Being Japanese

“I don’t know what it is to be Japanese.” Soutarou gazed up at me like a deer in a white collared shirt and loosened necktie. He seemed to be asking me a question. I wanted to feed him dried corn from my hand.

Mr. Hara just smiled with his river otter sheen. His eyes were round and his lips pink, in danger. “All I know is fireworks.” He sizzled.

"What about kimonos?" squawked Masayo, the crane girl with her diamond bra strap and glitter-flecked cheeks.

We wrote some things on the board. Kimonos. Bowing. Sushi. We were out of time.