and argued over whether the owner deliberately made the coffee too strong.
One afternoon, Kenji brought a portable speaker and played an old Elvis Presley song.
Yuki recognized the melody but did not know the lyrics.
“You’re supposed to dance,” Kenji announced.
“Here?”
“Unless you see a more suitable ballroom nearby.”
She shook her head, laughing.
He stood, offered his hand, and made an exaggeratedly formal bow.
Yuki accepted.
They danced barefoot on the sand, moving awkwardly to the music while a few distant beachgoers glanced in their direction.
Kenji was not graceful. Yuki was not particularly coordinated. At one point, he stepped on his own foot and blamed the sand for changing position without permission.
She laughed until tears formed in her eyes.
It was the kind of laughter she had not experienced in a long time—not the polite laughter she used in social situations, but the unguarded kind
