I remembered a tonkotsu ramen shop, one on the corner of the big street near my old apartment, that I never ate at, but always walked by.
I always used to notice it; I always used to be blasted with that thick, fatty smell of soup runoff whenever I was waiting for the stoplight. it was a stoplight that was so long to turn, yet you could hardly walk across it before the light started flickering.
over the pandemic, the ramen shop's hours kept shrinking, bit by bit, until, one day, I stopped noticing the smell. (in retrospect, not a good way to end a sentence that started with "over the pandemic".)
after that, when I walked by it, it was always dark. there were delivery boxes stacked high inside, and tons of equipment piled on the counter. all the signs, ink slightly fading, were still posted on the window. open for lunch from 12:00 to 13:30, four days a week. but no one was home.
I always wondered, I always worried. did something happen to the owner of the shop? did they just walk away from it all?
the last tabelog review of the place was in late 2020, but there are a wrath of negative google maps reviews between 2021 and 2022, lamenting changes in management and poor quality. maybe there wasn't a difference between it being closed and a closed shop walking. though, by all I can tell, it's really closed now.
earlier this week, I walked by that ramen shop again, carrying all that remained of that old apartment: five sets of curtains, a bag of cables, and all the cleaning supplies I could shove into a trash can.
the shop was as messy as before, but, for the first time that I've noticed in years, the sliding door was partially open.
was someone trying to clean up a part of their life that no longer existed? were they trying to put things back together? or was it just my imagination pulling at threads? i don't know. but I think I know what tomorrow's dinner is.