THE SUSHI BAR IS EMPTY

It is the older hours of the night, in a small building, where the white fluorescent lights flicker down at the tables and chairs that sit marooned on the linoleum floor. The windows are blinded by the dust that has settled there, masking the bare bones of the buildings outside; the streets filled with their rubble-flesh. The chairs and tables can accommodate extra guests, but the main attraction of the restaurant is the train that winds around the room. It whirrs quietly. There are no guests.

A fish tank bubbles quietly in the corner, while the Chef stands in the middle of the moving train. He makes nigiri and maki rolls and miso soup. He places them on the little coloured plates and sets them free on the winding track towards no one. Behind his large frame, prayer flags and menu prices flutter half-heartedly in the cold breeze that flows through the open door. An invitation to people that says they are welcome here, despite the destroyed roads, the stale air, and the blanket of death. The knives and boards and rolling tools sit in the sink awaiting to be washed. The Chef knows he will not clean them.

His wife appears from the ‘Employees Only’ mystery door with a tea towel and solemn face. She smiles at someone walking past the open doorway; they don’t smile back. Her steps patter as she untucks and re-tucks chairs under tables and wipes her hands and face. His wife sighs and lowers herself into a chair. Somewhere in the distance, a deep rumbling emerges. Moments later, an air siren sings, and the pair share a grieving glance.

The Chef pauses his sushi making and exits his haven. He strides through the ‘Employees Only’ door with ease. His wife raises herself and throws a glance around the room. Her eyes find the almost-empty canister of fish food beside the tank. She lifts the lid and raises the food towards the opening. The fish in the tank swim in circles, bobbing towards the surface longingly, blind to what is beyond the glass. They do not know of the broken neighbourhood outside, or the empty restaurant, or the couple that care for them.

Before she can tip in the last of the food, the Chef catches his wife’s arm. He grasps a black bag with tightened knuckles.

‘Don’t bother,’ he says, ‘they might not be here tomorrow.’

His wife nods. She closes the tank and mumbles a prayer for the aquatic animals inside.

A haunting stillness settles over the restaurant. The Chef draws his wife close, and they go out into the skeleton-streets together. The bell jingles as the door is closed, but not locked, wishing them one final farewell. The lights pulsate, the train whines, the tank gurgles. And the sushi bar is empty.