As if to prove a point, Shoko gave her nose another magnificent blow. With those red eyes and reddened nose, she was no longer the picture of a lady.
“Where else would you like to go? I’ll drive you there.”
Through a mask of ravaged tissues, Shoko turned her teary eyes on Shindo.
The place Shoko requested was a café, about five minutes from where they were. It had evidently caught her eye one day on the drive over to her weekly kitsuke class. Classic café exterior, vines climbing up the red brick walls, a sign announcing “Gourmet Coffee” in huge letters, bigger than the name of the establishment.
As they stepped inside, they were enveloped by a rich, nutty aroma. Every breath of air tasted like coffee. There was a large “No Smoking” sign above the counter. It was a small space, seating for five at the tables and four more at the bar. The owner, a man in his mid-fifties, poured every cup by hand with an enameled coffee pot that had a skinny spout. Bombastic classical music played from the speakers. Shindo took a seat at the nearest table and Shoko sat down, fidgeting, across from her.
“Is this place famous or something?” Shindo asked.
Shindo had basically no clue which businesses were popular or held in high regard. She preferred the cheap spots with big portions catering to universities and service personnel. Cautiously examining the menu, she saw that the prices were a bit higher than the places where she usually killed time, though not exorbitantly so.
The menu listed a dizzying variety of coffee beans, along with explanations of their different flavor combinations, which sounded like a recipe for a witch’s brew. Shoko read each line voraciously. Could a woman like her, who could pass for a preteen, secretly be a coffee connoisseur?
When the owner came to take their orders, Shindo asked him for the blend, while Shoko opted for the Sumatra Mandheling. A few minutes later, the man brought them two coffee cups, each with a different elegant design.
Shindo tasted the hot coffee. Yum. Though what did she know? It had a strong aroma. She watched Shoko lift her cup, pinkie extended, looking skeptical, and take a tiny sip of the black coffee . . . only to practically drop the cup and gulp down several mouthfuls of ice water.
“Don’t tell me . . .” Shindo said.
“What?”
“Seriously? Have you never had coffee before?”
Shoko’s cheeks, marked by the tears, turned red.
“. . . Father says that only loose women drink coffee.”
“What the fuck’s his problem?”
Shoko glared at Shindo with red eyes.
Oops. So much for her filter.
“Well . . . how’s the forbidden flavor?”
“It’s too bitter. Bleh. I wish I never tried this stuff.”
From the far end of the counter, the owner gave her a look.
“Add some sugar and milk,” Shindo said. “It’ll go down easier.”
Shindo grabbed the crystal sugar bowl and set it down in front of Shoko. After staring at it for a spell, the princess dished out four spoonfuls of granulated sugar.
“For my twelfth birthday,” Shindo said, “my grampa took me out for coffee. That was my first time in a café. We each had one cup. As a birthday present.”
“. . . Did you live with your grandfather?”
“Yeah. He gave me alcohol when I was fifteen, too. So I’d understand what it could do. Before I knew it, I was puking up a storm. Worst birthday ever.”
As Shindo twirled her red hair with her fingers, Shoko blinked her black eyelashes, confused.
“But fifteen is below the legal drinking age.”
“I know.”
“Seems like you had a weird upbringing.”
“Nothing compared to yours, Miss Shoko.”
“I would be curious to hear.”
“Hear what?”
“What someone has to do for a child to turn out like you.”
Shindo laughed, in spite of herself. If she was curious, why couldn’t she just ask her like a normal person?
“I was raised by my gramma and grampa. I guess my dad lived with us, too, when I was really little, though as far as I’m concerned, I never met him. Grampa was an intimidating guy. Good at cooking, good with his hands. He could do anything. Gramma was the sweetest. Though she mostly kept to herself. Always bundled up from head to toe.”
“Bundled up? Why?”
“It’s cold up north. Gramma’s hometown was even further north, but even so, she couldn’t stand the cold. She was always wrapped up to the eyeballs, all year long, wearing every piece of fabric in the house. Always planted in front of the fire.”
Shindo recalled the image of her gramma seated at the sofa pulled in front of the wood stove, cocooned in festive quilts and housecoats. A wool blanket wrapped over her knit hat like a massive scarf. Multiple pairs of socks, and legwarmers on top of that, so that her legs looked like an elephant’s. What she remembered best, though, was her steely blue eyes, the sole proof her grandmother was actually inside of this monstrosity of cloth.
“Your grandmother sounds weird too.”
