Saeko Tanaka Novels & Stories

Traditional wooden beams arched overhead, and low wooden tables with cushioned zabuton seats invited patrons to linger. Aiko Tanaka moved gracefully between the tables in her elegant uniform: a soft pink kimono-style blouse that hugged her petite frame, a crisp white apron tied neatly at her waist, and a pleated skirt that swayed just above her knees. At 24, she was the picture of demure Japanese beauty. Porcelain skin, long black hair pinned up with delicate kanzashi ornaments, and large, doe-like eyes that rarely met a customer’s gaze for long. Yet beneath that polished politeness burned something deeper.