Espresso Love: Fragments

Manuscript

This is an alternate ending taking place months from the end of Espresso Love. This is not necessarily what happens and is a separate interpretation. There will be more bonus content coming! Stay tuned!

- Manuscript -

It's never pleasant business to visit his office. There isn't much to see. Though it sits high atop the penthouse of a skyscraper in West Shinjuku, there are oddly, no windows. No natural light, even if there isn't much at this time of the year. Just as her apartment had been, months ago.

And in the same way, his walls are always barren, devoid of personal attention. Blank, cream white, empty, looking into the void like Malevich's "White on White" in 1918 at the start of the suprematist movement. But they are framed by mahogany. If it isn't white, it's mahogany. Mahogany door, mahogany coffee table by a white sofa. Mahogany coat hanger, mahogany lamp stand. Mahogany table that's strangely clear, no papers, no pens, no computer, the surface polished to a high sheen. The sheen reflects his sullen face. He deals in absolutes. At least she had a Nirvana poster.

"Here's the manuscript," I say.

"So you're sure about this?"

His eyes are blank like his walls, but there is a trace of solemnity. Just enough as to say he sympathizes with me. But if there is still any sentiment on his wrinkled brow, it is hard to tell between Etiquette or genuine emotion.

I nod once. "Yes, I am. For certain this time."

"Okay, good." He pulls back a drawer and lifts out a few leaves of paper. "Sign here, and here for me then. You will be granting publication rights to our company." From his breast pocket, he procures a pen.

I take it. It is cold and foreboding in my hand. It is peculiar that it is cool to the touch, when it had just come from his pocket.

I had seen the documents several times, but every time, I was unable to make a decision. Today would be different. I close my eyes. I exhale once. It would only be for the best. She would have wanted this. If what I've written is not meant to be shared, to expose prophetic truth, what would be the point of it in the end?

"Thank you." He reaches out his hand. I take it and return a firm grip.

"I trust you with this."

"Of course, Maeda-san. Trust her, if not me. She had asked me to get in touch with you."

I nod again, as if in confirmation. I am about to stand up to leave but he motions to the cup 

"That's become a regular for you, hasn't it?"

"Yes, it only seems right."

The cup of tall caramel chai tea latte, 120 degrees, soy, extra whip sits in front of me like a faithful pet. It is the only thing that remains. It was the first thing I memorized, imprinted into my soul, because at some point, I had known it would be important. She had told me I was wishy-washy with my orders, but all I can have now is the same, day after day. From the same coffee shop we met, every morning, I sit down with the order. Then I watch the crowds outside like we always had. Waiting and watching.

"Does it do you any good?"

"No."

"But you drink it anyway."

"It is necessary. It's the only thing left."

He picks up the manuscript. It is heavy. "You had this. But now you're handing it over. If you can do that, I believe you're ready to move on." 

"I would beg to differ. I'd only like to continue her legacy."

"You will be selling her mind - your minds, a joint collaboration of human realization to the world, in widespread distribution, broadcast internationally. This - she - will no longer be yours, alone."

I sip from my cup. The drink is much cooler now. No longer 120 degrees. "I am willing to do that. She would wish for us to remain somewhere in the world."

His lips upturn at the corner, in a thin, weak smile. "Noble of you." I can't tell if it is sarcasm or understanding.

He looks at me for a long time, saying nothing. I don't speak either. My composure remains intact. The blank walls lean in to listen.

He tosses something on the table.

I stare at it for a while. I reach out to retrieve it.

It's a photograph, wallet sized. Her smile is fixated permanently on gloss print.

It strikes me with such a sudden blow, I reel almost physically. He has made a move. He had known all along. It all assails me at once, the composure I had built, crumbling, collapsing, dust slipping through my fingers. He knows. Unraveled, thread by thread, I am stripped naked and bare before his scrutiny. And I can feel it all again like something has possessed me.

The tickle of her hair on my neck, the warmth of her back, her small palm hidden behind mine and fingers clasped, expertly crafted to fit my own. Even when our feet were pounding against pavement, foreheads stained with dirt in desperate escape, she had held my hand. I held hers. All of which I could never experience again. And all of which could not be described by a single photograph, wallet sized. It is a mockery of her memory. It could not even capture her eyes. It was her eyes that carried such command, such ancient wisdom, the force of an immeasurable clear intensity and personal conviction. Eyes that seen too much. Eyes that I had grown so used to. It washed me along in their wake.

She existed. She had been at my side. She had been patiently waiting for the right moment, watching, knowing it would signify her end. But I could remember her telling me that it was worth it. She couldn't adhere to Etiquette anymore. When the world was falling apart at the seams, she could no longer just sit by and watch. She was willing to approach me, an Anomaly. A glitch in the system. To lift me from cyclic repetition, from the grasp and the hegemonic dominance of the System, marked for inevitable death - out from Clark Terry's jazz track at 7:30 in the morning, cold showers, scrambled eggs and porridge, news of suicides at eight, monotonous lecturers and the same seats day after day, Kinokuniya bookstore and the coffee shop. From an old complacency, into the eye of a storm and out the other side. I had no choice. They were after me. Knowing this, she showed me the way forward. She had given me the gift of emotion. She had given me a second life. At a cost. But I didn't know. I had no idea.

"She's still beautiful." He says.

I look up at him, eyes wet, vision blurry. Tears that wouldn't have flowed, months ago. "She had been more beautiful. Til the System took her."

"She made the choice herself. She knew the risks. The System does not impose its will. It merely reacts and responds to its people. I thought you were clear on this fact. Life and the universe always has been about a trade, about balance between opposites, the yin and the yang. It was only natural and inevitable. It is the exchange of your life for hers."

The man is wavering before me like a ghost. It begins to dawn on me that I am not speaking to who I think it is.

He continues. "You could at least, see her every day still passing by, taking the bus, at exactly nine in the morning, from that coffee shop window. She might no longer have such pretty eyes, but I'm sure you can still enjoy her legs. I've made sure she wears a short skirt for you. How do you like that? Does it feel good to know you've made her into an Image?"

"Who are you?"

He smiles and folds his hands. "I think it is safe to say you've made a grave mistake, Mr. Maeda. You may just lose the last thing she had left for you." I eye the manuscript. "Art and delusion was never meant to be public. The story must end." He raises the package slowly. Like holding it over a bridge. My eyes must be wide. But I can say no more, do no more, because the mahogany door opens from the outside.

Black suits. Black ties. Black sunglasses. They are here.