She stood just outside the sliding door, beneath the glow of a red paper lantern shaped like a pufferfish. The air smelled like grilled squid, fried batter, and beer foam. Voices blurred together like static. Neon pulsed. Miyu, twenty-four, pretty and sharp-eyed, wore a short black skirt, a fitted restaurant tee, and a smile rehearsed to look unrehearsed.
“いらっしゃいませ〜！おいしいたこ焼きありますよ！”
Irasshaimase! Fresh takoyaki! Come try! Very famous!
She bowed, gestured with one arm toward the narrow staircase behind her.
Tourists passed—some grinning, some ignoring, some pretending not to hear.
She watched for hesitation. A flicker. A pause in the step. That’s when she’d strike—“First drink free! English menu! No cover charge!”
She wasn’t pushy, not like the touts in Kabukichō. Osaka had its rhythm: loud, friendly, but with humor. Charm first, pressure second. Sometimes she danced a little—half-joking, half-desperate—to catch the eyes of wandering couples. Other times, she leaned in close and whispered, “Secret menu for cute people.” Always with a wink.
Inside, the restaurant buzzed with clinking chopsticks and laughter. But outside, on the cold pavement, Miyu’s feet ached. She had worked since 3 p.m. Her smile slipped only when no one was looking.
She had a degree. In literature. Her dream was to write. But writing didn’t pay Osaka rent. So she hustled.
One customer. One table. A few commissions per head. A group of Australians stopped. One guy stared at the sign. Bingo. She beamed. “Come try, ne? Osaka-style oishii! Takoyaki with cheese, so good!”
They followed. She bowed again, deeper this time.
“ありがとうございます〜またね” Arigatou gozaimasu! See you again!
Then she turned back to the crowd. Reset the smile. Tugged down her skirt. Rolled her shoulders.
The lights flashed. Music blared.
Osaka didn’t sleep.
And neither did Miyu’s hope
that tomorrow night, someone would stop again—
not just for the food,
but for the girl who sold it
like her life depended on it.