Page 137 of The Dragon 2
I remained standing with the gift in my hand.
The one waitress rolled out a cart lined with gold plates and began placing them on the table.
The other set obsidian-rimmed wine glasses next to the plates.
Neither spoke.
Then, they began to put the silverware on the table. All polished and weighted. Knives with curves. Large spoons. Forks flared with claws.
Whatever meal they were serving, it wasn’t going to be traditional.
Goddamn it.
They continued and I put my gift down on the floor next to my chair, but still, I did not sit.
I turned to the waitresses. “Hey.”
As she finished, one of the waitresses glanced my way. “Sir?”
I leaned in and whispered, “Did she cook for me?”
The woman’s breath caught.
“Did she?”
The waitress trembled and then nodded.
Ahhh. I knew it!
A slow, wide, mad grin spread across my face.
She cooked for me! How did she know I needed that. . .right before war? Right before all of this?
As the waitresses scurried away and the scent of Nyomi’s cooking curled deeper into the space, I closed my eyes for half a second.
And I was a boy again—maybe nine or ten—sitting at a low wooden table while my mother hummed a lullaby in a language I no longer remembered. She wore a cotton apron stained with sesame oil, and her hands moved gently, over a pot that steamed with something rich and simple.
Tamago.
Rice.
Miso with extra seaweed because I hated it plain.
She smiled without turning. “You’ll need strength, Kenji. Always eat before the world gets cruel.”
I blinked it away and opened my eyes.
Now I was a man with blood on his hands and a war at his feet. But somehow, through the silence, through the jazz and the heat, a woman had cooked for me again, before the world got too cruel.
My Tiger.
The jazz band played, but a sound came from behind me. It was subtle, but I was too on guard to miss it. My Tiger’s scent came next—black amber and ripe plum.
There you go, Tora.
I turned and then stepped back just from the cock-hardening shock of it all.
Oh, Tora.
