They all think I am beautiful. I am spectacular, they say. I squat on the tabletop, with my hard red chest puffed up to demonstrate my assets. They want me to be seen by all. They all worship me. “Irasshaimase!” I look down to the worshippers on my right, two men talking business, drinking their sake. They try to look away from me, but they can’t. I am beautiful. I am beautiful. The worshippers to the left of me, a father and his son, are whispering to each other while fumbling with their chopsticks. I think my presence is confusing that boy. It somehow feels inappropriate. I feel bad for my friends in the back. I am all anybody is talking about. I am special. I am special. “Irasshaimase!” A young man with stubble and a wallet chain enters and looks me up and down, swallowing the water his mouth is secreting. “Omakase,” he orders, “as long as the crustacean is involved.” I stare ahead at the bamboo wallpaper in front of me, pretending I don’t notice him admiring me some more.