Udon, so Slippery

And so I turned into a back alley, looking for a way out of this clustered maze of shoplots in a town long established. How would I get back out onto the main road?

The food court, with its glaring florescent lights calling out to the lost and hungry, gleamed at the unevenly paved corner. That corner, which I have been circling to find again, seemed to retreat further into the sights of nighttime the longer my foot pressured the accelerator until finally, I lost it completely as my car shone its headlights on a narrow alleyway where old men gathered. Ah, I've never been good with directions but sometimes I wish that I could stop myself from being pulled by the force of oddity.

Backing away slowly, I slid into an available parking space opposite of an udon shop.

Why is there a cheap Japanese restaurant hiding in this alley? Situated right next to a dodgy motel which I assume caters to old men with an interest not in their wives, I wasn't sure if I should turn off the ignition. But the waitress waiting by the counter, wearing a bored countenance, is likely a university student waiting for her part-time salary to flow into her pockets while she leans against the counter, texting.

With ochre-tinted bright lights, and Sakura prints on its sign, I braced myself for disappointment as I grabbed the stainless steel handle of the glass doors, pushed it open and took a step into this empty establishment. Hisaishi's music filled the atmosphere, and I thought to myself, how generic can this place be?

Sliding away from my grasp, the slippery Udon dives back into the kimchi broth, and I am taken aback by the orange sprays that have splattered against my glasses. I sigh, and pull a piece of tissue out from the dispenser. Everything I try to hold onto, struggles to be free from my grasp. I wonder if it is a flaw, undeniably fixed, that my hands should never be able to hold whatever that may come into their reach.

Again and again I try to firmly hold them between my chopsticks, but each time, they effortlessly slide back down into the fishy waters. I sigh, and pull out another piece of tissue.

I'm reminded of the time I went on a date with a Japanese guy. After I greeted him at the station, we walked around in search of dinner and came across Hanamaru Udon. He said he wanted to try the Udon here in Malaysia. It wasn't until my udon slipped from between my chopsticks and fell back into the thick curry sauce with a higher than expected splash that I realised, sitting across my date who was leaning in to slurp his own udon, was a terrible idea. In general, eating noodle soup on a first date is a disaster. I never saw him again. Perhaps my chopsticks skills were unacceptable.

Having downed my third cup of green tea, I suppose I should pay and leave. They close in 15 after all.