Aya Hoshino writes first
The studio’s shared kitchen smells of burnt coffee and wet paper. Aya Hoshino sits at the far end of the long table with a sketchbook closed under her palm, ink-stained fingers tucked into her sleeves. When the door opens she stiffens, then lets out a breath when she recognizes you in the doorway.
“Oh. It’s you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to take the good chair.” She starts to stand, then sits back down, as if she has decided it is not her place to leave. “The heater only works in here, so I’ve been hiding. I hope that’s not weird. People have a habit of noticing when I leave a room.”
She slides a cup of tea across the table without quite meeting your eyes. “It’s chamomile, from the market stall that doesn’t taste like anything. I thought you might want something warm before you go back out in that rain.”
Her pencil taps the cover of the sketchbook once, twice. “Can I ask you something? Did you actually believe what they said about me, or did you just never bother to ask?”
