I have been here two days and the apartment already feels empty. There is little in it that reminds me of home and those that do cause an ache somewhere deep in my chest. Even now, as I wander the street, surrounded by strangers and their accents, alone and lost, I do not want to go home. Its not home, I keep telling myself, but its meant to be for the rest of the year.

The people here are different. I'm bustled aside by a hurried customer rushing out of a store, clenching their bags tight in one hand while talking into the phone in their other. They don't notice my look. I might as well not exist. This should make me feel pleased, but it doesn't. I want to scream at them, demand that they apologise, but who am I to? This isn't my world here.

It's been such a long time that I have came to a city. I hadn't expected this to be as busy as it is, as filled with people as it seems to be. Of them, there seems so many. There are no trees here, nothing like home. I can't smell them in the wind or hear their rustle outside my window. It feels alien, walking down this path, with my hands empty. I smooth one across the rich cotton of my blouse, just to feel the texture with my skin, as if it could quench an ache that I'm not aware of.

I think I'm home-sick already and this simply won't do.

There's cafe's and restaurants. There's too many to choose from and there is no one here to give me a good recommendation. I judge by the decor of the places I pass, checking whether or not its something that would be clean, with good service and equally good products. I suspect that anything would be better than the sludge I drank yesterday. It seemed nothing more than ash and sugar mixed into unfiltered water and poured into a chemical throw-away cup. Perhaps I'll go and sit down. Order something from a mug.

He has black hair and a suit jacket that is two years out dated. I may be from a rural area of a large country, but I appreciate a good cut of clothes and keep up with the style. There is nothing like a traveling holiday. Italy, Paris, New York, one doesn't go there and not know how to dress appropriately. I'm waiting for him to open the door and he's standing there looking at me. I'm not sure what he see's, nor do I particularly care. He smiles. I'm unimpressed. He hasn't reached for the door and I become too impatient to wait any further. I look the fool standing before a cafe. Men here don't understand manners, not even those that play pretend dress ups. Pushing the door open myself, I enter and let the door swing back towards where he's stepped in behind me. I make a point to ignore his presence and locate a table.

It's been wiped down and for that I'm grateful. There's something that speaks volumes about dirty cafe's. I'm glad this one doesn't seem one of them. My choices here, so far, have been poor. I expect for that to improve with time and knowledge. Before I sit and take up the menu, my jacket is unbuttoned, slipped off and folded neatly across the back of a spare chair. Crossing one leg over the other, I can sit comfortably and let my gaze drift over the options. Keeping an ear for the orders others are making, I've judged the most popular choice. Whether that is because this cafe has regulars and its the best brew or everyone here has the same bland taste buds I can't be quite sure. But I will soon find out.

The waitress has a hard time with my accent. She shouldn't. I speak fine English and have for some time. One has to wonder whether this girl has ever set foot outside of her own hometown. I try and be patient with her. But there's something to be said about women that are bred from Kings and Queens. I'm aware that my presence can make others uncomfortable and intimidated. I can help it no more than could a child born with black hair in a family of blonds. I concentrate on the softer English pronunciation, raise my eyebrows and try for a small smile. Its convincing enough to make her shoulders relax, and with a smile, that I know is a customary politeness, she walks away to place the order.

I sit with my back straight and hands resting in my lap, rather than on the table, and wait.  

--Last edited by Mila on 2008-11-13 08:07:02 --

 I spot her entering and the ungracious lout that did not open the door for her. I had hoped he would open it, but like most things here I am disappointed. I listen to her words, a strange accent on her lips, but I have never heard it before. There are a lot of places I have not been.

I nod toward the waitress asking for another refill, the coffee having been finished fifteen minutes ago. I had been getting ready to leave, when she had caught my eye. She stands out, though I have no idea why, perhaps its her hair or eyes or her bearing there is something noble about her. She reminds me of some of the older families in Kamakura, more in mannerism then anything else.

I am dressed in a fitted gray suit and jacket with my glasses on and a copy of the Atlanta Times in front of me with the business section opened. I always seem small here, though in Japan I was average. I think the Americans all gorge themselves at night when no one is watching. I spot the waitress approaching with the refill, while I try and catch the eye of the woman seated at the table. I would not like to appear rude, so I simply nod with a smile, as she sets the steaming cup of coffee down.

With dark eyes the colour of bitter chocolate, deep and unforgiving, I'm looking around the cafe. Its an unhurried glance around at the people sitting, soaking in their mannerisms and what they have to say in that overly loud American way. I don't need to eavesdrop in order to make out a conversation, I could barely hold my own should I have company, the noise here is more than it needs to be. But I shouldn't complain.

