3 Chapter 2 - Mister Haruki

Haruki Yoshinko, or, 'papa Yoshinko' as he- to my disdain - liked to be called, was my "lover" number one. He was a 45 years old man working for an electronics company, working as a deputy head for the HR department. Well educated, well mannered and most importantly (at least for me), well stacked up with cash; undoubtedly the best 'friend' you can hope for. His hairs were brittling, starting to show few strands of grey with his beer belly growing and the wrinkles starting to show, and he would always smell of cigarettes, with his voice always strained for some unknown reason and his teeth yellowing. His thin,silver wired glasses screamed of antiques as well as his so-called 'expensive watch' he always proudly flexed in front of me, which had a brown leather strap fixed onto a simple circular clock with no numbers on it, black needles feebly ticking about on top of the empty whiteness. His fashion sense, in my opinion, was one of the worst, but other than that, he was an A grade friend with all the expensive gifts. He was the older out of the two men I had on a thread but I felt the most comfortable with him. After all, a married man who isn't happy with his marriage with no children between him and his wife surely would fall for an 'innocent, youthful and energetic' kid like me, and would do anything in his power to make her new found daughter-like girl happy.

"You're like a father to me." I'd say with my brows arching a bit to mold a sad, nostalgic eyes, with a clear smile to program him that I was feeling bittersweet.

"So I always want you close."

I met Haruki when I was serving as a barista in a cafe, around just two years ago. I don't know what happened in these two years but I do remember he had less wrinkles, and he was also less bloated. In fact, even a pragmatic attractor like me who preys on predators has taste. Back then, his posture was proper, he had his glasses fixed onto his breast pocket of his black suit, with his thin hands clinging onto the mug cup full of Cappuccino; the finger bones and blue green veins popping out at the back of his palm. Was quite a scene to watch a middle aged man creasing his brows in that way, fixating his black eyes onto a few pieces of A4 papers, his hair parted neatly 8 to 2. My manager back then told me that he was a regular, working at a prestigious company with a prestigious title.

It was common sense then, to acquire such a person. It couldn't be helped.

After all, it's perfectly natural to want the company of a competent and responsible man, and adding to that he was in his forties, turning out to be a perfect man in every way. He had too much to lose in his age to be able to tell people about me - a young, fresh out of college girl working part-time - including of course his wife whom he didn't seem at all care much about and maybe his job if - and quite LITERALLY only if - things get out of hand from his end and I have to play the right cards using the age gap. Everytime I served him, and everytime he'd come and there weren't many customers around, I'd start sparking up a bunch of small talks.

He was a Japanese man who immigrated apparently when he was just 10, and from there he built himself up to reach the standards he and his parents set. He never quite seemed to be happy with his employees, with always the complaints about how inefficient the young people in his workplace were.

I was, throughout all the conversations, trying to figure out how I'd capture his interests, because from his initial presence and first impressions alone I had figured he'd be a strict conservative.

I was half right, and thankfully half wrong.

He was indeed quite conservative, with strict ideas on how things should be done around his world. In his mind, he already had life figured out, and had the 'if it ain't broke don't fix it' attitude towards society which yet has not failed him but had him prosper. I had to pick up my cutleries after him, I had to wear longer skirts when we went on dates in the future, I had to bow my head a little every time I met him and everytime we said our goodbyes, and he much preferred that I listen to him rather than talk or give my opinions.

That being said, he was also quite insecure and easily persuaded by words, at least when he was outside of his workplace. Digging into those weak spots, along with the information he had given me about his family dynamics when I striked up a conversation or two while making his coffee and delivering it to him, I managed to become someone important to him.

I have never seen his wife, and I had no idea what that lady even does, but judging by the fact that they had no children, I figured perhaps the source of their presumed quarrel was in either their lack of sexual compatibility or their difference in perspective regarding having a child. Perhaps a bit of both, because everytime I observe his eyes when I'm with him he's looking around for the other girls - younger or older - and their bodies, all while pretending he's just cleaning his glasses and looking at the distance. At the same time, he also seemed to really want a child, since many times during our conversations he'd talk about how he'll raise his kids when he gets one.

Familiar love, sprinkled with some eros. That's the way I made him approach me, and it worked out perfectly. I'd started to act clumsy, purposely giving him coffee without sugar or purposely confusing the menus. Of course, the manager would scold me about my sudden lack of professionality, but I didn't care that much. There were more important things in life than grinding lousy coffees and teas. I knew that all too well, and that's why I'd intentionally make mistakes.

"I'm so...so sorry again!"

"You suddenly make a lot of mistakes...what happened? did you not get trained?"

My increased amount of mistakes towards him would of course make him frustrated.

"I-I always suddenly seem to confuse your orders. I am so sorry."

Head bowed down. Don't look him in the eyes, bite your lips a little bit, with your two hands together in front of you, your body moving a little bit side to side.

Then look up, scream with your face and face alone- 'I am a clumsy girl, I am nervous out of my mind!'

Few seconds of silence, he laughs. Of course he does. A pretty girl suddenly only makes mistakes in his orders and his orders alone, and on top of that asks about his work, his family, his opinions of the latest news, which she doesn't seem to with other customers.

He feels special.

One day, I take out my own money from my purse, shove in inside the counter. I buy a simple croissant off the store. I took out the change for myself of course, I hated wasting money.

I give him the croissant. Just one, pathetic croissant.

He feels special again.

Now, a rich person has dealt a lot with fake people. In fact, I'd argue that sometimes in their life a rich person has to be somewhat fake themselves. Business relationships are built upon fake virtues, and a smile may hide a multitude of 'please do this' or 'please do that'.

But not when it's from an innocent looking barista girl like me, who spends her own money -which she doesn't have a lot of - to buy something for them even if it's something as small and cheap as a single croissant. All together now:

A pretty girl suddenly only makes mistakes in his orders and his orders alone, and on top of that asks about his work, his family, his opinions of the latest news, which she doesn't seem to with other customers AND she goes through the effort to spend what little she had to buy him a token of apology.

He asked for my number, and I gave it to him. Too easy.

The current relationship I have with him is simple. I call him papa, he treats me like a daughter; albeit with underlying lust. This balance is good for me, because I get to earn quite a lot from him while simultaneously not compromising my body past a simple peck or a light kiss.

To him I was a bratty little innocent kid.

With my rehearsed, slightly high pitch, somewhat breathy voice that I developed slowly over the contract period with him, I answer the phone.

"Moshi moshi! what's wrong papa?"