Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Rendezvous

The back door slides open with much ease. It lets in a draft of cold morning air. There's a huge abundance of bicycle racks here, as if designed for a large mall rather than a small suburban apartment. There would only be five or six bikes at a time and each time, there would be different ones parked. Perhaps residents from other buildings left theirs here as well. Other than the bikes, the entire city might as well have been deserted overnight. The bicycle lot opens up into a stretch of pavement behind the residences. Usually, local teenagers use it to play soccer or catch, kids run around playing tag, but in the winter it's abandoned, serving no purpose whatsoever. It isn't accessible via road and thus, it can't used as a parking lot either. It remains empty and blank, eating up ultraviolet rays from the sun.

Beyond the flat space, several buildings stand at varying heights. No one's on top of the four story apartment directly in front, nor any probing eyes in the two storey houses to the left and right. No glimpses of half-hidden figures or reflecting lenses of scopes and cameras. All's clear. I take a good amount of time standing and stretching my arms out above my head, as much as my heavy backpack and suit could let me. I reach to the sky, a surprisingly infinite azure above. On the ground, I see a clear remnant of the snowfall from last night.

It takes me little time to unlock my bicycle. It had been given to me by an old resident in the apartment on the top floor when he had moved out within the first two weeks of my arrival. I could somehow remember it clearly now, like Shizuka's chai tea latte. A thin middle-aged man, he had told me he would be moving into the mountains where he had come from and that city life wasn't for him. But he mentioned something about needing to make it out without saying a word to anyone. Not to the place he was employed, not to the landlord. Yet he had told me and given me his bicycle. When the landlord found out, he was naturally furious but the man had already paid for the next three months of rent. It was a strange situation. He must have had an urgent reason other than city life. I believe I had been on good terms with him for the brief period of time we had known each other. I hope he's still doing well.

On the other hand, I wonder why such a memory had come to mind. It's typically difficult to recall anything from the past. It may be due to Processing, or perhaps I've always had a poor memory to start with. But this morning, the bicycle triggers a natural, irrepressible recollection of Mr. Goya.

I straighten my black suit, adjust my backpack so it's more comfortable for cycling and set my feet firmly aboard. I begin to pedal. The cold air assails my forehead and temples. Not quite pins and needles, but enough to cause a slight numbness in my face. I grit my teeth and press onwards.

From the bicycle lot, I have to travel a short distance in front of the house next door in order to make it to the road. I take a deep breath before picking up speed. My hands are growing sweaty even though the rest of my body is cold. At this point, it's relatively easy to stabilize the handlebars but looking down, my knuckles are still distinguishably white and protruding with some foreign intensity. The chain buzzes. I intend to maintain a comfortable pace, fast enough so an onlooker could not make out my facial features as I pass by, but slow enough so it wouldn't give off an impression that I'm in a rush.

For a moment, I suddenly realize that I don't feel my heartbeat. There's a void, a strange calm, where there should have been a pounding thud through my chest. It might have been the numbing cold, or my heart had decided to vanish to find another host, or something else altogether, but, as soon as I noticed, there is a violent reverberation through my bones, jackhammer into my skull. It's beating rapidly once again. I'm still alive, and anxious.

There's no one in the alleyway or in front of the house as I pass through. It's as if they had never existed in the first place. There doesn't seem to be any leftover signs or litter, and surely not even a strand of hair. Even as every inch of my skin begins to crawl with the sensation of being watched, there are no visible indicators that it's more than delusional paranoia.