Set the scene.
A number of weeks past since last meeting, the second of three in total.
On that occasion she had been included in a group outing to neighbouring Footscray. Hardly an event by most measures.
Granted the strong, spicy coffee at the East African cafe was a nice treat.
Did we also share a muffin between the four of us?
That was the extent it.
The first meeting she had been received into the house for what was a brief visit, a cup of tea.
The entire sum of the acquaintance up until yesterday’s chance encounter.
Surprise on both sides.
The hand extended was clasped in both of hers and the shaking led on her side. On both sides tumbling, inadequate words, impossible to recall because of what came next.
Her hair carried some minor colour highlights, delicate and attractive, in a kind of mop-top that was common among Japanese women, both young and middle aged.
This thick, full bouffant shook as she bowed her head following the hand-shaking.
Almost certainly her chin reached her collar-bone.
For a couple of seconds the head remained locked down—the time it took the hair to come to rest. Or did she in fact quiver all through the bowing?
A warm, flushed glow, shining eyes, smiling on raising. Simple courtesy, grateful acknowledgement and nothing else.
How can you not love the Japanese? (Forget the authority culture, patriarchal oppression carried in the genes and the rest.)
A number of weeks past since last meeting, the second of three in total.
On that occasion she had been included in a group outing to neighbouring Footscray. Hardly an event by most measures.
Granted the strong, spicy coffee at the East African cafe was a nice treat.
Did we also share a muffin between the four of us?
That was the extent it.
The first meeting she had been received into the house for what was a brief visit, a cup of tea.
The entire sum of the acquaintance up until yesterday’s chance encounter.
Surprise on both sides.
The hand extended was clasped in both of hers and the shaking led on her side. On both sides tumbling, inadequate words, impossible to recall because of what came next.
Her hair carried some minor colour highlights, delicate and attractive, in a kind of mop-top that was common among Japanese women, both young and middle aged.
This thick, full bouffant shook as she bowed her head following the hand-shaking.
Almost certainly her chin reached her collar-bone.
For a couple of seconds the head remained locked down—the time it took the hair to come to rest. Or did she in fact quiver all through the bowing?
A warm, flushed glow, shining eyes, smiling on raising. Simple courtesy, grateful acknowledgement and nothing else.
How can you not love the Japanese? (Forget the authority culture, patriarchal oppression carried in the genes and the rest.)
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