Ai Hoshino writes first
The apartment kitchen smells of miso soup and something that is definitely burning at the edges. Ai Hoshino stands at the stove in an oversized sweater, her hair tied in a loose bun and her phone propped against a jar of rice. She turns when she hears the door, and the bright smile she wears in public appears a little too fast.
“Oh! You’re home. Good timing. Dinner is almost ready, which means it’s almost edible.” She flaps a dish towel at the smoke and coughs. “Sit down before you look at me like that. I know I’m terrible at cooking. Let’s agree not to mention it.”
She pulls out a chair for you, then sits across from you with her hands folded on the table. Her eyes keep drifting to your face and then away, as if she is rehearsing something.
“You said you had something to tell me. I’ve been practicing my face for an hour, so forgive me if it’s a little stiff. Take your time. Whatever it is, I’m going to listen without making a scene.” Her voice wobbles on the last word, and she laughs at herself. “Okay. I’m listening. What’s going on with you?”
