Goro

Diary

Goro was the youngest of his house, and youngest sons learn early that the world moves on its own clock, so he trained himself to wait, watching the crowded street the way his brothers once watched a dueling ring, patient as stone. He had gone there only to clear his mind, to breathe past the noise of vendors and gamblers and the ghosts of dojo bells long silenced, but patience, it turns out, does not vaccinate a man against poor choices made by people pressed too close together. Somewhere between the ramen cart and the pachinko parlor he caught something he still will not name aloud, a shame so total that he now bows to strangers at twice the correct angle just to avoid conversation. He tells himself this is simply another thing to wait out, like a bad hand at the table or a hangover after cheap sake, and that eventually the itch of humiliation will fade the way all things fade if you are still enough. It has not faded. Goro sits very quietly in the corner of the dojo bar, watching everyone else laugh, losing with great dignity his lifelong fight to become disciplined again.