Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

System Is Everything

-System Is Everything-

We take a detour around the complex and up an elevated walkway that connects several arts buildings with stretches of pearl white concrete. White roads only the privileged and the sharpest creative minds may populate, parading canvases and instrument cases and books of great classics like weapons. In rhythm and dynamics of the imagination - musicians set the tempo, painters breathe pigments, wordsmiths saturate airspace with unseen concepts. They are in and out, all hours of the day, their faces full of enthusiasm and intelligence. But beneath the mask, beset with melancholy and narcissism and conflict. If scientific and academics are concerned with cold, structured logic, the creatives are known for emotional fluctuation and imbalance. Surely neither can exist without the other, and both seek to coexist then, clash. Logic and emotion tug one way and the other. But neither dare make marks on the white surfaces; they are never blemished. I've always wondered if the janitors are simply diligent with stains or perhaps the students are too careful or respectable or sterile to leave their marks of existence.

I nod a friendly greeting at a student in a blue polo; I recall he's from yesterday's lecture. He would sit up at the front of the classroom but we usually arrive at around the same time. Not quite friends, but not quite acquaintances; just classmates. We've never spoken. I begin to wonder how close he is to becoming an Image. If he's a conspiracy theorist, if he knows anything of the sort.

She nudges me with an elbow. She's wearing a pair of jeans now. I had asked her to change into something less arresting before she accompanied me to campus. It wasn't easy, as if she had to shed her skin. She seems to have more reason than I expected for her fashion choices. She chose the pair of jeans after some time.

She looks at me and tells me I'm thinking too much. I apologize.

"Your friend was wondering who I am," she says.

"I wouldn't know."

"Who do you want me to be?"

"Redemption, a personal messiah, God."

She says something quiet. "I'm far from that."

"Maybe you can be my girlfriend or something."

"Is this your version of a pick up line?"

I tell her it's up for interpretation.

She scrunches up her face to fight off a smile. "I'm not too fond of the proposal."

"We all need a story sometimes. You know, 'girlfriend' only adopted the connotation of 'romantic female partner' in 1922."

"I'm glad you didn't ask if I knew."

"You have the Collective, and I, one of my linguistics courses."

We are walking in unison – left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot – and the lecture building is up ahead. I carry no paintbrushes or instruments; I study literature, hands empty. For now, I'm supposed to go about my daily schedule, but take different routes, open different doors, say hello to different people, show up at different times, sit at different seats, cross a different leg, wear my bag over a different shoulder. It's harder than it seems, these trivialities. She leans closer. "Do you see him?"

I see an older man with a black jacket. I can't see his face. He is reading a newspaper. I tell her I see him.

She nods. "They won't be leaving us alone for a while. They're on the move. They've been on the move for a few months now. This is no different."

"You mean They've been watching me? Following me?"

"You haven't noticed until now," she says it's an Image. But it's not the ones after her. We dodge past a party of five, engaged in animated conversation like jazz musicians. Above, the sky seems darker than before.