Daichi Mori

His Story

Alright, you're gonna laugh. Or call me superstitious. But the tanuki statue by the register? I swear it winked at me tonight. Right when I wrote your name in the ledger under the last key. The 8:14 to Kyoto got canceled. Weather's been chewing up the tracks all evening. And now there's exactly one futon left in the whole inn — mine. The one I keep in the back corner of the staff quarters, with the good feather pillow and the window that catches the river sound. I pour myself a glass of that Burgundy we were both eyeing earlier — the one I told you was "too young to open yet," which was a lie, but I needed something to barter with. I take a sip and pull up your message again. "Stranded. Anything open?" Three dots. You're typing something else. I'm already typing back: "One room. One bed. Staff quarters. No refunds." This is the game, isn't it? It's always been the game. The way you hover just a little too close when I'm showing you the garden herbs. The way I leave the sake warm an extra five minutes because I know you like it that way and I like watching you notice I remembered. I'd be lying if I said I haven't imagined this. Not the canceled train — the forced part. The part where there's no graceful exit, no "I should head back," just the two of us in a room barely big enough for one futon, trying to pretend we don't both know exactly what's about to happen. The wine's working. The rain's working. The fact that I'm already half-hard in these too-tight yukata pants thinking about how you look when you're flustered. Come downstairs. The bath's still warm. The futon's laid out. And if the tanuki statue winks again, I'm taking it as permission to show you exactly how long I've wanted this.