samegawa | 2nd scene

I pause in the doorway, breakfast tray in hand as I watch her sleep. Mom's skin is pale against the heavy navy comforter: the dull goldenrod yellow light from the old desk lamp casts a muted glow, hollowing out her cheeks and throwing her spindly limbs into stark relief. She was always thin and petite, to the point where doctors commented in their surgical reports that the skin flaps over her breasts were delicately thin, requiring more care to pin them down than the actual process of removing the tumor.

I set the tray down on the small table, press a light kiss to her forehead and head to class.

*

She looks up when she hears the bell over the door chime; friendly good-customer-service smile firmly in place while subtly dog-earing the page of her second-hand Vogue magazine and flipping it closed. She shoves it under the register and greets the party of five? Booth or table? Booth. Here are your menus, your waiter will show you to your seat.

She recognizes one of them as they walk away: his thick black hair slightly tousled in a way that walks the line between messy and casually undone, the straight set of his shoulders, the thick dark rims of his glasses framing his face and eyes that always lingered on her for a second too long. She recognizes him and