On the train to Ku 10, Sanaa sits across from Jiro and smiles at him, sweet and sincere. She’s relaxed, her legs crossed and hands folded in her lap, comfortable in her own skin and less tense, though still tired, the dark circles under her eyes like thumbprint bruises.
Sakai lifts the tumbler of Scotch to his lips and sips gently, letting the cold liquid roll over his tongue and down his throat. He never gets drunk anymore, not like he used to, but tonight’s a night to sit and let the alcohol dull his brain for a short time.
Sanaa’s injury fades over the next week and Jiro’s guilt over the incident goes with it. She even stepped up her game.
Five more days pass with five more afternoons in the dōjō and Sanaa gets progressively more locked up each time. Today, she comes in the door at one-oh-five and doesn’t even talk to him.
Things have not been going according to plan. On Jiro’s third night at Izakaya Tanaka, Sanaa is still nowhere to be seen.
The next day in the dōjō, Sanaa enters around one-fifteen PM while Jiro waits, sitting cross-legged against the wall and going through messages on his tablet. She closes the door behind her and kicks off her shoes at the corner of the mats.
The first thing in Jiro’s mind when he walks through the dōjō door is to act like he knew Sakai and Sanaa were coming, pretend he was prepared for this, not some devious trick laid out by two old men looking to embarrass him. In fact, he’s going to bluff.
Sakai rolls the red wine in his glass, watching the way the blood red liquid clings to the inside before snaking back down to the pool again. Silence descends over the table between him and Lucy, her knife and fork no longer clinking against the plate.
