Breakfast in Oyama

The eatery was like most in Oyama prefecture—cold and dark, certainly not inviting. Though its four sides were almost fully open to the afternoon sun, the interior remained extremely poorly lit. Tasmin had ceased to be discomfited by such places, although it had taken almost a year of living in this town to reach that point. This establishment in particular was not one she’d visited before, but its gloomy atmosphere felt instantly familiar. Clammy notes of soy, spring onion, and musky beer hung in the air around her, advertising the day’s fare; there were no menus in a place like this. She realized that she had already forgotten its name.

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This was based on a dream I had over the weekend — strange stuff, to be sure, though stranger once I put it into words.

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