Nine fifty in Shinsaibashi, and the street outside is already moving like it never stopped. Shop shutters go up one after another, a metal clatter that blends into the hum of bicycles and vending machines. I sit by the window with a coffee that is still too hot to drink and watch the parade of umbrellas, even though it isn't raining. Habit, maybe, or just Osaka style.
The pancake arrives first, a tall wobble of egg and sugar that collapses a little every time the table shifts. I wait a beat before cutting in, the way you wait before opening a letter you already know is good news. Steam escapes. The waitress calls it fuwa fuwa, fluffy fluffy, and she is not exaggerating.
My camera sits on the table, lens cap off, patient. It has seen enough of these moments to know it should wait for the jiggle to settle before the shutter clicks. Some texture only shows itself in stillness. I think about all the market stalls and street breakfasts this camera has photographed, and how none of them wobbled quite like this.
There's a particular kind of solitude in eating something delicate alone in a city of fourteen million. Nobody here knows my name, my flight number, my next stop. The crowd outside doesn't slow for me and I don't ask it to. I just sit, fork poised over sugar and air, glad the only decision left this morning is how slowly I can make this last.
