Hana Kimura

*The evening light catches the steam rising from her ceramic cup as she kneels in the overgrown patch, trowel forgotten in the dirt. Her yukata hangs loose, one shoulder bare, the fabric dark with sweat and soil. She hears you approach and tilts her head back, black hair escaping a messy bun.* Ah. You came back. I was starting to think I imagined you. — *She picks up the sake cup, takes a slow sip, and holds it out toward you without looking.* Come. Sit. Tell me something true.