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The snow was out of season and relentless. It began as a trickle at high noon, growing in strength through the afternoon and evening. By midnight every gutter was overflowing with slush. Street lamps and traffic signals sagged under the weight—their neon light diffused to delicate glows. Every breath pulled too thick for comfort even after the snowfall tapered off. The morning commute would be brutal but at two in the morning, the streets were picturesque.
Nights like this one, Hiromi never knew what to do with himself. Sensible people were home, tucked away in their beds and struggling for sleep with the traffic tuned so low. Hiromi had run his full gambit by midnight: watching television became reading a book, then became reviewing case law, until he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror still dressed at half past one, reciting arguments he didn’t need until next week. A useless endeavor—Hiromi would have to practice it all over again—but perhaps it’d been a more productive use of his time than slopping through the snow in the dead of night, searching outward for a distraction from his insomnia.
There was a famous painting of a diner Hiromi had seen hundreds of times across the span of his life: of wraparound windows and midnight coffees served at the counter by a nostalgia-clad waiter in all white. Hiromi had always considered the piece to be institutional, if only because it made him realize he would never experience such undemanding stillness. Standing on the street corner outside his apartment building, waiting to cross like any cars were on the roads, Hiromi considered he might be wrong on that last point. Tokyo would never be so quiet and dark as the view out Phillies’ window, but smothered in snow with muted streetlights? Hiromi could imagine such calm lingering a sliver beyond his reach.
Across the street, Hiromi’s preferred midnight haunt glowed with Open All Night pride dripping down the facade in a neon haze. The restaurant was large. Dominated the corner from every direction with bright awnings snug under a blanket of snow. Pancake House was the sort of institution to earn its infamy courtesy of drunken college students and interns, all out too late and in need of something to soak up their overindulgences at the bars. Pancake House was the perfect solution: central location, never closed, never judged.
The streetlight changed and Hiromi wrestled again with annoyance for obeying it before crossing and entering Pancake House with an accompanying ring from the doorbell.
Inside, a handful of people seemed to have the same idea as Hiromi. Two brunette women sat in a booth along the south windows, each reading. At the next table, a lanky man with a shock of white hair shuffled through a mess of papers, wearing a cardigan with tweed elbow patches and twirling a red marker between his fingers. Two milkshake glasses adorned his table: one half full, the other empty. Along the other side, a younger man with green highlights sat with his back to the window, sketchpad propped on his knees, picking at a basket of fries.
Hiromi took a booth along the west windows, in the corner behind the cardigan guy with all the paperwork. Not long after Hiromi picked his table, the waitress came by with a coffee pot and cup.
“Anything to eat?” she asked, pouring Hiromi a coffee without asking if he wanted it.
“Are pancakes too on the nose?”
The waitress chuckled. “We’d better have the best ones in town, right? They’ll be right up.”
“Thank you,” Hiromi said, already digging in his bag for his book.
When the waitress returned, she wielded not one, but two plates of pancakes and an impish grin. She set one plate in front of Hiromi and the other across the table from him. When Hiromi looked up in question, she jerked her chin to the left, towards the door. “On him.”
Hiromi followed her gaze, only to find the cardigan guy standing from his table with a grin that made the waitress’s amusement look downright saintly. He was so hideously tall that he needed only three steps to reach Hiromi’s booth. Like too tall and then too tall on top of that, and then maybe some extra tall, as a treat. His hair had looked messier with his head bowed over the stack of red-marked papers and so had the sweater—all baggy and pushed up to his forearms—but standing under the fluorescent lights, the man was intentional and wolfish.
“May I?” he asked, and then took a seat across the table before Hiromi had a chance to say ‘no.’
A wink was all Hiromi got out of the waitress before she abandoned him.
The awkward pause that descended over the booth was nearly as thick as the snow. The man stared evenly at Hiromi, his eyes crystalline under the harsh lighting.
“I’m not sure what’s going on here,” Hiromi finally said. He looked at his pancakes, then at the other stack. The plates were the same: three chocolate chip pancakes with a slab of butter melting on top.
“It’s kind of like when you’re at the bar and clock someone interesting, so you buy them a drink as an excuse to chat them up. I don’t drink and they don’t have a liquor license here anyway—makes sense, I guess, but honestly, they’d make a killing— Where was I?”
Bewildered, Hiromi answered, “I have no idea. Who are you?”
“Right!” The man clapped his hands then stretched both arms far, far over his head. “I know the pancakes are kind of weird but it’s the best I could do, given the setting and suddenness and all that. Besides, who doesn’t love chocolate chip pancakes? Anyway, this is a pickup line.”
“I don’t think this is how that works.” And yet, despite himself, Hiromi was mildly intrigued.
“Pfft! Please! You have to think outside the box at two o’clock in the Pancake House.”
Hiromi fiddled with his book and considered going back home. But it was cold out. And he was hungry; he just got these marvelous—apparently free—pancakes. All he had to do was eat them with someone who might be a psychopath. What was the worst that could happen? If Hiromi’s fate was getting murdered at Pancake House tonight, he might as well have a last meal.
