Ichiro Moriyama.

Both conversations ended the same way: with irritation, a long silence, and a forced invitation to a charity evening for “respectable acquaintances.”

“I hate people,” Stuart said, straightening his tie.

“It’s mutual,” said a voice nearby.

He turned his head. A man in a perfectly tailored black suit stood next to him, his expression like that of someone brought here against their will.

— I suppose you are also a victim of circumstances?

• I suppose so.

— Stuart Hatford.

— Ichiro Moriyama.

They shook hands as if they were concluding a truce between two states.

Ten minutes later they were already sitting in the corner of the room, ignoring everyone else.

"Are they trying to get you married too?" asked Stuart.

• Systematically.

— And they demand children?

— Regularly.

Stuart grinned for the first time that evening.

"It's amazing. We've known each other for fifteen minutes, and you already understand me better than my family."

“That’s a low bar,” Ichiro noted.

"Are you married?" someone asked later.

Stuart took a sip of whiskey.

• Not yet.

Ichiro slowly turned his head towards him.

• Bye?

— Checking the audience's reaction.

• And how?

— Panic in the left corner.

• Satisfactory.

The following weeks became a strange routine: breakfast on Tuesdays, dinner on Fridays, and sarcastic messages at two in the morning.

Stewart: "I was told today that I'm missing out on my best years."
Ichiro: "Which ones exactly? The nineties?"

Ichiro: "They sent me a photo of a friend's child with the caption, 'It's time for you too.'"
Stewart: "Send them a bill for psychological damages."

The transition to informal address happened casually.

They were sitting in a cafe, and it was raining outside.

“You’re late,” Ichiro said, without looking up from his cup.

Stuart froze.

• And you already ordered without me.

Pause.

Ichiro looked up.

— We are now...

• Yes.

— Are we going to go back to being formal?

• No. It's too late.

“I like you,” Stuart said one day, as calmly as if he were discussing the weather.

• You're terrible at choosing the time to confess.

— It's Tuesday now. Our breakfast.

• Exactly.

Pause.

“I like you too,” Ichiro said.

• Already better.

• Don't get used to it.