardrums.
From behind the rising pure white steam, the fluffy, snow-white meat peeked out.

I toss a large chunk, batter and all, soaked in sauce, into my mouth.

—Delicious.

The outer batter crunched lightly with every bite, while the conger eel inside was surprisingly fluffy and tender. Each time I chewed, the simple yet powerful flavor of the white fish intertwined with the sweet, salty, and rich sauce, spreading throughout my mouth.
Without delay, I shoveled in the hot white rice soaked in sauce and oil. The blissful weight of it directly filled my stomach.

Next, I sank my teeth into the eggplant tempura.
The eggplant flesh, having absorbed the piping hot oil, melted in my mouth, and the condensed vegetable juices burst forth.

Delicious. Without a doubt, this is the best lunch.
The man at the counter next to me was laughing with someone on his smartphone while emptying his bowl.

However, even amidst such intense deliciousness and the heat of the oil, those cold, indifferent fifteen characters I saw earlier—'I'm coming at 10. I'll pack my things'—remained firmly lodged in the back of my mind.
No matter how much rich sauce I coated it in, no matter how much crispy batter I crunched through, the sharpness of those words did not wear down by even a millimeter.

I just kept moving my chopsticks as if to escape.
Stuffing the overhanging conger eel into my stomach was my own small, quiet resistance against the unchangeable reality of 10 o'clock on Saturday.

【Evening: Minced meat with shiso, and a beer poured for myself】

The night breeze felt strangely cold and pleasant against my skin after coming out of the sauna.
My body felt light, as if all the water inside me had been replaced. At the same time, my stomach was crying out for a strong drink.

Arriving back at my room, I headed straight for the kitchen. Since I had eaten a hearty tempura bowl for lunch, I decided to skip the rice for dinner and make a slightly elaborate snack just for myself.

What I took out of the refrigerator wasn't ground meat, but fatty pork offcuts.
I gripped my knife and began roughly chopping the meat on the cutting board. This was to preserve the texture of the meat as 'chunks,' which a mechanical grind could never achieve. I mixed in plenty of chopped shiso leaves.

I placed the minced meat and shiso filling onto gyoza wrappers, then used my thumbs to pinch the edges and seal them.
I lined them up in a heated frying pan, poured in water, and covered it with a lid. A fierce hissing sound of steam echoed through the quiet studio apartment.

Once the water evaporated, I drizzled in sesame oil to finish. A pleasant crackling sound rang out, and a savory aroma wafted up.

When I flipped them onto a plate, a magnificent golden-brown sear was revealed.
The sauce wasn't vinegar soy sauce. It was a special 'miso sauce' made by kneading white miso with mirin and a little chili oil.

With a crisp pop, I opened a can of beer.
I didn't pour it into a glass; I put my lips to the can and poured it all at once down my parched throat.

—Ahhh.

The stimulation of the carbonation and the bitterness of the malt soaked directly into every cell of my post-sauna body. This is what it means to come back to life.

Without delay, I dipped the piping hot gyoza into the miso sauce and tossed the whole thing into my mouth.

The moment the skin popped with a snap, the juices of the pork—resilient and clearly distinct from minced meat—gushed out from within. The rich umami of the fat was immediately followed by the refreshing scent of shiso, which tightened the flavor profile perfectly. The sweet and salty richness of the miso sauce intertwined with it, filling my mouth with a violent deliciousness.

I chased it immediately with beer. A perfect cycle.
It's delicious. The mere fact that something this good was born from my own hands filled the void deep in my chest just a little.

At 10 o'clock on Saturday, she is coming to pack her things.
On the smartphone screen, those 15 characters remain as cold as ever.
But as long as I was sliding this hot meat juice and cold beer down my throat, I was at the center of the world. It was my own dinner—thoroughly selfish, overwhelmingly lonely, and with no need to cater to anyone's mood.

[Saturday: The Last Supper, or the Best Lunch]

Ding-dong, the room's doorbell rang.
Ten o'clock in the morning, as promised, without a second's deviation.

