Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Gateway

No one is around, we haven't been followed. We're safe for now. The street is narrow, almost derelict and has an unnatural calm about it, as if something had marked off the area as hallowed ground. There are no moving cars as far as I could tell. Each car parked along the side of the road is deserted with a sense of finality. Like it knows its owner would never return. Colours don't seem to exist here, the ashen post-apocalyptic landscapes of The Road. When I had read it, deep despair settled in my heart. It grew until I had to take long breaks from it.

"When is the bus coming?"

She pauses. "Ten fifteen."

"I think I know where we're going."

"I did say you'd know."

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"Things are better left unsaid sometimes."

"Or un-thought of?"

She squints at something down the road. She brushes hair behind her ear as it gets loose. "Yes," she pauses, "I did keep it from you because you would be thinking about it – excessively - which means there will be a chance for Them to be one step ahead of us."

"Images or Sounds?"

"Both perhaps."

"What else do you keep from me?"

She remains silent.

"There's more isn't there."

She shakes her head and looks a little hurt. "You don't trust me."

"I trust you," I say.

We end our conversation and watch for signs of the bus. It is nine minutes past ten. Standing out in the open for a few minutes doesn't feel like a smart thing to do.

"It's okay to wait here."

I spin at the source of the voice behind us, as does Shizuka. We hadn't seen or heard him coming. His voice was soft, barely audible, a nice baritone of a professional radio DJ who might host a late night classical music program. He's wearing khaki pants and a burgundy sweater with a cream collar underneath. It is sort of disheveled looking, as if it had been machined washed one too many times, when it should have been washed by hand. There are little specks of lint and fraying threads all over it. At the same time, it fits him. He looks like a kind of lost dog: a little sad, lonely, and invokes compassion from his companions. His hair is a shag. It hangs just over his eyebrows, messy at the back of his head. He doesn't wear glasses but his eyes appear to narrow and widen every now and then, like trying to focus his quickly deteriorating vision. But the most peculiar part of him is his large black duffel bag with the cover open. From within sits two large white rabbits. They are large. Massive. Perhaps two of the largest domestic bunnies I've ever seen. Compared to the man who is of an average stature, they seem out of proportion, like they are the owners walking a human. One of them has both ears perked up, peering straight at us with round, black bean eyes. The other doesn't seem to care, ears flat against its cheeks and nose twitching.

We stare at him and his rabbits, and they stare back.

"You said it's okay to wait here?" I say.

"Yes, the bus is coming, but no one else will be looking for this stop."

"Why?"

"There are much better stops to wait at. There's no reason to come to this stop: it's completely out of the way, unless you have a particular reason to. Even the residents in the vicinity are either closer to the stop on that end of the street," he points to his left, "or that end of the street on the main road," he points to the right.