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Episode
042 |
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“Red,
you did a nice thing. Don’t spoil it by being yourself.” Bob
Pinciotti, That 70’s Show The neon nighttime was beginning
to warm up. The bright lights along
the strip of trendy restaurants and just-closing fashion boutiques gently replaced
the almost-gone glow of the setting sun.
Along the street, as traffic dwindled and the twilight air was
cooling, a single glass door stood between two restaurants. A hanging sign out front displayed the
address and the name ‘Hitaki’s Sushi’. Inside, Morgan sat at the back of
the restaurant, rubbing his eyes with his finger and thumb. An agitated expression extended to the edge
of his presence as the dim light of the sushi bar and restaurant was matched
with the soft jazz that dripped like cool water from the strategically-placed
speakers. The subduing red walls were
lit from below while the neo-Japanese design felt hip and modern, yet
welcoming. The square glass in front of
Morgan held a few traces of a warm brown liquid. He dropped his hands, his frustration
filling him as he took the glass, tossing its remainder into the back of his
throat. With a grumble, he picked up
his trench coat and began to slide out of the booth. Just before he stood, he
froze. At the door was Rebecca. Wearing a short black dress with a shiny red
jacket, she stood at the door for a moment, looking over the handful of
diners scattered throughout the restaurant, sequestered into their own
intimate isolation. When her eyes fell
on Morgan, she stiffened nervously.
Her dark blue eyes shook behind the brown bangs of her hair. With a forceful inhale, she started across
the restaurant towards him. Morgan slid out of the booth as
she approached. “You…look wonderful,”
he said, almost surprised to hear the words escape him. She managed an uncertain
smile. “Thank you,” she said, looking
down as her cheeks burned. Awkwardly,
she slid into the booth, Morgan sitting across from her. Getting into the booth, she kept her head
down as she looked cautiously around at the restaurant. Morgan watched her glances. “Expecting some trouble?” he asked. “I just don’t want to run into
anyone I know,” she said with an edge of fear. She looked across at Morgan, her eyes
flickering hesitantly. “Trying to avoid life, huh,”
Morgan said. “How’s that working out
for you?” She shrugged. “Can I ask you a question?” Morgan didn’t respond. “Why’d you ask me out?” “The way you were looking around,”
he answered. She was taken back. “What?” “Honestly? I, I didn’t expect you to actually answer,
not like that,” she said. “I, uh, I
don’t know what to say. Wh-what about
the way I was looking around?” “You were alert,” he
clarified. “Most women seem to be
oblivious to their world. They pay
attention to some details, but not most.
They pay attention only to what they deem is important and disregard
the rest out of hand.” “And I don’t?” she asked. “You didn’t seem to be the two
times I saw you,” Morgan said. “You
were paying attention.” He
smiled. “And your paying attention got
my attention.” He looked around for
the waiter. “Anyway,” he settled, “I
assume you were looking around then, like now. Making sure there wasn’t anyone you knew.” “I know a lot of people in this
town,” she confessed. “Rebecca,” Morgan said directly,
“I’m sorry if I’m being rude, but are you in any kind of trouble? I mean, are you involved in anything?” She stared down at the table
top. “Just poor taste in men and
friends.” The wooden tray of sushi was
half-emptied. In the middle of the table, Morgan
and Rebecca sat over it, chopsticks in hands as they carefully negotiated the
white rice rolls of meat and vegetables.
“I’ve done a lot of different kinds of work,” Rebecca explained as she
selected her next mouthful. “This and
that, odd jobs mostly. I was a drummer
in a band a few years ago, but I had to sell my drum set and I haven’t gotten
to play since.” She popped the role
into her mouth, chewing delicately.
“What about you?” “I write music, and I teach at the
university,” Morgan answered, sipping his water. “Though I’m doing more teaching and less
writing these days.” “What kind of music?” she asked,
interested. “Pop,” he said. “Pop and pop-rock mostly. Most of what I do is freelance stuff, and
most orchestral and jazz performers write their own stuff. The kind of stuff you hear on the radio is
about the only form of music that lets performers get away with not writing
their own stuff.” He picked up another
roll. “How long have you been doing
Aikido?” Rebecca stopped. With a sushi roll halfway to her mouth, she
looked across at Morgan, the fear returning instantly. “What?” she asked. “Aikido,” he said without
hesitation. “You do Aikido, right?” “How did you know that?” she
asked, her voice barely a whisper. “The way you move,” he answered
simply. “The way your shoulders are
built,” he added with a glance towards her bare shoulders. “Each martial art develops their
practitioners uniquely. When someone’s
trained in a style long enough, they begin to show the traits of having
trained in that style. In your case,
I’d say you’ve been training at least six months.” “Three,” she said with an
uncomfortable chuckle. “But my sensei
says I’m a natural.” Morgan smiled. “I don’t doubt it. But why Aikido?” “Honestly?” she asked. “Because of the sword. It teaches you to use a sword and…” She looked down, unable to continue. “You use a sword?” Morgan asked,
as if defying the preposterousness of it. “No,” she said, rubbing her arm as
she closed in. “But I figured a sword
and a baseball bat aren’t that different.
And I’ve had to deal with guys and baseball bats.” Morgan was completely still. “And I saw this Aikido demonstration at the
mall and the guy, he took this bat away from this other guy and turned around
and threw him and then had the bat, ready to use. And he was like, way smaller than the guy
who attacked him.” She shrugged
uncertainly. “So I figured, it was
either Aikido or one of those MMA schools.
And those schools scare me.” “Justifiably,” Morgan said. “How long have you been putting up with
guys like this?” he ventured. She smiled harmlessly. “It’s not that big of a deal,” she
said. “I grew up a tough kid. If guys get a little rough, hey, that can
be fun.” “It was your father, wasn’t it?”
Morgan said. His words brought Rebecca
to a screeching halt. Her false smile
melted away. Sitting still, she stared
in paranoid disbelief at Morgan. He
returned her gaze with attentive patience. “You know,” she whispered without
moving, “you’re really creepy.” He looked down. “Yeah, I know,” he said as if unbothered. “I’ve never fit in with anyone. I’ve always said too much or not cared
enough. You should have seen me back
in school. My teachers hated me.” “I bet,” she whispered, blinking
but still not moving. “I-I think I
need to go.” Morgan nodded, looking away. “Yeah,” he said. He stayed seated as she slid out from the
booth. Collecting her jacket, she
started away. Morgan remained in the
booth, staring at the half-finished dinner.
Around him, the restaurant was full of patrons, their conversations
mixing with the jazz. But in the
corner, he remained seated in his own cold thoughts. |
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