a letter
Consumption tax went up today, eight percent to ten. Except food you take away stays at eight. So at the konbini the cashier now asks if you're eating in, and if you say no, you're supposed to mean it. I said take away and ate my onigiri on the bench right outside the door, which I've decided counts.
Tsuchiya-san called at lunch. A letter had come to his office for me, care of him. I picked it up on the way home.
It's from Yumiko. One sheet of thin paper, folded in three. She lives in Sendai. I'm putting it in English, my translation, and I've taken the politeness out, which in Japanese is about a third of the letter:
Thank you for the postcards. I didn't know he wrote them. I'm reading one a day, so they last.
When I was small he grew morning glories on our balcony in Kamata, for my summer homework, and then he kept doing it.
He always filled the kettle before he went to bed, so the morning would be quicker. I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I hope the room is good to you.
I never told Tsuchiya-san about the kettle.
I've emptied it tonight anyway, out of habit, and said "empty."