‘Is that your best attempt to invite me?’ She leaned closer and whispered, ‘Try harder.’

‘Let me see.’ He threw the paper cup at the nearby rubbish bin, but missed. So uncool. ‘What about this: Let’s have a Motsunabe. An authentic Fukuoka speciality, prepared just for you. I’ll use beef and pork intestines. Once I add the intestines to the base soup, we’ll have a rich broth. Imagine the flavours soaking into the meat, making it soft and tasty. Top it up with cabbage and garlic chives, and eat it with Champon noodles or white rice. I guarantee it’s going to be the most delicious hotpot you’ll ever taste.’

She smirked. ‘Really?’

‘Yup.’ He stood and took her black canvas backpack. It was huge but surprisingly light. ‘Just come over. Hotpot tastes best shared.’

‘All right.’ She took her bag from his hand. ‘Thanks for offering to carry it, but it’s almost empty. I only use it as an accessory.’

He shrugged, and they walked to his apartment.

After a nearly disastrous attempt at making the base soup — Shoji was out of the all-important soy sauce though, luckily, he found some miso paste to use instead — they ate the hotpot together on the balcony. Yoko took the first sip of the broth.

‘How is it?’ he asked, nervous.

She gave a thumbs-up. ‘It’s good.’

‘I’m glad.’ He scooped a bowl of rice. ‘I would have felt bad dragging you here if you didn’t like it. But the soup tastes different from the usual one, doesn’t it?’

‘I can’t tell. This is my first Motsunabe.’

He laughed, and she laughed too. She had dimples, and when she smiled her aloofness disappeared.

Shoji had made too much soup, so the two of them ate slowly while sharing a bottle of Junmai sake. He learned that she loved travelling solo. She told him about her backpacking adventures in Thailand, Nepal, Jordan, Indonesia, Sri Lanka, Cambodia, Turkey. But when she got to Singapore, she went quiet and lowered her head. Probably too exhausted. Or too drunk.

‘It’s late,’ Shoji said. ‘Do you want to stay over? You can use my room. I’ll take the couch.’

Yoko looked up. Her eyes were red.

‘You know where the room is, don’t you?’

She nodded. ‘What about you?’

‘I want to drink a bit more first.’

Shoji was tired, but he lied so Yoko could rest without feeling bad about leaving the clearing up to him.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

‘Yup,’ he said.

The morning they’d first met, she had been crying. He had felt he had to do something for her, to save her. Was that the reason he’d told her to stay the night? He had never asked anyone to spend the night before, even the few friends he had made at university.

Sighing, he took one last sip of his sake. Perhaps he was the drunk one.

He fished out a cigarette and began to smoke. A thin crescent moon hung low in the starless sky. It had to be his imagination, but the moon in Tokyo seemed paler than in Fukuoka.