After looking at the artwork at a gallery in Roppongi, I stepped outside and chatted with a friend for a bit. I wasn’t feeling particularly bright, so I couldn’t bring myself to smile.

Before heading home, I decided to drop by a kebab shop near the station. I’d been there once before, so I walked in without hesitation. It was past lunchtime and there were no other customers inside.

There were several items on the menu, but I ordered the kebab sandwich right at the top. I couldn’t remember what I had gotten last time, so I picked the slightly spicy option in the middle. Seven hundred yen.

On the table to my right sat a small drink fridge. I pulled out a zero-calorie cola. The label read “LA Cola Zero.” I’d never seen it before, but since there were no other sugar-free options, I decided to give it a try. One hundred yen.

I felt as though the standards or inner boundaries I had held onto were starting to blur. I could distinctly feel it happening.

An Uber Eats driver came and went.

The kebab was spicier than expected and packed with lettuce, making it a bit tricky to eat at first. I went through a lot of tissues wiping sauce from my lips.

As I was finishing up, a man came in and placed an order. I could tell it was for takeout, but I couldn’t catch what he had ordered.

For some reason, I was terribly curious, so I asked him. He apologized, saying he didn’t speak Japanese. I asked him again in English.

He had ordered a kebab bowl.

I wondered why it hadn’t sounded like “kebab bowl” to me when he first said it.

He mentioned that kebabs were familiar food back in his country. We exchanged a subtle smile, said goodbye, and he left. I don’t quite remember if he told me where he was from.

There was only one employee in the shop. Judging by his demeanor, I could tell he wasn’t the owner.

He asked if I was Japanese. I told him I was Korean. For a moment, his previously expressionless face seemed to brighten up a little.

We continued talking in English, though neither of us was particularly fluent. He said he had come to Japan two years ago.

The shop had been open for 24 years.

Surprised to learn it had been there longer than I thought, I reacted a bit more dramatically than I actually felt.

Just then, a young customer in a black hoodie walked in and ordered. His vibe felt as dark as his clothes. The employee and I kept chatting, but a subtle awkwardness lingered in the air.

I stood up and asked to pay. He guided me to the counter. As he took my money, he picked up the conversation where we left off.

His wife had come to Japan before him.
She had found him this job.
Six months later, he joined her in Japan.
Four months after that, she passed away.

He returned to Nepal, his hometown, with his late wife and prayed to the Buddha over and over.
Then, he came back to Japan.
His two children were being cared for by his mother back in Nepal.

His house was about a three-hour drive from where the landslide had hit Nepal the previous month.
He said he would probably return to Nepal soon as well.

Throughout our conversation, he often said, “My life.” Each time he did, he placed his left palm over the center of his chest.