Strawberry Milk and Apologies

The sliding doors sighed open, letting in a gust of cold air—and one very familiar storm cloud of a man.

Mr. Tanaka shuffled in, cane tapping like a countdown timer. His scowl alone could sour milk before he even bought it.

I straightened at the register. Okay, Ryota. You’ve survived this man before. You can do it again.

Just scan the milk, give the change, and whatever you do—don’t talk.

He placed the carton of strawberry milk down with a soft thud that still somehow felt like a threat.

“Good evening, Mr. Tanaka!—sir. Uh—welcome.”
Smooth. Real smooth.

He grunted, a sound halfway between a bear waking from hibernation and a warning siren.

I handed him his change and—against every shred of common sense—blurted,

“You must really like this stuff, huh?”

The silence was immediate. His glare could have stopped a clock.

“…Mind your business, boy.”

He snatched the milk and shuffled out, cane tapping like an executioner’s drum.

I stood frozen until the doors chimed shut. Then I groaned, slumping over the counter. “Why do I have a death wish?”

Miyu didn’t look up from the gum display. “Congratulations. You managed to offend the one man scarier than a surprise health inspection.”

The next evening, the chime sounded again.

Same cane. Same milk. Same aura of doom.

Only this time… he didn’t even look at me. He set the milk down without so much as a grunt, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder like I was just part of the scenery.

“Evening, Mr. Tanaka,” I tried, voice hesitant. Nothing.

He took his change like a man signing divorce papers, then left.

I dropped my head onto the counter. “He hates me. He officially hates me.”

Miyu, now flipping through a magazine, smirked. “You’re not wrong. You just got downgraded to NPC.”

“NPC?”

“Background character. He’s on his main quest, and you don’t even get dialogue options anymore.”

Later that night, Manager Sato emerged from the back with his usual cup of instant ramen. His hair was even messier than usual—like he’d been fighting a losing battle with a pillow.

“Kid, why do you look like someone just told you midterms got moved up to tomorrow?”

“I think Mr. Tanaka hates me,” I groaned.

Sato slurped thoughtfully. “Ah. Strawberry Milk Guy.”

“Yes! He won’t even grunt at me anymore!”

“He’s sensitive.”

“About what?”

Sato shrugged, chopsticks waving vaguely. “About strawberry milk, obviously.”

“That’s not helpful!”

“Listen, customers like him aren’t here for conversation. They’re here for routine. You broke his routine. Put it back together.”

“That’s your advice?”

“That, and don’t die.”

He wandered back into the storage room, leaving the faint smell of ramen like some lazy, noodle-scented prophet.

The next night, I stood at the register, psyching myself up like I was about to face a final boss. 

Doors chimed. Cane. Scowl. Doom aura.

I swallowed hard. “Mr. Tanaka… I’m sorry about the other day. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I just… admire your consistency.”

He froze, cane still tapping mid-step. Slowly, he looked at me.

“…Consistency?”

“Yeah,” I rushed. “Coming here every day. It’s… kind of cool.”

For a moment, his expression shifted—just slightly. Not a smile, but the glare softened by maybe three percent.

He grunted, grabbed the milk, and left.

I slumped against the counter. “Was that good or bad?”

Miyu didn’t look up from her magazine. “Maybe you survived. Or maybe he’s plotting a very slow revenge. Hard to tell.”

A few nights later, Mr. Tanaka lingered at the counter after paying.

“You think it’s strange, don’t you?” he asked suddenly.

My brain short-circuited. “What?”

“A man my age. Buying strawberry milk every day.”

“Oh. Uh. Not strange. Just… unique?”

He chuckled, a sound so rare it felt like spotting a shooting star.

“My wife used to buy it for me,” he said quietly. “Said it kept me young. After she passed, I kept the
habit. Feels like she’s still around when I drink it.”

For a moment, the store felt quieter. Even the fridge hum seemed softer.

“I didn’t mean to make fun,” I said softly.

He nodded once. “I know.”

Then he turned and shuffled out, his cane tapping gently, as before.

After closing, I leaned against the counter, staring at the empty space where he’d stood.Miyu glanced over. “What did he say?”

I hesitated. “Something important. I think I’ll keep it to myself.”

She studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “Good. Not everything needs to be shared.”

Outside, the night air was cool, carrying the smell of wet asphalt. I thought about Mr. Tanaka, about his softened scowl and his stubborn ritual.

It wasn’t just strawberry milk. It was a memory. A way to keep someone alive, even for a few minutes a day.

That may be the point. Maybe every customer who walked through those automatic doors was carrying more than what they bought.