"A. R. Morlan - The Hikikomori's Cartoon Kimono" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morlan A R)

How? was the result of his parents calling for the aid of a rescue sister to
cajole him into leaving his room, before his nineteenth birthday.)

тАЬBecause IтАЩd like to get to know you,тАЭ was all sheтАЩd needed to say; as
rehearsed as her words sounded, there had been something in her eyes, in
the quirky flicker of a smile on her lips, which had been enough, at least
then, to make him open his door just a bit wider....

But that was Mieko; as far as Harumi (of the natural brown-orange hair,
worn in elaborate quasi-Incan khipus of braided, knotted, and
wooden-beaded swaying tresses, and the minimal clothing) went, the
second thing Masafumi would do was lower his eyes, their lashes forming a
capri-shell screen between him and the object of his fascination, as if she
might be offended by his stare.

(His boss kept telling him, тАЬIf she donтАЩt want people to look at her, why
have all that ink drilled into her hide? Or do her hair in coked-up dreads?тАЭ)

For her part, Harumi either pretended not to notice his persistent
shyness, or didnтАЩt notice him in any real sense aside from being aware that
there was another space-taking, breathing form in the small room. True, she
literally had her hands full of wooden trays of momengoshiтАФfirm,
well-drained тАЬcottonтАЭ tofu flown in daily from Japan, to be served an hour or
so from now, after Harumi worked her magic wand across the pliant creamy
white surfaces. Masafumi prided himself for having learned that nickname
for a tattoo gun from one of his bossтАЩs many repeat customers. On
occasion, heтАЩd shyly remark about it as Harumi worked, and, often, sheтАЩd
smile.

Setting the layered trays of tofu on the low table nearest the outlet
across from the autoclave, she peeled back the cheesecloth coverings,
revealing the waiting slabs of skin-solid tofu, one tray at a time, prior to
picking up the prefilled ink bottles that contained freshly squeezed yuzu
juice and onion-skin dye, then attaching them to the old, slow-vibrating
tattoo machine MasafumiтАЩs boss gave to Harumi for her exclusive use. After
plugging it in, and turning it on, she filled the small space with the insect
drone of the quick-darting three needle cluster.

A tired, yet apt clich├й, only in America, spun in his brain as he
watched Harumi work; without need for a stencil spotted onto the waiting
surface, she worked the business end of the wand over the tofu, leaving
weeping sprays of pale, citrus-scented pigment on the gelid upper layer of
the processed bean curd. Her designs varied by her mood; today, he
surmised she was troubled, obviously agitated, judging by the wild
waves-breaking-on-rocks choppiness of the design. Finishing one tray, she
shoved it aside with a dismissive thrust of her lower left palm, moving so
quickly that the smooth-bottomed wooden tray nearly slid off the low
tableтАФuntil Masafumi put out both hands to stop its momentum.

This time, she did notice him; letting out a shuddering exhalation