Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Rabbit Hole

I look at her incredulously. She gives me a brief smile; her face seems to light up in a warm glow, maybe a hint of affection. I'm relieved, it reminds me that we are or had been more than just colleagues. "Isn't that what the Emoto guy said?" she says. I guess she's right.

I put on my sunglasses. The world takes on a darker hue: grey and brown. Other colours seem to wash out like dyes bleeding from a bad laundry load. It had happened a few days ago when I accidentally washed Shizuka's blouse with the rest of the clothes. It was one she always washed by hand. But I had forgotten. She seemed to heave a sigh then, throwing out her blouse without saying anything else. I fix my sunglasses. It's not bright enough to truly need them. But this is worth a gamble.

So we straighten our suits, step out from behind the alcove and into the open. We don't attract much attention at first, until we start approaching the crowd that had been gathering. There's the line of suits, and then there are bystanders who had either received word or were passing by, stopping for curiosity's sake. There's eerily no sound whatsoever. No one is speaking, no one is trying to bypass the blockade. It's as if they are all listening intently to something we can't.

My heart is pounding in my ribcage and my hands are sweating. I swallow twice. I focus my attention on the confident sway of Shizuka's skirt.

Once we get close, she pushes through the observers into the line. That's when we begin to get long looks: I can see their gazes traveling up and down our bodies, in scrutiny. They might be wondering who we are or if they had seen us before. Or if our suits are clean and fresh enough, counting wrinkles in the fabric. After all, we had walked for kilometers and climbed a brick wall. But no one says anything.

They are all watching as we make our way along the line, towards the end, where there is a small gap of a car's width before reaching the other side of the road. At the head of this line is a rather tall, pleasant looking young lady, resembling a flight attendant rather than a demonstrator. She has high cheekbones and a small nose. Her posture is upright, all around perfect, albeit a little stiff. She's wearing glasses. Maybe she had been a flight attendant after all.

We keep our pace robotic and slow, shoulders level, without any extra gestures. She barely glances at us as we fall into line in beside her, shoulder to shoulder. With our addition, the curb is just a bit more than a foot to my left. We are just short of making it across the road.

I feel their attention dwindle and fade away from us, like heat from a fire as it withers into embers. I realize I had been holding my breath and exhale. I inhale once. The air is still cold, but not as cold as before. The sun is high in the sky, though partially invisible. It must be nine by now.

I'm not sure how we could leave the line once we've joined it, but Shizuka gives no answer. She looks as well-groomed as before, as if she never sweats or her hair never tangles in disarray. Even when we had sex, she hadn't perspired, her hair was in order.

There is a man walking towards us now, from the direction of the crowd milling about at the beginning of the line.

I stiffen and Shizuka turns her head placidly.

"What are your names?" He has a clear Kansai accent. He stops just shy of us.

"Hamada," she says without batting an eye.

"And you?" He looks to me. He is heavyset, quite burly and has a thick brow, creases forming on his forehead.

"Takagi," I say the first surname that comes to mind.

"I haven't heard of you two before."

I begin to wonder if they have an organized membership in actuality, communicating in secrecy behind the safety of private forums. I hope Shizuka can read his mind.