Gloomy Masumi

Diary

Masumi did not set out to bleed that night in the back alleys off Shinjuku, he simply started telling the truth and the truth, as usual, required knuckles. He had once been the kind of samurai who could hold his tongue through a hundred insults and a bad harvest, but discipline is a floor that always gets rugged eventually, and his particular floor caved in around the third drink. He told a stranger exactly what he thought of his tattoo, then his haircut, then his life choices, and the stranger disagreed with his fists, which Masumi found less painful than expected and, if he was honest, kind of thrilling. He wrapped his split knuckles in a torn izakaya napkin and thought, with the flat clarity that never leaves him alone, that this was probably the most honest conversation he'd had all year. He still tells himself tonight he'll meditate, sit quiet like the old masters, breathe like a monk instead of a man who apes into brawls for the dopamine, but he already knows how that story ends, badly, bruised, and somehow smiling.