I see him watching me. I do not glance beyond him, shift my gaze and take it elsewhere, but I meet his look. My own is steady. I hold his gaze without a challenge or invitation. With a flicking downward glance I take in the way his mouth moves and note how easy his smile comes to his features. Sometimes I wish I could smile like that, but all I can do is incline my head in his direction, its a slight movement, reserved, but at least it is honest. Its enough to acknowledge his politeness and the social warmth he sends my way.

When the waitress arrives with the order is when I look away. Raising my chin, I take in the way she leans into my table, far too close, unaware that she is sloppy with her work. She would be crucified at a better restaurant. But this is harsh and perhaps its unfounded, as this is just a small cafe. This is just America. Since when do they have standards? I'm learning these things, quickly.

"Thank you." But before she can go, I reach out with that accent again, it calls her back, makes demands in the way it touches her subconscious. "May I have a spoon?" I don't like this stick they give to me on the side of the saucer. I don't want to use it to stir the coffee. Spoons are made for this, not pieces of treated wood or plastic tabs. I want a spoon, a proper one. Nor do I care with the look she gives me. I hold her stare and I wait, without word for her to do as I have asked. I have been polite about it, what is it that she could complain about. There must be plenty of spoons behind the counter.

"Thank you." I say again, softening the sound of the Russian again. Its a harsh language, some say, but I think they are imbeciles. Russian is perfectly beautiful, but no one speaks it here.

When she turns to leave, my mouth is already pursed into a brief line. I'm sure I've made a mistake with this choice, this coffee, this cafe, but am not yet ready to admit defeat on this town. I've yet to pick up the cup, leaving it where it is. Instead I try to grope for reasons to improve my mood.

Raising my gaze from the table, I'm looking through dark lashes towards the man again, seconds before I am staring at him again; watching from the distance. Details are what I'm looking for. Gauging his mood. Perhaps what he is doing looking at me. Or why.

I'm taking him in as he had been taking in my hair, the way it was bound up to the back of the scalp, pinned carefully and methodically earlier before the bathroom mirror. It's neat. I like to dress like that. Its important to conduct oneself properly in the eyes of others. My blouse is white, crisp and ironed. There's a small frill that runs along the buttons and the collar has been folded at precise points. It's pretty, feminine and modern enough to be stylish. Beneath the table my skirt reaches below my knee. The details of the buttons on the side are hidden from how I'm seated. The fabric is delightful, black. Expensive, as such garments so often are. Ankle boots are the sort that all women love. I like to shop. The heel isn't too big, practical for walking and pleasant enough to frame the ankle, the foot. Leather, of course, its details are lost on anyone but me. No one ever gets close enough to see such finery.

I'm not sure that gray looks good on his skin. Perhaps if it was a little darker than it is, or another shade. But he looks sharp and that has a lot to do with how comfortable he appears. I note he's reading the paper. I can't tell which one it is. I don't care. They are all the same. Every day is becomes a little worse every time the sun falls. There will be nothing new in it that I don't already know. Today I don't care.

Today, I may just want to watch a man that is watching me.

 Upon closer examination the suit does not suit his form, he appears lean and quite fit from what you can see. He has a very neat cut to his hair and he is certainly not reading the paper. He seems to also be passing the time watching everyone around him as if waiting for something, but whatever it is does not appear to be happening to soon given his demeanor. He leans back sipping the brew she had offered and you can see the point of his attention then. A small group of young men that look as if they could start some trouble. It strikes you as odd, especially given his attire.

I catch her eye again, wondering why she seems to notice him, most ignore him, part of the window dressing, nothing further. He works diligently at his facade, it is who he has become. He has many, it is his religion and culture. To blend in and not be noticed is his mantra, but this striking woman continues to draw his attention. She seems to pull on him to speak with her, why he wonders. Certainly the Kami are drawing him close, perhaps their fates entwined. They are devious and clever, seeing far into the future and deep into the past, recalling all in a breath's time. He can not resist their pull, he has tried before and it lead only to ruin.

He stands swiftly, more graceful then you would expect, before catching your eye and approaching slowly. As he nears the table he removes his glasses, placing them in his coat pocket. He nods in respect, "Good day to you, my name is Nakazawi Toshi and was wondering if you would like some company?" not wanting to appear rude or aggressive in his mannerisms, he is controlled and precise. He wears a pleasant smile upon his face as if he had not a care in the world, her company his only thought at the moment.

