Saturday December 31 - Night
The day had been a flop. He had been all over town, attempting to avoid crowds, in hunt for the next book in the series he had been reading. Instead he seemed to migrate with the crowds and was unable to find the book anywhere. He eventually gave up the hunt and attempted to head home, which wasn't an easy feat when every one else seemed to be wanting to go the opposite direction of his home. Even trying to get on the train, he had to wait for masses of people to spill out of the doors before he and only a few others could get on. When he finally made it back to his apartment, he gave up on local shopping and found himself adding the book to a shopping cart online.
He considered what foods he had in his cabinets before resolving to make fried rice. Gendo was quite the cook, preferring to make a nutritious meal than to purchase one for a food stand, with the exception of his beloved coffee. Not only could he cook well, but he would cook only natural and healthy meals. But on a night he was feeling particularly irritated, he was in no mood for cooking and fried rice it was.
As he was finishing dinner, he started going through his messages on his phone. He was right, it was mostly filled with messages from his college friends who were trying to figure out what bar would have the best deals to go to tonight. He got into a habit of just clicking delete instead of reading the mindless messages. He hesitated over the delete key when he came across Fukuyo's message. The two often messaged each other, as Fukuyo was able to keep up with Gendo's analytical observations (and put up with his sarcasm). They got along well, and Gendo enjoyed that while he was an intuitive and thinking personality type, Fukuyo was a sensing and feeling personality type, meaning they saw things differently, though they came to the same conclusions. Gendo used rationality while Fukuyo used empathy.
He felt a pang of guilt for not responding to her. It was nearing ten at night now, and it was highly probable that anyone else she had invited was probably already drunk. His phone went dark as it hibernated. The silence in his apartment was becoming louder by the second, and the lonely floor lamp was becoming dimmer. Cursing under he breathe, his stood up and headed towards the kitchen. He quickly cleaned his bowl and chopsticks (he wouldn't dare leave dishes unclean, and in fact had cleaned his cooking utensils right after having made the food). Searching through a cabinet, he pulled out Barefoot wine, which was pretty much his only choice. Grabbing his coat, he was on his way to Fukuyo's.
He arrived nearly half an hour later; they lived about a train station away from one another. He approached the door and knocked.
He considered what foods he had in his cabinets before resolving to make fried rice. Gendo was quite the cook, preferring to make a nutritious meal than to purchase one for a food stand, with the exception of his beloved coffee. Not only could he cook well, but he would cook only natural and healthy meals. But on a night he was feeling particularly irritated, he was in no mood for cooking and fried rice it was.
As he was finishing dinner, he started going through his messages on his phone. He was right, it was mostly filled with messages from his college friends who were trying to figure out what bar would have the best deals to go to tonight. He got into a habit of just clicking delete instead of reading the mindless messages. He hesitated over the delete key when he came across Fukuyo's message. The two often messaged each other, as Fukuyo was able to keep up with Gendo's analytical observations (and put up with his sarcasm). They got along well, and Gendo enjoyed that while he was an intuitive and thinking personality type, Fukuyo was a sensing and feeling personality type, meaning they saw things differently, though they came to the same conclusions. Gendo used rationality while Fukuyo used empathy.
He felt a pang of guilt for not responding to her. It was nearing ten at night now, and it was highly probable that anyone else she had invited was probably already drunk. His phone went dark as it hibernated. The silence in his apartment was becoming louder by the second, and the lonely floor lamp was becoming dimmer. Cursing under he breathe, his stood up and headed towards the kitchen. He quickly cleaned his bowl and chopsticks (he wouldn't dare leave dishes unclean, and in fact had cleaned his cooking utensils right after having made the food). Searching through a cabinet, he pulled out Barefoot wine, which was pretty much his only choice. Grabbing his coat, he was on his way to Fukuyo's.
He arrived nearly half an hour later; they lived about a train station away from one another. He approached the door and knocked.