She told me to give her a call if I’m ever back in town. My chest tightened as I read those words on the postcard that arrived a month late. Standing in front of the mailbox, the bagels I held under my arm were the only things keeping me warm on this cold morning. I rubbed the card with my thumbs and closed my eyes.
It was a humid summer the last time I was in town, filled with loving strolls around the local neighborhood and plenty of close, warm conversations over beer and half-assed cocktails at night. I had no clue, I had absolutely no game. But she was accepting and let me hang out during those countless nights that seemed to drag on and on until the morning creeped out, bashful of its tremendous radiance. She loved the croissants at this local bakery near Asagaya station. On weekends, we’d meet at the station around noon and eat those croissants. We didn’t talk all that much. She’d take forever eating those croissants. She wasn’t a nibbler, in fact she took huge bites. But her bites were well calculated, and she was skillful at finding the right angle in which she’d leave the least amount of flakes and crumbs that would otherwise sprinkle all over her clothes and our table. She took her time and savored them. In between those big, lovely bites, she’d mention something that happened at work or what she made for dinner the other night. The only input I had was about my comics I’ve been sketching out.