Grace in a man is something to be appreciated. Often not seen, at least by many, but the few of us that have, can appreciate it. There is something potentially deadly about it when combined with the physical strength and prowess a male can possess. That is if they were like him. Not the man before her now, but another that had been and wasn't any longer. But I mustn't think of that now.

I've watched him approach my table, taken in the movements of his legs, his arms, the smooth roll of his gait. Now, lifting a chin and sitting so that my back is firmly against the chair behind me, I'm looking into his features. A crease forms between the brows, its both curious and a little perturbed. I had not expected his approach, or to offer his company. Everyone here seems to be happy in their own little world, encased in their bubble of self servitude. Before I know it, I've lifted a hand and gestured to the seat across from me,

"Please. You are welcome to sit." I've accepted his offer and taken it one further by speaking of polite delight at having such company. Of course, this could be a mistake. But it is better than stirring this coffee and sitting solo. He has to be the first to have approached so boldly. Or at least the first to approach bold and without some crass attitude on his mouth.

 I nod in acceptance as I set my coffee and newspaper down. I smooth my suit in a manner that might suggest he only wears it occasionally and it is a bit uncomfortable. I sit down slowly looking at her eyes, something there must be what has captured my attention. I can not explain it, it has me puzzled though.

"You have the most marvelous eyes, I don't mean to be rude, but they are quite striking. It reminds me of home, though I assume you are not from Japan," with a slight laugh knowing full well she is certainly not Japanese.

"I have a small shop here in Sanfield and have been here for some years, though I believe this is the first time I have ever been in this coffee house. Do you come here often?" assuming she is a regular here. He sits in a relaxed position, but is very aware of everything happening around him. From this distance you can see a very nasty bruise running along his neck, it appears to spread down under his collar. He smells faintly of cherry blossoms and leather, a strange scent from the man facing you indeed.

I don't mind that he compliments me. It isn't the first time that I have heard that. My genes are powerful. They demand attention and respect. If only he, and others, knew the truth, I'd be crucified. My family often were, even by their own kind. But I give a polite smile, nothing too big and its pleasant enough. "Thank you." I tell him, taking care to pronounce the English again. "I am from Russia. Quite amusing to think of me from Japan, yes?" My brows raise, I'm offering some amusement at this and sharing his with him.

I've noticed his bruise. I say nothing on it. Only a flick of a gaze is given to the injury and how it hints at more, this is done subtle, when his attention is not on my gaze but elsewhere, and its a smooth motion that follows the natural glance across his facial features. I listen to him, head tilted a little, while I stir my coffee. I'm less worried about how it will taste. Now that I have company it's become a secondary concern. "This is my first time here." Drawing the spoon from the cup, it's placed on the edge of the saucer with minimal sound. Precise are my movements, and unhurried.

"I'm Mila." My name is offered, while I curl fingers around the cup and lift it from the surface. The warmth seeps into the skin and for a brief pang I want the air around me to be colder, chilled to the bone, like home. This coffee doesn't have that comfort. I push beyond it, concentrating on he who is before me. "And its a pleasure to meet you Mr. Toshi."

"What sort of shop is it that you own?" I suspect he has been in Sanfield for a decent period of time and could tell me more. I'll bide some time. A small shop is a good beginning.  

--Last edited by Mila on 2008-11-18 23:14:58 --

 He watches her, intent upon her words and mannerisms, and replies when she finishes.

"Its a small school in a bad area of town. I guess the location could be better, but I find it helps those that seek it. I myself was young when I started attending in Japan and there were many hardships I had to endure. It builds strong character though. Many choose to not finish and find an easier road, we call them three day monks in Japan," with a slight smile, as he takes a sip from his cup of coffee. He wishes he had ordered tea, but they oversteep it here and the taste is absolutely awful.

"So what part of Russia are you from? I have never had the pleasure of visiting there and always thought it would be similar to the mountains of home," he was enthralled by her looks, very ancient and reminiscent of someone from the old world. Her eyes beckoned to him, unsettling his mask he carefully crafted in public.

"Not shop?" But a school. With this in mind I take another look at him. He could be a teacher, I can see that in him. Perhaps its why he was watching the young bunch before. If it was a bad part of town that could also explain his bruises. They looked vicious. Vicious enough to be still spotted in his neat little suit.

Holding the coffee aloft, inches from the table where I'm resting some weight into my forearm rather than elbow, my thumb smooths across the edge of the cup. Like the rest of me, my nails are trimmed and kept exceptionally neat and clean. "You are head master or are you teacher?"

