おかりん

去年のリハックでウチのデマを愚痴って絡んでおきながら、いざ試合を打診されると「面倒な人」って言い訳してビビって逃げるんだな。なんだ面倒な人って、お前があることない事言わなければ因縁が続くこともなかったのに。BDからオファーがあればいつでもやります。朝倉未来さんよろしくお願いします。

In America, a barista once asked for my name. This was normal. Even in Japan, sometimes you give your name for an order or a reservation. So I answered calmly. “Takeshi.” She smiled, nodded, and wrote it on the cup. So far, I understood the system. But a few minutes later, from behind the counter, I heard a loud voice. “Takeshi!” I looked up. We had known each other for three minutes. And already, she was calling me by my first name. In Japan, this usually takes time. First, your last name with “san.” After a while, maybe a slightly friendlier version. If the relationship grows, perhaps your first name with “san.” And only after crossing several emotional bridges, maybe just your first name. But in America, I bought one coffee and immediately became Takeshi. I walked to the counter. She handed me the cup and smiled. “Takeshi, have a good one.” Takeshi. Again. For a moment, my heart became warm. This was no longer just an order. This was a short friendship. She did not know my hometown, my favorite miso soup ingredient, or the fact that I had slept badly the night before. But she knew my name. And she said it without fear. In America, friendship begins somewhere between payment and receipt. I received the cup with both hands and thought, Thank you, my friend. Then, a few seconds later, she smiled at the next customer and shouted, “Jason!” And I understood. This friendship has excellent turnover. American friendship is bright. Warm. Fast. I came for coffee. I left with caffeine, a paper cup, and a friendship that expired in twelve seconds.