Gendo Dozu was sitting in the parlor of his home in the neighborhoods between Osaka and Kyoto. The month before he had been traveling in Tokyo, making connections between a few of the printhouses that recovered from the war. Good things had come to him through those talks, and more so to his beneficiary. Such news had been reported, and he had nothing to do for another week. At least until he yet again had cause to travel to Mishima and pick up a parcel of scrawling that he could actually edit into something comprehensible. Not to say that his boss was a scraggly artist, but he got caught up in the worst of things, and never tarried overlong on niceness. That was a way of putting it which Dozu normally mentioned whenever Sonochihama Ryuuta came up in conversation. Which, seeing as how Dozu would rather think about work than actually relax in his own home, was fairly often. 

The door to the hall opened and his wife appeared with fabric and string. 

“Evening Ohiko.” 

“Hello, Dozu.” 

The light caught the shadows growing on her face. 

He looked to the window as if expecting to see a branch dancing in the sunlight, yet the view of the street was clear and unobstructed. The lingering had been too long for it to have been a plane or passing bird. They were hers then. He must have grown many himself, even before time gave them to him. Stress, no doubt. Deals, conversations in half-learned tongues. Suddenly he felt every fold of the chair beneath him, and his shoulders sunk into him. 

“I’m going to make a shirt for my friend. Her son is going to school in America next year, and she wants us all to make something for him while he’s there. I learned to sew for this, would you like to see?” She set the string and fabric on the coffee table before taking her chair across from him. 

He had never known Ohiko to sew. She was more regal than something like that. Their home, an inheritance from her uncle, a duke, was one symptom of that heritage. Western in its design after the old man's youth during those early years of the Taisho when such things were more in fashion. The duke’s wife had never touched a needle and thread in her life, of that much Dozu was certain. The woman had a stone face to her, and she hated him greatly. A goodness, then, that she loved her niece more than she hated the orphaned minstrel who had somehow been blessed enough to marry her. Ohiko, herself, was beautiful. She had none of that austere squareness to her face. Her complexion was always so soft, and her hands more acquainted with fineness rather than the labors of his ilk. Once, when she had brewed tea for the two of them, he was astounded at her ability when so novice. So, too, did he expect deft hands with her new hobby. He nodded and watched her eagerly. 

“Yes, the old woman who I knew when I was a boy would sew things all the time. She probably had more scars from needles than pores. Go on then, show me what you’ve learned then.” His wife smiled. 

Ohiko grabbed the string and threaded one end through the eye with slightly shaking hands. The shaking reminded him of the shadows, even though he knew anyone would probably have shaking hands from such a fine task. Once through she pulled the thread and went to the fabric, which seemed to have been cut before her presentation began. It dawned on him only then that it was late afternoon already, and it was actually the first time he had seen her since breakfast. After which she went to her office and did not appear again. The torturous time she must have had, cutting away at the patterns she had practiced. Without realizing it, a smile had crawled over his lips while he watched his aged wife begin to sew. 

“You’re being creepy, aren’t you?” 

Knocked from his stupor by the blunt remark, he focused his eyes to see her chuckling to herself as she pulled the needle through the fabric several times. One eye on him and one on her task. Dozu looked out the window again to gauge the time before giving up and pulling out his watch and checking it. Dinner was still an hour and a half away, marvelous, in his eyes. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just thought you really look like that old woman now.” 

Ohiko scoffed before returning her full attention to the sewing. 

“You aren’t young anymore either Gendo-san.” 

“No, we aren’t, are we? Isn’t that lovely?” 

Her eyes returned to him as she paused. When they met they clashed intentions, melded ideas, and soon both were smiling the same as they had before. 

“I blame Sonochihama-san, he’s got you working so much it's made you an old man already. Honestly, who grins while watching their wife sew?”

“You may be more right than you know darling.” 

Dozu slouched in his chair and let his neck hit the head-rest. He gazed at the tan ceiling. Osaka was so tan for him. Tan suits. Tan souls. Neither dark nor light. A grim neutrality to the whole affair. If not Osaka, then where? Tokyo? Then that meant being one of those old idiots who tried to stay with the times. It would be profitable though, for what it was worth. Then, Fukuoka? That would never work, if Ryuuta had to live close to his sister’s family out there then he would never get any work done. He would have to move as well, because there was no way in hell that Dozu was going to travel from Kyushu to Chubu every week. Fukuoka to be closer to Korea, Tokyo to be closer to San Francisco. One held more money potential than the other, one was just an easier market. 

“Darling, what do you think about selling the house?” 

“At our age? Why?” 

“I think it would be better to live closer to work. All of this traveling is the pits for my body lately. I’m thinking of Kyushu.” Before he could offer the option of Tokyo, his wife's grimace was clear and with her eyes she made known what would only have been redundant to say with her words. Tokyo it was then.   

“I suppose we can live closer to your brother in Yokohama”

“Daichi? Yes, I suppose that wouldn’t be that bad. I don’t love Kyoto that much anyway.” 

“You spent half your life here.” 

“Well, yes, but you know I think it’s best for people to get out at some point. Don’t you agree?” In truth, Dozu had a hard time following her meaning. It was one of a few mysteries she handed to him as though it was common knowledge. He sighed and accepted it, just one more passing moment in a marriage wrought with them. He thought he knew, and so he made a small grunt of affirmation before continuing. 

“Sorry if I’ve been a pain in the ass with all my traveling.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Ohiko said, pulling the needle through the fabric, “I knew I was marrying Gendo Dozu from that start. It’s my fault really, Mother said I shouldn’t be involved with you, now look where it’s got me. I’m going to sell my uncle's favorite house to live near Tokyo with my low-class busker of a husband. Come to think of it, dinner is a little while off, would you like some t–ow!” Her sudden yelp was followed by her dropping the fabric and shoving her thumb in her mouth. 

“There you have it!” Dozu began to laugh as he stood from his chair. 

“Shmm-mp,” she mumbled, unable to speak with her inhibited lips. 

“I’ll get the medicine.” 

She pulled her finger out and examined it. 

“No, it’s fine, it was only a light prick. Barely any blood. It should close up by itself.” 

Ohiko looked from her fingers to her husband, who had approached and was kneeling down by her chair observing the wound. He did not seem worried in a sense, more like he was curious. Like a boy who had seen a baby for the first time, or had just found an interesting bug in pretty colors. He seemed pleased, less with the fact that she was sewing at all—though on that account she had indeed sought praise. It was a hollow expression on him, one without weight, feather-light. It was not only that he loved her, of that much she did not need retelling. It was much more that, in his love, and in his work, and in his non-committed musing on their future home, he seemed content. The busy bee who traveled all over the country talking to strange men from far off lands, that inconstant bumbler, was at last at peace in place beside her. In seeing that gaze, and in feeling his large hands hold her pained fingers, she could almost feel half her age. Then he had to go and open his stupid mouth.

“That’s why you don’t talk while sewing.” 

Ohiko tapped her husband's forehead with the palm of her healthy hand.

“Oh, shut up, you bastard.”