Flu Shots And Hana Maki by venitha

I toss my bag over my shoulder, still achy from my hour-old flu shot (it's winter, and therefore flu season, in our destination of the month, Australia) and head for the escalator.

"That may be my most expensive lunch here yet," Jim says, tucking our Sakae Sushi receipt into his wallet.

I shrug with the blasé mien of a woman who hasn't earned a penny in months and yet is unsurprised to find herself happily satiated with sushi at 1:15 on a Tuesday afternoon.
"But it's well worth it for a nice lunch out with my beloved," Jim croons with a moony sigh and leans forward from the step behind me to lose a kiss in the frizzy chaos atop my head. No, it's not the flu shot; he's always like this.

"Yeah, yeah." I say, shrugging off his intrinsic sappiness. No, it's not the flu shot; I'm always like this. "A year from now I'll take you out for a sushi lunch in Ft Collins, and we'll be lucky for a bill that's only double today's. And - here's a sad thought - there won't be a conveyor belt. And worst of all," I conclude as we step out into the muggy afternoon heat, "they may not have hana maki."

Free-flowing ice water and - here's a concept - napkins and - here's a really bold and cutting edge concept, so brace yourself - good service, all glorious treats that we take for granted in Ft Collins restaurants, will, of course, compensate for a lot. But at the thought of no hana maki, I am bereft. I want to march right back up that escalator and inhale another dozen plates of the scrumptious morsels.
Instead I remind myself that I have another year to indulge this passion and that I am loved by someone who shares it. I take Jim's hand and recklessly swing my flu-shot arm with him all the way to the MRT.

venitha