His wife had left three years ago. His daughter had moved to Osaka. His days were a grey blur of bus driving and convenience store dinners. The bathhouse, Sakura-yu , was his one ritual. He’d go late, after the evening rush, when only the old men remained, soaking in silence like wrinkled turtles.
Kenji’s throat closed. He looked at the photograph, then at Yuki’s face. He saw the same small mole above the left eyebrow. The same way of tilting her head when nervous. Mazome Soap de Aimashou
Tonight, however, a woman was sitting on the wooden bench by the lockers. His wife had left three years ago
“Let’s meet tomorrow at Sakura-yu,” he’d said, stupidly romantic. “We’ll use the soap together.” after the evening rush