Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Making Ripples

From the top of Cosmo Clock 21, I could see for the first time, genuine emotion painted in her eyes. She had hid nothing. It was all laid bare, spiraling in a polar vortex. Just as the ferris wheel lumbered up in a wide slow circle, to its pinnacle. It was remarkably different from her usual piercing intensity. They might be the remnants of passion left in her, whatever she could still conjure in her heart - which I am lacking. In a way, I might have envied her. I would like to feel something, anything, other than apprehension that something would go wrong.

But consciously, I couldn't. Yet, misshapen threads of the unseen, the unconscious, like silent vines, slipped through to snare us. Some kind of hidden primitive desire drew us closer. It might have been the bitter cold, rattling the thin steel and glass cage that enclosed us within our own domain, or the sight of the world stretching out from beneath our fingertips and feet, the precarious perch, balanced on a man-made frame - or maybe an obligation to an imitation of realism for our date in defiance against the rest of the world. Was it emotion or something else within me?

Normally, no one would ever dream of visiting an amusement park in the middle of winter, or sharing an ice cream cone for extra authenticity, nor deciding to wear new matching coats of the same frightfully red colour - but this was no normal date. We had fastidiously arranged for it to be a perfect simulation, the ideal date. Like a tacky TV show, hackneyed and clichéd. Every decision and design, every movement and execution of action, was to make ripples in the System, however big or small, with what sticks and stones we could find from our side of the shore. We are actors beneath the scrutiny of lights and cameras. To execute a performance, a display of two characters we conceptualize in conspiracy.

It first started with our journey, complete with my forty five minute wait for her by Hachiko. As usual, the trademark meeting spot, is milling with crowds of young people, hair dyed brown, blonde, black, cell phones here or there, friends, lovers, family, tourists, all in purgatory: transient, waiting for their someone. Their someone may come and they smile and laugh, give a holler or two. Then they move on. And someone else takes their place.

Hachiko is the little dog statue in front of Shibuya station. The unforgettable legend of a dog that waited every day for his master's return. When his owner passed away, Hachiko continued to wait for the next nine years at the precise time the train arrived, without fail. The remarkable story became a national symbol of utmost devotion and loyalty. But is it inspiration or tragedy? If one is to wait for something that will never come, in constant repetition of the same actions and expecting different results, would it not be insanity, according to Albert Einstein?

She arrives precisely at eleven fifteen and I tell her she's late. She tells me men are supposed to wait for women. Then she smiles and takes my hand. I smile back. Our red parkas must stand out like sore thumbs. Her hand is warm and soft. She has her hair straightened and smoothed, freshly dyed with light umber highlights. She's holding this expensive looking purse.

"That's new isn't it?"

"I got it a long time ago, but I never used it."

I tell her it's cute.

She looks at me funny. "It's supposed to be classy."

"We're wearing red, how classy can you look?"

"That's a good point."

"How much was it?"

"Why? You want one?" She laughs. "It was discounted for three thousand yen. I don't use brand names. I use whatever looks good."

"Everything looks good on you." She dismisses my comment with a casual wave.

"You're a poor college student, I wouldn't ask anything from you."