The Arai dojo occupied the ground floor of an old brick building between a pharmacy and a tailor. Its polished entrance displayed thirty-seven years of photographs, tournament plaques, plus one severe portrait of Yuna at twelve holding a wooden sword larger than her patience.
"Do not laugh at that picture. I had just defeated three older boys and considered smiling beneath me," Yuna said from behind me.
"I was admiring the consistency," I replied, turning toward her.
She wore loose black training trousers with a sleeveless gray top, leaving her shoulders bare beneath the entrance lights. My approved nonphysical behavior survived the sight, although survival demanded more active management than the agreement document had suggested.
Yuna introduced me to Master Kenji Arai as a university event coordinator who had treated the kendo club fairly. Her father shook my hand, measured my posture, then assigned me a box of folded programs without asking whether I had come as a date.