“I desperately want to hear what the hell just went through your head,” the man said before grabbing the little syrup jar from the middle of the table, pouring half of it on his pancakes, and then daintily unrolling a set of silverware to dig in.
“I was mostly thinking you must be crazy.”
“Hmm, probably. Fuck, these are good.”
If memory served, they really were delicious pancakes. Hiromi had been here enough in college that even after joining the Public Defender’s Office, he kept the habit of stopping by, if only sporadically. “You still haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”
“One sec.” The man wiped his mouth and scooted out of the booth. A moment later, he returned with his messy stack of papers shoved every which way in a binder, the biggest puffy coat Hiromi had ever seen in his life, and his half-finished milkshake.
“Priorities,” Hiromi drawled before he could think not to.
“See, you get it.” The man took a long sip of his milkshake as if to demonstrate its importance. “Name’s Gojo Satoru. And you are?” Gojo asked, drawing the question out far too long to be polite.
“I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Aw, and here I was being so nice.”
Hiromi dug into his breakfast. Might as well. “I don’t share my name with strangers. Especially those who may be lunatics.”
“Oh, I’m definitely some sort of lunatic, but not the kind you’re worried about,” Gojo said, flashing his teeth.
Hiromi stabbed his fork through another bite of pancakes and asked, “What sort are you, then?”
“Nuh-uh.” Gojo wagged his fork at Hiromi. “I told you my name, bought breakfast, and have graciously agreed to share my company with you for as long as you’d like—”
“None of which was asked of you,” Hiromi couldn’t help but point out.
Gojo rolled his eyes and barreled forward. “The least you could give me is your family name. Or an alias, even. Just give me something to call you other than Shorty McKamakura.”
“I am average height. You must not be able to tell because you were apparently keel-hauled with your feet tied to the docks.” It was the only way Hiromi could think of to explain Gojo’s obnoxiously long limbs.
“Okay, fine, you wanna play hard to get. That’s valid. How about we Rumpelstiltskin this?”
“The hell is a Rumpelstiltskin?”
“A German folk tale espousing that even the lies of the patriarchy cannot conquer a clever woman.”
“That seems incredibly unlikely.”
Gojo propped his elbows on the table and set his chin on a platform made from his interlaced fingers. “If I guess your name”—he made a production of looking at Hiromi’s book, Hiromi’s shirt, Hiromi’s naked fingers—“you have to go on a date with me.”
“Absolutely not.” Hiromi had met enough con men to spot one. Gojo wasn’t even posing a challenge.
“Aw, come on… Hitoshi. Not even if I take you for waffles next time?”
“Not even then. And also: incorrect.” But close, what the hell?
“Too bad. Don’t worry, Consuela, I’ll get it eventually. So, what do you do for a living?” Gojo immediately added, “Just occupation, surely.”
The risk was minimal. “I’m an attorney. How about you?”
Gojo leaned in on his elbows. “Oh, you should guess. Play along.”
“You teach high school literature.”
Furrowed brows and the entertained twist of Gojo’s mouth sagging into a pout were all Hiromi needed to know he hit the bullseye. And his gut was correct: it was always incredibly funny to throw over-confident men off their game.
“Why the hell would you guess that?” Gojo’s question cracked with indignation but there was humor layered under the surface.
Funny from both their perspectives, then. Hiromi reluctantly allowed the scales to tip a little further in interest. Why not let this play out for a bit? “That’s why.”
Gojo fussed with his straw. “Elaborate?”
“You don’t deny it, you just want to know how I know. Besides, there’s the elbow patches, and the papers. The red marker. I figure high school since you’re marking on paper and marking a lot. Papers are long enough that they’re probably about books. Bet you’re the cool teacher. Kids probably call you Mister G. and run to you every time they get shot down by their crushes.”
Gojo threw his head back, laughing. He left one arm lying across the back of the booth while he cut his pancakes with the side of his fork and speared a bite. “Must be a good lawyer.”
Hiromi hated sentiments like that one because it was never enough to be good at his job; he had to be both flawless and convincing, and even then his clients usually didn’t benefit.
“Oh, don’t take it personal like that, Billie Jean,” Gojo said through a mouthful of pancakes. He pointed his fork towards the booths lining the other side of the restaurant. “Your parlor trick work on everyone? Or just the dashing, generous sort?”
“Your ability to compliment yourself with every breath is truly astounding. Do your students learn anything other than personal anecdotes?” Hiromi gestured to the messy folder of red-marked essays. “Just how terrible are all those papers?”
Gojo’s chin rose a centimeter. “My students are excellent, thank you very much. And those essays were such a reach, I can’t believe only one of them had a nervous breakdown before cracking Kinkakuji open and getting to work.”
”You make your high school students write papers on Mishima Yukio?” Hiromi considered the essay folder with new horror. “What sort of monster are you?”
“The sort who doesn’t teach history, so the fallout from pointing young and curious minds in wild directions tends to be more funny than anything else.”
“The history teacher must hate you.”
