“I swear you do this to annoy me,” he drawls over his short black. “You’ve gotta make a choice at some point. I mean, I’d love it if yer could do whatever, but still. Duel citizenship with Kiku is out. The law an’ all.”
It’s true. Australia doesn’t mind- he really doesn’t. That’s what she loves about him. It’s the looseness. The inability to turn up on time. The ties he puts on when he has to even though it’s abundantly clear England never really taught him a Windsor Knot.
She runs a hand over the knot of her obi and laughs a little uneasily. “It’s just a kimono. I mean, I do look a little out of place in a café in Flinders Lane. But.”
“But,” he agrees with a wink. “It’s never just a costume, is it?”
“It’s Harmony Day,” she counters. “I can wear what I want.”
She works in a little Japanese restaurant near a train station. Come Monday, Wednesday- Kendo in sports halls where the teachers call her Oota, because they can’t pronounce German surnames very well, can they? It’s something she treasures, the Japanese-ness of being something special.
“I’ll have to make a choice,” she supposes eventually, licking the foam off the plastic lid of her coffee. She pauses. She pauses and thinks of Flinders Lane and galleries and beaches lifted out of postcards. “You…you don’t mind? If I…” Breathe. “If I don’t choose you?”
Australia’s expression softens. Before she can react he’s leant forward and pulled the hair from her face and he kisses her right there, over the table where the sugar is spilled, next to the window where the sun spills in, over the streets spilled-spilled-spilling with people from a hundred different nations.
As he pulls away, his face is split with a grin alight with pride. “What does it matter?” he asks her. “What does it matter to me? Don’t get all worried about it, possum. I couldn’t give a rat’s. I couldn’t. I’ll still be ‘ere, and you’ll still be ‘ere, and what’s the diff’rence, anyway?”
Australia doesn’t mind, and that’s what she loves the most. Australia is security and love and always there with his goofy grin, to wipe away the tears.
She pulls her bag from the koala’s claws under the table, gives him a pat and gives Australia a smile, and she tightens her mother’s kimono on clattering wooden sandals.
And she loves him.
-
In Tokyo, she is Australian.
It’s not entirely her choice. The store keepers call to her in English and treat her as a tourist, which she technically is. She smiles back and greets them in an Osaka dialect and they laugh, because it’s unexpected. Then she presents them with cheap koala key rings made in China and they laugh again because it is.
She’s a Haafu, and they care for her hair that is not quite black or brown, not quite straight. She’s not quite perfect, and she thinks that Japan likes that, perhaps. It’s like the houses that are never quite finished, or the haiku left hanging, because imperfection is beautiful.
“I am honoured to be meeting you,” she fumbles. Sometimes this is a problem- she doesn’t mean to say things that are rude, but her Japanese isn’t quite right.
Japan bows back and doesn’t seem to mind.
They are in the grounds of Sensouji Temple, under the Kaminari-mon. It’s flooded for the New Year with a thousand students just like her, here to buy their charms for good luck in their coming school years.
“You buy them every year?” she asks as she strings up her Ema.
He nods. There are two tied to his briefcase, one tied to his mobile phone.
Mehrstaatigkeit (1/3)
“I swear you do this to annoy me,” he drawls over his short black. “You’ve gotta make a choice at some point. I mean, I’d love it if yer could do whatever, but still. Duel citizenship with Kiku is out. The law an’ all.”
It’s true. Australia doesn’t mind- he really doesn’t. That’s what she loves about him. It’s the looseness. The inability to turn up on time. The ties he puts on when he has to even though it’s abundantly clear England never really taught him a Windsor Knot.
She runs a hand over the knot of her obi and laughs a little uneasily. “It’s just a kimono. I mean, I do look a little out of place in a café in Flinders Lane. But.”
“But,” he agrees with a wink. “It’s never just a costume, is it?”
“It’s Harmony Day,” she counters. “I can wear what I want.”
She works in a little Japanese restaurant near a train station. Come Monday, Wednesday- Kendo in sports halls where the teachers call her Oota, because they can’t pronounce German surnames very well, can they? It’s something she treasures, the Japanese-ness of being something special.
“I’ll have to make a choice,” she supposes eventually, licking the foam off the plastic lid of her coffee. She pauses. She pauses and thinks of Flinders Lane and galleries and beaches lifted out of postcards. “You…you don’t mind? If I…” Breathe. “If I don’t choose you?”
Australia’s expression softens. Before she can react he’s leant forward and pulled the hair from her face and he kisses her right there, over the table where the sugar is spilled, next to the window where the sun spills in, over the streets spilled-spilled-spilling with people from a hundred different nations.
As he pulls away, his face is split with a grin alight with pride. “What does it matter?” he asks her. “What does it matter to me? Don’t get all worried about it, possum. I couldn’t give a rat’s. I couldn’t. I’ll still be ‘ere, and you’ll still be ‘ere, and what’s the diff’rence, anyway?”
Australia doesn’t mind, and that’s what she loves the most. Australia is security and love and always there with his goofy grin, to wipe away the tears.
She pulls her bag from the koala’s claws under the table, gives him a pat and gives Australia a smile, and she tightens her mother’s kimono on clattering wooden sandals.
And she loves him.
-
In Tokyo, she is Australian.
It’s not entirely her choice. The store keepers call to her in English and treat her as a tourist, which she technically is. She smiles back and greets them in an Osaka dialect and they laugh, because it’s unexpected. Then she presents them with cheap koala key rings made in China and they laugh again because it is.
She’s a Haafu, and they care for her hair that is not quite black or brown, not quite straight. She’s not quite perfect, and she thinks that Japan likes that, perhaps. It’s like the houses that are never quite finished, or the haiku left hanging, because imperfection is beautiful.
“I am honoured to be meeting you,” she fumbles. Sometimes this is a problem- she doesn’t mean to say things that are rude, but her Japanese isn’t quite right.
Japan bows back and doesn’t seem to mind.
They are in the grounds of Sensouji Temple, under the Kaminari-mon. It’s flooded for the New Year with a thousand students just like her, here to buy their charms for good luck in their coming school years.
“You buy them every year?” she asks as she strings up her Ema.
He nods. There are two tied to his briefcase, one tied to his mobile phone.