Yabu and me were lying down on the staircase at a gym entrance. We were making up stories for the cyclists and passers-by while eating our precious bread. Doesn’t matter what kind of stuff they carry, be it a box of cake or a bouquet of flower, the story I made always have the tendency of being tragic.
“Let’s make happy ones.” Yabu said.
After all the fictions and narrations, and all the lovely coffee and bread, we came down from the staircase and became the happiest among all the strangers we saw.