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About Osaka

Hate the stigma, though—folks judgin’. Like, who cares? She’s workin’, I’m payin’, end of story. Funniest part? She smelled like cheap perfume and tuna—dock life, baby. Cracked me up, thinkin’, “This is my Brokeback moment.” No mountains, just fish guts and a quickie. “Truth is, sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly stand it,” I mutter, half-jokin’, half-serious. She rolls her eyes—fair.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring! Like, monsoon-level rain. I’m sprinting for cover, lookin’ like a wet dog. I duck into a café on the corner of the street. It’s cozy, smells like fresh coffee. I order a matcha latte, and the barista’s super nice. We chat about the weather, and I’m like, “Yeah, it’s a real mood killer.” She laughs, and I’m like, “Okay, I’m not the only one who thinks this is ridiculous.”

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