Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

System Is Everything

I am still concerned with the poster throughout class, flipping the image of it over and over in my mind, examining it from all sides. Its 8.5" x 11" paper, glossy because of the ominous laser-printed red, ingrained with white digital text. I focus on the letters one by one, like blurring the background through the zoom lens of a camera.

S

Y

S

T

E

M

I

S

E

V

E

R

Y

T

H

I

N

G.

Every character is in capitals to start. But the font itself is also distinctive, as unlike a digital clock, it is unexpectedly round, proportions slightly skewed. For example, the tail of the "Y" would curve in an extravagant hook and the "E" had round corners that reminded me of a 3. The final "G" left a little too much vacant space for consideration.

On the other hand, I have a suspicion there had been a period at the end. And the suspicion eventually turns to confidence. I am sure there had been a period. With a period, the conclusion is clear, leaving no room for debate. Had it been without one, it might have been mistaken as a mere design, a brand, a title of a movie, a song, a play, a book, an obscure drink, rather than a message, from point A to B, from transmitter to receiver. The creator of the message - assuming there was one - would surely not make a blunder. Even the font must have been carefully selected to not appear jarring, but its intricacies served to put the viewer at an unease.

From the red background, each letter would seem to glow, brighter then dimmer. But red itself is a tiring colour, like a welding torch searing into the human eye. After a while, if I study it long enough, the red might change shades and grow unfocused. Perhaps my eyes would begin to water. Yet is there something else I'm missing? Is there a hidden message? A hidden agenda? Something to read between the lines? Or am I merely thinking too much?

Shizuka puts a hand on mine. Yes, you are thinking too much, she tells me without words.

She's searching for something in her purse and with the other hand, she points at my pocket. I know what she wants and I give her my phone, no questions asked. We are sitting close enough and I can smell her apartment in her hair. It's stronger than it had seemed at her place. Maybe it was harder to notice, when I was sitting right in it. But I understand now, what the aroma reminds me of: wood, leaves, like walking into a deep ancient forest, the fragrance of summer.

On her palms our phones become the yin yang symbol, her white against my black, like some kind of a spiritual moment. They touch and converge; there is no sound but something happens silently. She nods, maybe to herself, and hands one back. It has her number, 080-1293-2031, and maybe here I have another fragment to prove her existence, like her tall caramel chai tea latte, soy, 120 degrees, extra whip. I make sure I have the number memorized, imprinted in memory, fragments collected.

If They are after us, connection by phone might not be so wise.

It's necessary sometimes, she says without speaking.

Yes, I say without talking.

The lecture is discussing T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Albert Prufrock", to which the students sit in silence, heads forward, unmoving - and I am uncertain if they are engaged at all. If an artist were to paint the scene, each head - of which only the back is visible - could be replaced by black rocks, and it would hardly make a difference. It might not even make a difference to the professor, who speaks with a monochromatic drawl. He may only be there for the wages and pension and insurance under his capitalist employer. In the same way, his audience is only there according to hegemony and norm.