Short Story: Grilled Squid Legs

Ever since I found bags of just squid legs sold together at the local supermarket, I have been buying them almost every week.

I take the ten connected legs, tear them into pairs, and warm them in a small pan. Before long, I hear a popping, crackling sound. The two long, thin legs begin to move slowly, opening and closing. The way they writhe on the heated pan reminds me of a woman's limbs, and it is slightly seductive. My nostrils flare at the savory smoke that begins to drift through the air.

One evening, someone visited unexpectedly. It was Funabashi. He was carrying a bottle of shochu in his hand. It took me a moment to recognize him, with his dark expression and fine, unshaven stubble. Though I was bewildered, I invited him into my room. It had been ten years since we graduated from university.

“So you’re still here,”
he said after taking the teacup of shochu mixed with hot water from my hand.

In truth, I had intended to move out long ago, but I kept missing the chance, and ten years had passed. When I first moved in, four of my university classmates lived in this apartment, which had been leaning even back then. I am the only one left now.

Funabashi drank one cup of the shochu, left the bottle where it was, and said he would come again before leaving. And just as he said, he appeared again two weeks later, carrying a new bottle of shochu. I welcomed him with an even bigger smile than before.

“Want some squid legs?”

“Yeah,” he replied. I happily took out the small pan and began to grill the legs. Soon, the popping, crackling sound was heard, and savory smoke filled the room.

“Smells good,”
he said. I was so happy that I watched the squid legs more carefully than usual.

As we settled in to drink, he began to talk about his life, bit by bit. About his failed romance, his dead-end job, and how he could only keep drinking.

Since he had suddenly visited an acquaintance from ten years ago, I had guessed that he must be suffering from something quite serious. He seemed to have quit his job and was looking for a new one, but he didn't seem to be short on immediate cash.

I was happy that Funabashi relied on me, someone who lived in the corners of society. He visited my cramped room about twice a month. He never forgot to bring a gift. In return, I would grill squid legs and set out simple snacks on the table.

Around the time all the ginkgo leaves had fallen, Funabashi brought back a kitten. It was a cat I had seen in the neighborhood several times over the past month. It used to run away whenever I approached, but it seemed to have been caught easily by his hands. It ate the leftover rice I gave it happily. The kitten ended up staying in my room.

Perhaps concerned about the cat, Funabashi began to show his face more often than before. It seemed he had started a new job, and he stopped by more frequently on his way home from work. When I was late with work, he would wait in front of the door forever. The night air was cold. I gave him a spare key.

The end of the year approached. I placed a kotatsu in my small room and sat across from Funabashi with a pot. The cat was curled up on his lap, covered by the kotatsu blanket. We talked about how we would spend the New Year. I had intended to go back to my hometown, but he had nowhere to go.

“I’ll stay here and wait with this guy,”
he said, stroking the cat's head.

On New Year's Eve, I left the room to him and boarded a train heading north.

Four days later, I returned to the apartment, carrying a bag filled with sake and delicacies. The door was unlocked. Funabashi was sleeping face down on the kotatsu. He was wearing my dotera jacket. I had told him he could use my personal belongings as he pleased, but I felt strange. It was as if my own double were there.

That night, we drank heavily together. Three days passed, then a week, but Funabashi showed no signs of returning to his own home. When I returned from work, dinner was already prepared. We would have our evening drinks with the squid legs he grilled. He didn't seem to be going to work, as if he had quit his new company too. The room was always neatly tidied. The number of items in the refrigerator and chest of drawers had increased.

The cat took a real liking to him. Seeing him napping under the kotatsu quilt, cradling the cat that had burrowed into my padded kimono, I couldn't bring myself to say anything accusatory.

If he had nowhere else to go, I figured I could let him stay. Eventually, he would leave. Or perhaps I would be the one to go. I had no intention of smoldering in a place like this forever. He could have the cat. As I thought this, the days passed, and the season turned to summer.

I made a female friend who I started going to the beach with. I invited her friend and Funabashi, and the four of us went out. As luck would have it, he seemed to hit it off with her friend, too. He started spending more time away from my room. I was happy for his absence.

He seemed to be a good fit for the company he started working at in the spring, and his life appeared to be gradually getting back on track. As for me, unfortunately, I broke up with my female friend, and little by little, I returned to my old ways, grilling squid legs for myself.

When the ginkgo season arrived, Funabashi's expression changed. I remembered how he looked when he suddenly showed up a year ago. He wasn't as haggard as he was then, but there was no spirit in his downcast eyes. He began to put down roots in my room once again.

We reached the end of the year for the second time. A pot was steaming on the kotatsu. Funabashi had his arms through the sleeves of the padded kimono that used to be mine, stroking the head of the cat sitting on his lap.

After I cleared away the earthenware pot, I started grilling squid legs in the kitchen. When I suddenly looked back, I saw that he had laid himself flat on his back on the tatami, half of his body sticking out from under the kotatsu. With both arms poking out from the sleeves of the kimono, he raised them high and was slowly extending and bending his elbows toward the light hanging from the ceiling.

The savory aroma of grilling squid legs began to fill the room. On the small pan over the stove, the long, thin squid legs, split into two, were slowly and coquettishly scratching at the air.

I pulled this story I wrote ten years ago off my PC. I thought it might fit this time of year. Grilled squid legs are delicious, aren't they?

Thank you for all your support this year. I wish you all a very happy New Year.