Yu Yu Hakusho and its characters belong to Yoshihiro Togashi, Shueisha, Studio Pierrot, Fuji TV and Jump Comics.

"What's going on with her? Is she sick?"

The daylight wasn't enough anymore, and the couple was forced to turn on the electric lights. Dishes, pans, bowls, glasses, a thousand objects belonging to the universe of the kitchen of a small family restaurant were ahead of them to be cleaned for the next day. A washing machine would be ideal for such situation. For that daily toilsome task they counted on Sumito. That early evening however they could not count on her, the efficient Sumito, who had asked to leave a little earlier. The last train for her hometown left before sunset. Her absence accumulated everything for after the restaurant closed.

"She isn't sick, no," answered the wife, busy with the sink.

It had been a lucrative day. They didn’t run short of food for the customers and not much had remained either. By the way, that was the usual outcome. Many years of experience had taught them to buy and sell in the right measure. Maybe what had last of bread was an exception today.

"They didn’t eat as much bread as usual, did they? The one I tasted was heavy and lacking salt. No wonder there's so much left over."

"Kato didn’t go to work," the wife commented, "and who made the bread in the dawn was a new baker that Hirota hired in a hurry last night."

"Sluggard as always that Kato. I’m sure he’ll justify himself telling that his grandfather died again."

"It's possible," she answered. "If I were Hirota-san I would have fired him already. Kato's lucky for making the best bread of the neighborhood. I don't know if Hirota-san is write or wrong."

"I think he's right."

"I don't get men. Kato is a sluggard. He knows he won't be fired. He takes advantage of Hirota-san's weakness and even laughs to our faces when we talk to him about it. I think that if Hirota-san's wife were alive, Kato wouldn't have the chance of being such a sluggard. Seems he's kind of a relative of her side of the family. Kimiko was a great loss. Hirota-san seemed to be such a strong and determinate man, now we see that it was his wife that made him strong. Why did that good woman have to die so soon?"

"That question has no answer. If we don't even know why we are here on Earth, why would we know why we leave it?"

"From my part, I know I'm here to take care of a dull old man."

"That's good entertainment, isn't it?"

"I know a few better ones."

"Anyway, I don't think it will be us to solve Hirota's problem."

After a little while, he continued:

"At lunch today I was about to shake Tanaka-san’s brains with a slap on his head."

"Why!" exclaimed the wife. "What happened?"

"He had the guts to tell me to my face that the fried chicken tasted as recycled pasteboard, and asked for a discount in the bill."

"I think we’re in fault here. We changed for a cheaper supplier. I didn’t like the taste either. But now that you've mentioned, I think Tanaka wasn't all that wrong. Recycled pasteboard... that's it. That's how it tasted. But please, leave mybrains alone."

A mischievous smile crossed the lady's lips and a stare of the husband, faking anger, fell upon her. Two simultaneous chortles filled the room with a light mood.

While she soaped the dishes, he prepared the remaining ones for her, removing the rest of sauce and fat with towel-paper.

"We’re out of paper. I’m gonna get more in the larder."

For a few moments she was alone. The noise of the cars passing in front of the restaurant apparently didn't bother her anymore. The place was noisy, but also intense was the traffic of pedestrians, which brought a considerable number of clients every day. The clock in the wall already marked 9:00 pm. If Sumito hasn’t gone off all this would be almost over, she thought, somewhat glum.

Sumito was such a good help in the cleaning. Very dynamic and intelligent, they knew they wouldn't get to keep her for long. She had come from the country to study, and the restaurant, where she worked for a few hours, provided only a small rent to maintain her in the bigger city. She lived in a pension nearby. Her older sister would get married this weekend, and she traveled back to her hometown.

"Are you sure she’s not sick?" asked the husband, returning with a roll of paper in his hands.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because she’s in her bedroom, sitting it the dark, looking out the window, as still as a statue. I lecture her about saving electricity, but that’s not what I had in mind."

"She told me she had to write a composition for the language course. She must be thinking about the theme."

"I hope the theme isn’t the moonrise."

"Why?"

"Because then she’s looking out the wrong window. The moon doesn’t rise on that side. And we have new moon tonight anyway."

"For god’s sake, why when you decide to be dull you get to be so dull?"

"I don't know. I was born that way. My mother always said I was dull. By the way, it's not the first time you say that. But she usually comes to help us without being asked. Today is the second day she doesn't show up here. That's why I think she's sick."

The water coming from the tap flowed down her soaped hands. One by one she held the dishes under the tap. She watched the water washing the soap and thought about the time when she, a young girl, also stood at the window looking at everything and at nothing. The embrasure of the window was the entrance for a wonderful world of dream and joy. It was so delicious. The rest didn't matter. Actually, there wasn't any rest. For what? She was there, alone, floating in sheer delight. There wasn't any other world. Only hers...

"Hey! What happened? You still there?" interrupted the husband. "Here are more dishes."

"She isn't sick. She's in love."

"In love? I don't believe it. How come, if she just left the diapers? In love! No way. I don't wanna hear about it. In love! Her world now is school and that does it."

For a while the silence took the room. The tap was closed, the soapy dishes were still soapy, the piled clean dishes amassed in quiet balance one on another, the glasses didn’t tinkle. Even the cars outside were a bit more discreet for a few moments.

"In love with whom? Who is he? You know him? Whose son is he? Do I know him?"

"He’s a schoolmate of hers."

"Schoolmate! Hmm!... Is he the first of his class?"

"Well, actually no. He’s Atsuko’s son."

"What? That brawler, rioter, slothful boy who keeps skipping classes? No, no! My daughter deserves better. Besides his mother does nothing but drink."

"Poor woman! I pity her. The boy is a little brawler, yes. But not less than you were. For all I know you didn’t like to study either, skipped classes to flirt with the girls. You weren’t expelled because your father was a friend of the principal. And the boy is a good kid. He’s honest, doesn’t keep bad company. I like him."

"Hmmm! Ouch, I don’t like this."

After a while the sound of the water running down the tap was heard again. He took a cloth in his hands and started to dry some of the dishes already left clean on a wood platter. Both were contemplative.

"I’m sure you’ll like him when you know him better."

"All right. I doubt it. We’ll talk about that later. I think it’s best to call her to help us, or else we’re gonna spend the rest of the night here."

The wife went to the doorway and called, "Keiko!"

There was no answer.

"Keiko!" she repeated.

"Yes, Mom," came the answer, belatedly.

"Sumito isn’t here today and we need help."

"I’m coming, Mom."

The little thirteen-year-old girl, still wearing the blue uniform of the school, appeared at the doorway with a shy and unfathomable smile on her face.

"Here I am. What can I do?"

"We need your help to store the dishes. But first go change and put on an apron."

Soon after the little Keiko returned, picked an apron, tied it around her waist and began to store on a metallic shelf the dishes, bowls and glasses the father had already placed on the counter.

"Mom, why sometimes Dad pulls a long face when he looks at me? Did I do some folly and he’s mad at me?"

"Did you do any folly?"

"Not that I know."

"Then why don’t you ask him?"

And Keiko, looking at his father with that sweet little face of hers, "Dad, are you mad at me? Did I do something I shouldn’t?"

"Hmmm! I don’t think so." Then after a brief pause, "Let’s get over with all those dishes that tomorrow it will be another hard day. We have to sleep and wake up early."

Lekanthir
June 18^th, 2000

YYH Fanfiction