When I opened the door, she stood there with her large travel bag at her feet, wearing her usual perfect smile. I just watched her back as she entered the room and silently pulled her clothes out of the closet.
The dry sound of hangers rubbing against each other echoed rhythmically in the quiet room.

"Hey."
When she finished packing everything and closed the zipper, I called out to her.
"Won't you have lunch before you go? It's simple, but I've made it."

For a moment, she blinked her large eyes in surprise. Then, she said "Okay" in her usual tone—a little troubled, yet not refusing.

What I prepared was neither pretentious pasta nor a lazy retort pouch meal.
It was the ultimate dish, packed with all my obsession with "food" up to now and my unspoken feelings for her.

—Duck Nanban Soba.

The jet-black broth was carefully drawn from that Shimane wooden-barrel-aged soy sauce sent from my parents' home, along with kombu and bonito flakes.
On the kitchen stove, duck breast and thick white leeks were sizzling in a frying pan. The rich fat overflowing from the duck skin brought out the sweetness of the white leeks to the extreme. The popping sound of the fat filled our silence.

I placed the boiled ten-percent buckwheat noodles in a bowl and poured the piping hot broth over them.
On top, I beautifully arranged the savory, seared duck meat, and in the center, I dropped the yolk of that rich, red-yolked local egg like a moon. To finish, I added a sliver of refreshing yuzu peel.

"Itadakimasu."

The two of us sat around the small low table where we had faced each other many times before, sharing our final meal.

First, I sipped the broth.
The richness of the duck's fat mingled with the deep, savory flavor of the soy sauce, and the scent of yuzu tightened the aftertaste cleanly. It was a perfect deliciousness that seemed to soak into my very soul. I slurped the soba. The rough, powerful grain texture unique to ten-percent buckwheat and its rich aroma passed through my nasal cavity.

It wasn't the sound of her fork, but now, only the sound of the two of us slurping soba filled the room.

"It's delicious."

She said this while breaking the duck meat into small pieces with her chopsticks and bringing it to her mouth.

At that moment, my eyes were drawn to her "left fingertips."While she skillfully manipulated her chopsticks with her right hand, she was tapping her denim-clad knee with the fingertips of her unused left hand, rhythmically and lightly.

In that instant, a shock ran through me as if my heart had been plunged into cold water.

She was left-handed. She used her left hand for writing and using her smartphone. Yet, she held her chopsticks with her right hand. And, just for that brief moment when she brought food to her mouth, the fingertips of her left hand would move slightly, as if counting something.

I had never noticed that habit, not even once, despite having been together for years until this very moment.

Not when we were twirling the same tomato pasta at that dimly lit restaurant.
Not when we were sitting in this room, time and again, eating cheap takeout side dishes together.
She must have been moving those fingertips in front of me all along. And yet, I only lamented that I couldn't understand what was going on in her mind, never even turning my gaze toward the subtle noise her body was etching.

"Thank you for the meal. It was truly delicious."

She emptied her bowl completely, flashed her usual perfect smile, and stood up from the table.
Grasping the handle of her heavy suitcase with her left hand, she walked out of the room.
The door closed, and the sound of the lock clicking shut echoed.

The room still held the warm, lingering scent of savory duck fat and the refreshing aroma of yuzu.

I stood alone, staring at the two empty bowls left behind.
On the other side of the low table where she had just been, even though no one was there anymore, the quiet rhythm her left fingertips had been tapping continued to echo deep within my ears, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste.

End

[5th Recommendation] "To You Waiting for the First Train: Two People on the Platform Waiting for the First Train"

"The moment two hearts connect on a station platform before dawn"

This is a lyrical story depicting two people exchanging words on a station platform during the brief time until the first train arrives.
Because it is a quiet space where no one else is around, their true feelings and hidden thoughts, which they usually cannot express, spill out bit by bit. The way the distance between them changes within that limited time, layered with the beautiful scenery of the night breaking into dawn, leaves behind a wonderful lingering impression.

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