He's asking me about home. I can't help but smile. "I am from the Ural Mountains. You know of this?" Brows raising slightly, I'm curious to find out what he knows. Most expect to hear some big area when they ask me of my country. No one expects that a woman from a country area can be refined. The truth is, I couldn't be any other way.

I sip from my cup, testing it against my lower lip. It's still hot but it's bearable. "Where are you from Mr Toshi?" Another sip is taken from the cup, a proper one this time. There's no slurp or sound, nor remaining liquid on my mouth when I lower the cup down towards the table.

 "No, its a small dojo that most would assume is abandoned long ago. I am the Shidoshi and teach the eighteen disciplines that were passed down through my family long ago. My family is from a small area in the north, but I spent most of my time there in Tokyo. I left some time ago and have been here just taking in a new country. I have learned much, but am still a bit unfamiliar with Americans in general. I spent quite some time in San Fransisco before coming here, it was both enlightening and depressing," as he thinks of all he lost there and gained. He had been through quite a bit since then and it's memory still brings a tear to his eye. He slowly wipes his tear not out of machismo, but just out of remembrance. Any true student never hides ones feelings especially from himself.

He smiles at her as he answers her question concerning her own homeland. "They separate the two continents if I am correct and wasn't the royal family killed in Yekaterinburg? If my geography is correct that is within their range," dredging up what he knows about the range. It was quite some years ago, but he seems to remember a bit. Her demeanor is enthralling and simply thinking of the place brings the image of her to light. She must have been quite the sight on those majestic peaks, her home. He must know more of her, but hates being forward. He is certain the kami taunt him, if he were them he would as well.

 

That makes sense to me, of the bruises, the depth of layers that have been injured in fragile human skin. I'm listening to him, watching the way his expressions change. There is something fascinating about the way his eyes well with water. I can almost see the visions of his haunts in the iris; reflected in the darkness of his pupils. At the same time subconscious part of me snickers, and I'm aware that he would be eaten alive for showing such weaknesses before strangers in my family. I don't lower my eyes, look away, or pretend that I don't see that he wipes the salt water from where it gathered on his eyelashes and on the swell of his cheek. I should, but I don't. I'm unflinching. Without anything more than the pleasantries of social masks that masquerade anything I may feel for this man or the plights which make him upset so.

"Is this where you get bruises?" I bring the topic back to the current time, rather than let him linger in some painful history. Its not something I want to journey to or put myself through.

The coffee is a moments distraction, a pause in which I sip, give an appropriate time to pass before I answer his own questions. The history of Royal families is complicated. If humans knew how much society is influenced by other factors, of super human extra-ordinaries, they would rise up, angered and infuriated by their weakness. Its their masses that make them powerful and little else. But I cannot tell him this. Its my curse to bear; to be born to such superior beings, of true heroes that are more than the figure heads of royal bloods in human societies, and not be able to tell anyone. Humans crucify that which they don't understand.

"Da." I tell him simply, nodding slight in his direction in an acknowledgment of his history lessons. "It is a beautiful place. With richness of soil and tree. Old grounds with older histories. Much like Japan. Old ways that remain in current societies, influenced by ideals greater than ourselves." I pause to stop from going on a tangent and smile at him, a little humoured at myself and the situation.

The coffee is my friend today, however awful it tastes, it saves me with grace.

 "Oh, you spotted them," realizing that they showed more then he had thought.

"Yes, I had a recent class focusing upon Taijutsu and found one of my senior students was quite a bit more capable then I thought. She has been studying the different chakra as well which added to her effectiveness. I am very pleased by her progress and have decided she needs to start teaching shortly. Her lesson shall center mostly on Bōryaku, our tactical art. She has decided we are to meet in a very bad section of this cities slums for her instruction. I am looking forward to her insight into the subject," as he watches her reaction, hoping the subject is not boring her.

He again sips upon his coffee, wishing it were his tea at home. He truly had come here to observe, nothing more, but it seemed his kami had decidedly other plans they had failed to inform him of. They were always tricky in matters of courtship, not that he saw a relationship here. They might know things he did not though.

I listen.
I watch.

Even if I was bored one would be hard pressed to see such on my features or in hidden in my gaze. To show such disrespectful behaviour would have been a clip across the ear in her society. Smile and nod, that was the survival tactics of most of the young. Or best yet, don't smile, don't meet a gaze - keep your head down and pretend you are blind, dumb and deaf. Perhaps once upon a time I was one of those, portrayed that, but its long enough ago that I can't remember.

