Her relaxed demeanor, her unwavering smile—I had mistaken them for the quiet confidence of an intelligent woman.
Alcohol is terrifying.
Love is a scam.
I have no artistic talent whatsoever.
Yet, as I looked at her paintings—meticulously detailed, warm, and full of life—I had felt a deep respect for her.
I had been swept away by that moment.
That impulse had led me here, to this day—where, after just two weeks of knowing her, I had rushed through every formality, met her parents, and gotten married.
Thinking back, I had been obsessed with one thing—beating Akane to marriage.
I was completely out of my mind.
“Oh! I should make some tea,” Otoha suddenly said, standing up before touching her bento.
“I brought my favorite cute teapot set! I made sure to pack it first because I really wanted you to use it, Rentarō-san.”
…She packed a teapot first?
Of all the important things we needed for the move, that was her priority?
And tea is tea—it tastes the same no matter what you drink it from!
Otoha began digging through her boxes, rustling through newspaper wrappings.
“I’ll boil the water then,” I said, sighing.
I was starving.
If I left everything to Otoha, who knew when I’d actually get to eat?
I quickly got up, pulled my kettle from the kitchen supplies box, and put it on the stove.
“This tea is fine, right?”
I had just found a bag of tea leaves in one of my boxes—something I’d received as a funeral return gift. [In Japan, it’s customary to give return gifts at funerals, often tea or towels.]
“Yes! I’ll wash the teapot right away, so wait just a moment.”
At last, Otoha had found her precious teapot set and was standing at the kitchen sink.
“Um… where’s the dish soap?”
“Here,” I said, pulling the bottle from my box and handing it to her.
“Thank you! And… a sponge, a sponge…”
“Here.”
“Wow, thank you, Rentarō-san!”
She looked up at me with eyes full of admiration.
…This is not something to admire me for.
I just want to eat already.
And yet, the tea was nowhere to be seen.
Even after the kettle had boiled and sat there for a while, Otoha was still scrubbing away at the teapot.
Curious, I went to check.
She was meticulously washing inside the spout with the sponge, completely focused.
And she was slow.
Painfully slow.
From her serious expression, it was clear she thought she was working quickly.
But watching her felt like watching a slow-motion video that had somehow been fast-forwarded—an impossible contradiction.
I had no idea what made the difference between us, but one thing was certain:
She was just too slow.
“You washed the cups already, right? I’ll rinse and dry them.”
0 Comments