Today's Extra Noodles

At night, on my way back from an errand, I went into a ramen shop.

I had missed lunch, so just standing in front of the ticket machine almost made my stomach growl.

The room was slightly clouded with steam. From behind the counter came the sound of noodles being lifted from water.

I handed over my ticket, and the clerk gave a short nod.

After a while, the ramen arrived.

Through the steam, thin noodles rested in the broth. Small drops of oil shone on the surface of the soup.

With the first bite, my body went a little quiet.

The noodles were firm, and the soup was hotter than I expected. I was hungry enough to eat without thinking about much of anything.

Before I knew it, only the noodles were gone.

There was still soup left.

After a moment of hesitation, I ordered extra noodles.

From across the counter, the clerk said:

“Today’s extra noodles, then.”

I did not know how that was different from ordinary extra noodles, but it did not seem worth asking.

A small plate of white noodles was set down.

I added them to the bowl.

When I loosened them with my chopsticks, a little of the afternoon rose from the soup.

I stopped moving.

Through the steam, I thought I saw the screen of my phone at lunchtime.

A short reply I had meant to send.

I had even thought of the words, then closed the screen, meaning to send it later.

I slurped the noodles.

The sentence passed down my throat, still unsent.

With the next bite, I remembered the envelope in my bag.

Before going out, I had meant to drop it in the mailbox near the station.

It was still in my bag, one corner slightly bent.

The extra noodles were gone quickly.

The soup was nearly gone too.

I paid and took the receipt.

Today’s extra noodles Takeout

Outside, the street was the same night as before.

On the way to the ticket gate, there was a red mailbox.

When I adjusted my bag, the envelope rustled inside.