Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Consequentially

The parcel itself isn't so peculiar. Its size and rectangular shape appears rather average - if average could be a compliment. It's neither large nor small. Just in between, so that it attracts little attention, and if I am to study it, I wouldn't be able to tell of its contents. It could contain an impressive variety of objects within its proportions: a few pairs of shoes, a portable printer, books, a deconstructed chair, video game console, an enormous box of cookies, plastic plants. If it's something smaller, it could easily have been packed with styrofoam stuffing or paper lint. By now, I am quite used to the inconspicuous fashion with which things seem to appear - ourselves included - as if the parcel is a metamorphosed form of the delivery man with his indistinguishable, toneless voice.

Though its size is nothing out of the ordinary, it is unmistakably wrapped in metallic red and green paper, bound with a silver ribbon like some sort of crude imitation of a Christmas gift. But there's nothing warm or spirited about its presence. It carries an air of formality and solemn confidentiality. Even if its contents cannot be told, a delivery from a stranger claiming not to be from NHK, can only assure unpleasant news. An undesirable truth beneath a deceptive facade. The parcel is something I would wish to see, according to him. As such, the only logical conclusion is that it has a significant personal connection. But I'm not convinced it's something I wish to know.

I stand there for a while, staring at the parcel at my feet. Shizuka doesn't say a word. I feel her eyes on me. Waiting for my decision. For the first time, she is not leading the way. Had this been intentional? Is she intending for me to make a decision for her? For us? She had said it would be best to pretend it had never arrived. We could still close the door now, lock the bolt, climb back beneath the covers, and spend another night in modesty. It might be better to continue day after day, night after night, Christmas Eve or not. We had made significant reverberations through the System, and they're now responding, no doubt.

"Do you know what's inside?" I ask, without looking at her.

"No. The Collective hasn't revealed anything. I just have an intuitive feeling. This is their move. We can take it and respond to it, like in a board game, or we can invent our own move."

"We should know their moves before we make our own, yes?"

"We could move according to the Collective."

"The Collective that doesn't seem to speak to you all the time."

"The Collective is still what ultimately weaves between the fabric of space and time, between all human consciousness. Beyond the control of the System."

"It's being drained for Free Energy, by the System presumably. You want to trust this Collective?"

"I've trusted it all my life." Her voice is quiet, withdrawn. Perhaps wondering why I am questioning her now.

I breathe out. "I'm going to open this parcel. We can decide what to do after."

She doesn't respond. But I can feel her shoulders loosen in reluctant acceptance. She watches as I stoop to pick up the box like a cat expecting a storm.

If it's a storm, we would have to face it soon enough, I reason. She shrugs to confirm I would have to make the decision myself. A sudden switch in position, like when she had decided she wanted to be on top. Would that mean the decision held no fatal consequences? She surely wouldn't remain silent if I'm walking straight into the mouth of a lion. At the same time, she has a limited reception and a hindered partial interpretation of the Collective. I am increasingly convinced that the Collective doesn't truly aid our situation, but acts as a catalyst to further discombobulate the truth. One mistake in interpretation, too far to the left or to the right, and our equilibrium may come apart brick by brick without our awareness.