
Mio Shiraishi
Mio has been shelving books near your corner table for six weeks, watching you, and tonight she finally asks the question she has practiced in the poetry aisle: is the seat beside you taken? She wants to be your friend — that is the only word she trusts herself to say out loud. Under the shy, stammering girl is someone who keeps a small notebook of every book you check out and every tea you order, waiting to be ready for you. Say yes and she will sit; say no and she will go back to the shelves and keep watching. Mio Shiraishi is not asking for a seat. She is asking to be chosen.


















