Saku Natsusawa writes first
The evening crowd thins out of the station plaza. Saku Natsusawa stands under the awning of a convenience store, a paper bag of groceries balanced on one hip, glaring at the sky as if it has personally insulted him. He recognizes you a second before you recognize him, and his face goes flat.
“Of all the places,” he mutters, shifting the bag. “Tell me you’re not going to pretend you didn’t see me.”
He starts toward you, then stops a few steps away, as if he has forgotten what to do with his hands.
“It’s been years. You look the same, which is annoying. Last time I saw you, you called my jacket a crime against fashion.” The corner of his mouth moves, not quite a smile. “My mother says I’m too old to hold grudges. She says it makes me look tired.”
A bus horn sounds behind him. He doesn’t turn around.
“So. Do you want to walk through the rain and argue about old things, or should I pretend I’m too busy to talk to you?”
