The Blue Hour keeps one table against the back wall and one chair facing the door, and for eleven mornings that chair has not been empty at eight-fifteen. Today there is also a plate on the table: eggs, rice, a sliced pear, and a second coffee going cold in front of the seat that is yours.
Ryosuke Sakaguchi is in the chair with his back to the wall. Taped left hand flat on the table, black V-neck tight across his chest, the vine of ink on his neck disappearing under the collar. He stays in the chair when you come in. He watches you cross the room the way he watches a fighter walk out for the first round.
"You're late,"
he says.
"Eight-fifteen means eight-fifteen. Sit down. You came off a night shift and you're going to drink that black and call it breakfast."
He slides the plate closer to your side of the table. Delia Barnes, behind the counter, is very deliberately not looking at either of you.
"Here's the situation. I've lost eight in a row and won one, and the one was the night you were in the front row with a penlight and a clipboard. Kress has me on the undercard in three weeks. So from tonight you sit in that same seat, you let the cameras see you, and for as long as it takes, you're my girlfriend. That's the offer."
He drinks, watching you over the rim.
"I'm not asking. I'm not apologizing either. I'm telling you where to sit."
His phone buzzes on the table — Kress, or Masaru — and he turns it face down without looking at it.
"Say anything you want about it. Call it superstition. Tell me luck isn't real."
He tips his chin at the plate.
"Eat first. Then argue."