“Oh, no,” Gojo snickered. “He’s an anti-capitalist, pro-labor, loudmouth who spent his teenage years listening to metal and painting his nails with Sharpies. Nothing that man loves more than a good rant.” Gojo held up two fingers, crossed. “We’re besties.”
“I’d sooner believe he’s secretly plotting your murder.”
Gojo slurped the last of his milkshake before pushing the empty glass closer to the edge of the table. “Seriously, pick someone. What do you think they’re like?”
“You just want to make stories up about strangers?”
“Got anything better to do?”
Hiromi reached over to tap his book. “I’d intended to get some reading done.”
“That reading is far more cruel than anything I’ve ever assigned. Can’t you just take a break, Captain Tightass? For one night?”
At this rate, Hiromi’s intentions were a lost cause. He patted his book cover once more and surveyed his options. As if to mock him, a harried woman rushed through the door, bringing a gust of blizzard chill with her. She was tall. Wore bug-eyed glasses and had her hair swept back into a low ponytail. Her purse was dwarfed by a messenger bag three times its size, and she schlepped it into the first booth she could reach with an audible thump. One by one, she pulled two heavy and familiar books out of the bag.
“College student,” Hiromi said, jerking his chin towards the new arrival.
“Oh, please. Do better.”
An unfortunate, competitive flare erupted somewhere in the base of Hiromi’s skull. Do better? Who did Gojo think he was?
“She’s studying for Law School.” Exams would be soon. A sympathetic pang bloomed in Hiromi’s memory of dozens of late nights studying. Not always at Pancake House, but sometimes.
Gojo made no effort to conceal himself when he popped the last bite of his pancakes in his mouth and turned to baldly stare at the woman while he chewed. “How’d you figure? You carry around books like that back in school, Ginzo?”
Hiromi repressed a scowl. Gojo was good—not at guessing but at using each attempt to wriggle further under Hiromi’s skin and each rally, Hiromi found it harder and harder not to give away clues through his reactions.
“How’s she going to do?” Gojo shot another look towards the girl as she cracked open both books and laid them across her table. When the waitress came by, she accepted only coffee.
Mustering the motivation to study was at least seventy percent of the battle. “She’ll be fine. This really how you spend your time? Pancakes, grading, and make shit up about people in the middle of the night?”
Gojo flashed a toothy grin across the table. “Usually goes better than getting to know them. People,” Gojo said, dry, droll, and bratty about it, “are the worst.”
“Now that is a point I will agree with you on.”
Gojo leaned over his empty plate. “Ahmed,” he said, gravely serious. “I think you should just tell me your name. And your phone number. And where you work. Tell me everything about you, I’m fascinated.”
A falsetto thrum ran up Hiromi’s spine when he realized he was finished with his food and disappointed about it for all the wrong reasons. Had anyone ever been so keenly interested in him? If so, he never noticed. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you like me.”
Hiromi agreed but refused to confess, if only for the sport of it.
“It’s okay,” Gojo said, faux compassion dripping between his words. “I like you, too.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough. I’m a good judge of character.”
“Oh, is that right?” At some point, Hiromi had propped his elbows on the table in mirror image of Gojo. “You got a parlor trick of your own? Go on then, tell me what you think you know about me.”
Gojo’s eyes flicked down to Hiromi’s elbows and up. “You work too hard and you’re underpromoted to boot. Your fridge has no ingredients in it—just takeout and prepared meals. You’re behind on haircuts and the dentist and the eye doctor.” Gojo cocked his head to the left. “That last one bugs you. You should just go, you know. Doesn’t take that long. Will help the headaches I’m sure you take home every day.”
Laughter bubbled free before Hiromi could consider squashing it down. “You don’t even know my name, how could you purport to know all that?”
“You’re not so mysterious as you’d like to believe.” At this, Gojo hunched further on his elbows, until he was nearly halfway across the table. In a low, intimate voice he said, “As for the name? Give me time, Inspector Clouseau.”
Hiromi could do this all night, but the cold reality of three o’clock pressed in from the frostbitten windows. “Wish I could, Gojo-san. But it’s late and I have an unforgiving judge in a few hours.”
Gojo smirked like Hiromi had given something of himself away. When Hiromi got up to leave, Gojo followed suit in a tornado of his puffy coat and massacred essay collection. “And you’re really not even going to give me a hint?” He asked, carelessly tossing far too much money on the table before heading to the door with Hiromi. “What kind of lawyer? Which judge?”
Outside, the snow nipped Hiromi’s cheeks. It clouded the lampposts—made the scenery look like the out-of-focus view out a forties diner window. In the midst of it, Gojo stood with both hands in his coat pockets, the tip of his nose almost as rosy as his lips. For one too-heavy breath, everything was still.
And then Gojo ruined it. “Sure you want to leave it like this, Phoenix Wright? Not even a hint?”
If Gojo didn’t so obviously want him to, Hiromi might consider spilling his life story right there, in the snow. Instead, he turned on his heel and called back, “Want my name? Come and find me.”
“Don’t tease, I’ll do it!”
Hiromi hoped he would.