Sublime

We hear the offer of friendship as something synonymous with insult because our Romantic culture has, from our youth, continuously made one thing clear: love is the purpose of existence; friendship is the paltry, depleted consolation prize.

We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are. We have had to agree on a certain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, to make this frequent meeting tolerable and that we need not come to open war.

‘Will tea be fine?’ asked Koishi, bringing over a black lacquer tray. On it was the mackerel sushi, arranged on a long, narrow Koimari-ware dish. ‘We have sake too.’