"I did not mean to be rude by mentioning them." I say, by way of apology. It wouldn't do for him to be uncomfortable with the topic. But I need not worry he has spoken, at length, about what is obviously his passion. Girls fighting. It's not a new concept for me. I nod and lift the coffee for another sip. There is not a single moment that I look away from him. Its impressive that he holds my gaze for as long as he does without becoming lost, without tripping over his tongue and making a fool of himself.

Tactical Art. That's a new one for me. I like the ring of it. Perhaps I'll employ it at the next gathering. If I go. I set the thought down with my coffee, leaving both to the side, discarded. I can't afford those thoughts or swallow another drop of ill-brewed beans.

"It is always up lifting when one comes across one that is able to challenge and stimulate us, intellectually or otherwise." I'm speaking about his student, of course, indulging the conversation a little longer. I'll be leaving soon enough, but I'm not sure I am in a hurry to. The truth of my own words are ringing in my ear and I find that I'm a little pleased myself in finding Mister Toshi; an educated and kind man, and am in no rush to be moving on and listening to girls speak about the latest music clips and sexual relationships. The world is crass, America especially. Toshi isn't (yet?). Time will tell.

 Her gaze is quite unique, her eyes bold and strong. I can only guess that this must lie within her childhood upon the steppes of that cold and hard land. I begin to wonder about her people. What are they like, what drove them to become so hard. These are questions that I will never know, but it still begs for an answer.

"It is quite nice when I can see progress and understanding in my students. They inspire me to teach them well and there is no need to apologize about the bruise," with a slight smile, "even the master of the dojo can learn lessons."

"So what brings you to Sanfield, if you don't mind me asking?" I know little about her, but there is a desire to know more. Perhaps that might shed some light on her.

"I am sure that it is very satisfying." I'm sure that he likes to hear such things. Most men love to have their ego's stroked, but aside from that most teachers appreciate confirmation of their well earned work. It was a respectable profession and that he could admit, to a complete stranger, that he wasn't above learning was a humbling quality that I could admire.

The inevitable question arises. As a foreigner I've come to expect to be asked this several times in a week, if not occasionally multiple times in a single day. I answer it as I would any other person asking, "I purchased a piece of property and decided to stay for a little while." It answers the question but doesn't answer anything personal and is the way it should be. I don't know this person and have no desire for him to know anything intimate about me. Not why I am here, where I come from, and where I want to go. These are my present my past and my future and don't concern a stranger sharing a table while drinking coffee. But this doesn't mean I give off anything but a mild tone, my demeanor is unchanged.

"Is there anywhere you recommend that I visit on my stay?"

 "Well I guess there are a few things that I have seen here that I would say are worth your time. Possibly visiting the mountains just north of the city, they are beautiful in spring. There are the antebellum estates in the historical areas of town. Most date to well before the civil war that tore this land asunder, or so I have heard. There is an Opera house that I hear is very historic as well, though I am by far a poor assessment of the local sites."

He can only guess as to why people came here originally. It seemed to be a more industrial city that had a bit of historical significance. Nothing that he would be particularly proud of, but then again they had only been here some scant 200 years or so.

I doubt the mountains could be anything like those from home, but I am willing to entertain the idea of visiting them. A small raise of my brows may suggest as much, or something else entirely. "I have been to the Opera House." Being one of the first places that I had explored it left the rest of this place rather drab.  Not that Sanfields Opera House was anything significant by any means but its more than what graced the villages at home. But when one has been through Europe, America is a modern scab on the face of the earth, with little culture and even less finery.

"This has been an unexpected pleasantry Mr. Toshi." I say, drawing this chit-chat towards a close. My coffee cup has been left on the table, still half filled with the cold contents. "I have enjoyed speaking with you." Pushing my chair back slowly, I rise up from the table and step to the back of the chair to tuck it back into place.

 I stand at her exit, while smiling at her in response. It had been a delightful conversation, a very enjoyable diversion from the stereotypical drudgery that usually began in such a venue.

"It has been delightful, hopefully I will run into you again before you leave. If not, I thank you for the conversation," as he bows politely allowing her to exit.

Taking the jacket from the back of the chair, I take a moment to pull it on and smile over towards the man. It's a small smile, polite and pleasant. "We never know what is around the corner Mister Toshi. I may find you yet again."

And with that, I'm heading for and out the door, to brave these strange streets once more.