Something smells fishy

Like a virgin

My first ever story, yay!

                                                                                                    ***

It's just fish, Amy! You've had fish a million times before. It's ok, just do what everybody else is doing; dip it in soy sauce, put it in your mouth and swallow. No chewing. Just swallow.

The pep talk I give myself is miserably failing its purpose, as I continue my stalking session of the party of four across the narrow hall.  Their box is less than thirty inches away from mine and the dim lighting doesn't prevent me from throwing insisting peeks in their direction.

The restaurant is on the small side, but it stretches out into little tunnels. One might get easily lost within if not showed the way. Each tunnel will lead you to a private booth of sorts, some hidden behind wood panels, others enclosed in clay.

The one I chose tonight is microscopic in terms of sitting space, typical booth for one with nothing typical about it.  It takes but a corner, isolated from the rest of the world by a wattle fence and a linen cloth hanging in the cramped makeshift doorway. A bird cage is hanging from the ceiling and dangerously swaying above my head. One wrong move and it feels like my head will be taking its place. It's spooky, but private; perfect for what I have planned for tonight.

The program is grand indeed, getting rid of my sashimi-virginity. Sashimi, raw slices of fish, sliced about half an inch thick, served on a refreshing bed of shaved daikon and juicy shiso leaf, is a most common dish. Common does not make it easy though, because loosing one's virginity never is.

This is like my nth time here and everything is going according to plan. As it always does. I sit down, as always. I make my order, a beer and a single serving of tuna sashimi, as always. I take a swig out of my beer for courage, as always. I pick up the slice of fish, so pink that it feels like there's a beating heart attached to it somewhere. And as always, I freeze.

Raw fish, for the love of God.

I lower my chopsticks. The piece of tuna, now tepid and unaesthetic, is laying there impaled mercilessly by me, the Vlad Tepes of sashimi. I cringe. The bird cage swoons at contact with my arm and the light play makes it look like the slice of fish is almost quivering in pain, poor thing.

The words of my grandmother instantly come to me 'You are never to play with your food, young lady!' If she could see me now, her baby,  ready to sink her teeth into a piece of innocent  fish.

While l am at it, I experience a moment of clarity and decide to abandon my mission. As always.  And take my leave before I'm branded a complete weirdo by the people sitting across of me, by now disturbingly aware of my presence.

It has already been two months since I've moved to Japan and I still could not stop myself from staring at people eating raw fish like pancakes at IHOP. I would freeze in my tracks in front of the fish counter every time I went grocery shopping. Tens of different types of fish thinly sliced and beautifully arranged on the rack.

I have never been a picky eater. I ate everything served on my plate, be it milkless Frootloops or three day old, right out of the fridge, deep dish pizza. Raw fish though was just wrong.

Ever since I moved to Takamatsu -- a small town located in the smallest region of the smallest island out of the main four that make-up Japan -- I was obsessed by the idea of conquering this shortcoming of mine. I visualized myself eating it, trying to imagine what raw fish could possibly taste like. Nothing beyond the memory of my grandpa's rubber boot in my mouth at the young age of four came to mind.