Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Small Talk

"Met who?"

"Yes, the men in black. Make no mistake, these are no ordinary people. Things have begun to change for you, Maeda-san, but if you had heeded my words, taken the train, walked the four blocks, it may have delayed our predicament and given us a little more time." She sounds like a mother reprimanding a child, but her eyes seem less overpowering than before. I've been desensitized, re-conditioned to her stare.

"Who exactly are you?"

"Shizuka Kaneko."

"What are you?"

"Human." She's laughing, teasing me. She continues, "let's say I happen to know more than you, about things that are unseen, things that construct our world and what we believe and see and experience and feel day by day. I happen to know a lot more. And Maeda-san, you're in danger." Her voice is even - she speaks lightly, sing-song casual, perhaps about the weather or what to eat for lunch - but I can hear the disquiet underneath.

"I figure that much."

"You don't have much time and I don't have much time - we don't have much time. And because of you, I'm also likely in the same boat. My life is in your hands now."

"That's quite something to say to a stranger."

"You're no stranger."

"But maybe you are to me."

She pouts at me. It's more a frown, but it is strangely similar, a pout and a frown, like straddling a fence.

Somehow, her words yesterday, warning about change, a foreshadowing of the new Shin-Akinoseki station, the ten men in black, bypassing Kinokuniya and the coffee shop - and our meeting here - are all part of the same thing. Aside from that, she spoke of two other important things: coffee orders and winter. I assume it is part of the same painting, rather than a series of different paintings or spontaneous sketches left out at whim. But if it's one painting, it's surely an enormous painting where I can see no end. Like staring up from the bottom of Pablo Veronese's "The Wedding at Cana" displayed in the Louvre, brush strokes and all, utterly visible. And in my immediate vicinity, there is Shizuka, churning the waters in my corner of the canvas, tossing me towards peril.

If I am in danger, if we are in danger, there is oddly no sense of urgency nor fear however. I have no knowledge of what I'm struggling against, nor any concept of consequences, and thus, unable to comprehend the solemnity of the issue. I have seen no guns or knives, no verbal threats of violence and pain, nor financial ruin. Not even an attempt on my grades. Only black suits and ties. Though I remember fragments of what had happened, the images, sounds, ideas, all are disconnected, afloat and drifting in a black void of consciousness, like multicoloured specks of dust dancing a hypnotic dance. No methodology can sort through them and draw lines to connect the dots. My own efforts are futile without her, my interpreter.

"So tell me more." I set down my cup, now empty, and give her my full undivided attention. I search through the deep black holes that are her eyes. They pull me in, with tremendous momentum. Deeper, into her mind, her world, her reality. She looks at me for a long time, pitching me over her waves, hesitating, and testing my conviction. Finally, she breathes out. The inevitable has come.

We become one. We are no longer two. We are no longer, her and I. We are the same.

She tells me I must understand, that I must listen carefully. I must memorize. I must not forget. I am the only one who will know. That this is why she spoke to me, why she invited me here to this place. So I must listen. That I will now join her in her world. What she has known for so long.