Chronicle:Funerals and feasts

"Fast order! Get it out! Number 37!"

Balancing a dozen freshly wrapped styrofoam trays clutched in her hands, the apprentice dashed out from the butchery, shoulder shielding the rickety stack of meats as she slammed through the plastic curtain in the way. She counted down the seconds, ignoring the blast of cold as she travelled from the bustling of the butchery annex behind her into the serene halls of the Infernal shrine.

As her feet left the concrete, Ohara almost tripped on herself in her rush to kick off her boots. She actually tripped when she tried to fix her footing. Slicked by her own sweat, her feet skidded across the waxed wooden floors of the shrine. ''Ah. I'm definitely falling.''

In a calculated, split second decision, she decided to break her fall not with her occupied hands, but with her knees, then her elbows as the rest of her fell forwards in a valiant attempt at protecting her trays. She was choking back cries when a scarlet-robed monk helped in returning a fallen tray to its precarious position, resuming her mad dash soon after.

Then, she made her pained dash up three flights of stairs, made awful as she futilely tried not to interrupt the tranquility with her stompy footsteps and increasingly heavier ventilating. That she even tried was making the predicament worse.

Ohara was a heaving mess by the time she reached her destination. Holding her prized pile of trays steady, she knocked - regrettably using her knees.

Her panic only increased when she heard no response from the other side. He said 37... right? Ohara's eyes scanned the number on the door for the dozenth time, and she knocked again. And again. She was beginning to resort to kicking now, lest the customers find another reason to dock her already shitty pay with their damned complaints. As the last seconds ticked down, she could only steel herself for the worst, her feet pushing at the edges of the door.

It slid open with a creak at zero.

The awkwardness was palpable. Despite herself, she froze before the better part of twenty people now staring down at her, their silence only confirming what she had just barged into. She could swear the matron down the table in the black-and-white frame was staring into her soul as well.

There was silence, only occasionally broken by the bubbling from the various pots of water set across the long table. She waited for somebody to speak, but quickly realized her circumstances. A small squeak finally issued.

"Um. Order for a...n Iwasaki Touji?"

She didn't even realize it when she let out a sigh of relief to the faint nodding of the attending masses. Ohara thought it best to slip out as the diners became occupied with splitting the strips of red meat amongst themselves.

As one, all present raised their disposable chopsticks before themselves, a brief prayer for the lost, then another for the food. Wood broke soon after.

"Itadakimasu."