Regulars

Four thirty in the morning, and the sliding door of the udon shop at the end of the alley is fogged with steam. Of the eight seats at the counter, five always belong to the same people. Mr. Choi, a taxi driver waiting for the first train, sits at the far left holding his folded newspaper; the caregiver just off her night shift sits in the middle, slowly spooning up nothing but broth; and the young man finished with his milk deliveries rests his helmet on his knees. They hardly even greet each other, but if someone is late, their seat is kept empty—that's the unspoken promise here. A week ago, you started joining that row. Today, right after the rain has stopped, there aren't many customers, and in front of the seat you're about to take, someone has already set down a glass of water.