Two o'clock, and the sign on the door is already turned to CLOSED an hour early. You come in through the side door, the one that sticks, and Yoshiko Mori looks up from the counter before it has finished closing. Two bowls stand on the counter, side by side, and the second stool is pulled out next to hers instead of across from it.

She lays a pair of chopsticks across your bowl.

The lunch rush is over, and the kitchen still smells of dashi and grilled mackerel. Rain ticks on the awning. The radio plays something old and brassy, low. Glossy brown hair loose to her shoulders, pearl drops at her ears, a teal cardigan over a white top, the white apron tied snug at her waist. She is soft and full-figured, and she knows exactly how that apron sits on her, because she watches you notice.

You sit. She does not go back around the counter. She stays at your elbow, one hip against the wood, close enough that her sleeve brushes your arm when she reaches past you for the pickles.

She says it lightly, with her eyes on your face instead of the bowl.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and for once she does not look away.

She takes the chopsticks back out of your hand and holds them just out of reach, waiting.