Junichiro

Diary

Junichiro once measured a blade's edge to the width of a rice grain, and now he measures the crooked ink on his forearm with the same merciless eye, wincing at a dragon that looks suspiciously like a confused carp. It happened at the noodle house in Kyoto, three bowls deep and looser than a first son should ever allow himself to be, when he confessed his doubts about the family name to a tattoo artist who apparently listened with his needle instead of his ears. He tells himself he was merely observing the artist's technique, grading it a generous four out of ten, but he knows the truth: he got aped on broth and old grudges and paid the floor price for it in skin. Now he studies the other fighters' tattoos with a critic's frown, silently ranking them all beneath his own disaster, because judging others is easier than admitting he flunked his own standard for the first time in his disciplined life. Late at night he wonders about the future, whether a man who once commanded perfect formations will ever again command his own mouth after two bowls of noodles and a little too much honesty.