Girl, Absorbed

Noriko sits, a girl absorbed. Beneath the old beams inside the spacious A-framed loft, she watches in silence – a full moon shines silver-grey, its pockmarked craters stark witnesses to aeons of celestial abuse. The transitory vision scatters borrowed radiance onto her face through the wide rectangular skylight. Her brown eyes sparkle and she pushes a door wide open and takes a step onto a wrought-iron balcony. Osaka swelters in mid-summer heat. There is movement on streets, rails and expressways below but all she hears is its low roar; distant traffic, far away lives.

[private]Peripheral movement draws her back into the room. Doors shut and seal against the clammy night. The loft’s walls are crowded with framed relics from the 20th Century. Diodes draw attention to the collection’s most-prized specimens: a letter signed by Lee Harvey Oswald and a priceless fragment of pale lunar anorthosite mounted in a vacuum-sealed box. Other obscure artefacts from the worlds of sport and entertainment are on display, and the space is infused with pop culture authenticity. In a corner, beneath the intense glow of another angled spotlight, Eddie Kuramoto swivels on a high stool, languid in white jeans and a green bowling shirt. Expensive black creepers complete the look. He has a cool confidence; lean, muscular and with a rakish quiff crowning his narrow face. Sideburns trace an outline down along his distinct jaw. Without a word, he extends his right hand and twitches his fingers twice.

She implicitly understands the gesture. She wears a pale blue replica 1950s dress, with a neatly buttoned bodice and a Mandarin collar. Black bangs caress her forehead while the rest of her hair is pulled back into a neat bun. Retro-styled winged spectacles adorn her clear, pretty face. Long lashes blink over her wide eyes and reverentially, she opens the clear plastic container labelled in simple black text: Apollo XVII. Using a pair of stainless steel tweezers, she transfers the item as if it is the most delicate thing on earth, sliding the blue and gold cloth badge onto the glass surface of the Veritron. Gears hiss beneath its flat square base, a lens dilates on a hinged arm and a lid lowers, closing over the artefact. Tubes breathe in dust and particles from its surface as an artificial lung sighs in and out. Eddie flicks a switch and together, they watch a network of laser light firing down upon the insignia, revealing its intricate chemical structure in millisecond bursts.
‘Wow. This is nearly one hundred years old.’ Noriko reads the text on the bottom of the plastic container. ‘It was worn by Eugene Andrew Cernan – the last of the first men on the moon.’

‘There is some discolouration.’ Eddie’s eyes fix upon a dark brown stain on the patch’s blue background. He calls up a metre-wide projection of the item on his wall screen. Graphs and schematics blink into life. The patch sits side-by-side with an archived mission photograph that features the emblem on the astronaut’s uniform. He peers at the stain.

‘Says here they landed in the Taurus-Littrow Valley.’ Noriko continues. ‘Whereabouts is that?’ She looks up out of the skylight.
He ignores her and zooms in on loose strands of fabric. ‘Maybe it’s blood.’
She looks at him aghast and he smiles wickedly.
‘We’ll know soon enough,’ he shrugs.

The Veritron stops breathing with a long sigh. It has concluded the examination and its small red LED display starts a slow countdown. It will be another hour before it reaches a conclusion. Eddie uses the tweezers to extract the badge from beneath the lid and place it carefully back in its plastic holder.
‘I heard that people used to say the first moon missions never happened.’ Noriko studies the images on the wallscreen.

‘So where did that come from then?’ He points to the anorthosite sealed inside the vacuum.
Noriko shifts forward, sliding her neat frame off the stool. ‘It’s late, I’m going to bed.’ She moves close and kisses him lightly on the cheek. She can smell his scent, subtle and organic. Her full lips linger for just a second or two. Their eyes meet and she knows that he knows what it is that she wants.
‘Night.’ He keeps all of his attention centred upon the artefact. She pulls back and slips away, barefoot.

Noriko slumps onto the plush white fabric of the living room sofa. It is nearly two a.m. and she cannot sleep. She draws absentminded patterns across a control pad set into the arm of the two-seater, inadvertently flicking on the Historyweb. Neat bubbles and threads of twentieth century media float in a rainbow of colours before her eyes – pastels and primaries for drama and light entertainment blips, darker hues for old world events and affairs. With a flourish of crimson fingernails, she pricks each sphere back into non-existence.
Fucking Eddie.
Her smooth forehead and delicately crafted eyebrows furrow into a tight knot.
There is a trill from a shape on the elaborate Navajo rug at her feet. Something nuzzles against her exposed shin.
‘Hey Jimbo.’ She sighs.
Her anger dissipates quickly and she wraps the name in a warm spoken caress. A canine face peers up at her.
‘You are such a good little doggy, but you really should be asleep.’
She strokes the plastic sensor panel on the creature’s pearlescent white back and its face lights up with swirling patterns of joyous green.
‘Are you a tired baby?’ She checks her watch. ‘You know you’re not supposed to be awake now – we’re supposed to be preserving your battery, aren’t we?’
Jimbo pants in synthesised excitement, seeming to plead for more attention.
‘Oh well, if we keep it our secret, I guess a little cuddle won’t hurt.’
She scoops up the faux-animal and pets it with long strokes along its smooth, crafted form. It settles onto her chest and when she is sure that it is soothed, she quietly presses the sleep button at the back of its neck.
‘There you are baby, you can have some more love in the morning.’

The room and the night grow silent around her. In this sea of tranquillity, Noriko can hear a voice. It is deep into one side of a conversation. Eddie is speaking to someone on the phone and his tone rises and falls in a lilting cadence. He is laughing. There is a long pause and she thinks it’s over, but then he murmurs something again. Her brow furrows some more and her mood slips down into neglect. In a split second, she sets Jimbo onto the rug and creeps back up to the loft.

She stands at the foot of the stairs, quiet as a mouse. The loft hatch is open and she is impaled on every painful word.
‘… so when can we get together?’
A pause. She can’t believe what she hears.
‘Tomorrow? You wanna get some lunch?’
He never meets me in the daytime. Always too fucking busy.
‘Yeah, shimesaba sounds fine.’
He is quiet for a moment and she knows he is paying attention. Noriko listens, bad thoughts filling in the gaps.
‘Maybe. We’ll have to see.’ His voice is lower now. ‘Depends if you’re a good girl – or not.’ He laughs, dirtily.
She hears the phone being set down and wants to barge up there and shout and throw things at him. Rage bubbles instead into silent tears and she turns away towards her bedroom at the end of the long landing.

Noriko sits at the breakfast bar. Newscasts burble quietly from the counter as bright morning sun floods into the white kitchen. Eddie sits opposite, sipping a cappuccino, completely at ease in carefully torn jeans and a white cotton shirt. She hunches her shoulders up before she makes the first move.
‘So – was it genuine?’
He looks up from his coffee, puzzled.
‘The patch – was it the real thing?’
He shrugs and drains the cup. ‘Yeah. I’ve got a buyer who’s ready to pay big bucks for it. I don’t want it.’
She mutes the countertop and takes his cup away.
‘I was thinking, Eddie, maybe we could meet up today. We could go for a walk at Tennoji Park.’
‘Tennoji? Lunch surrounded by all those mangy cats?’ He looks momentarily startled. ‘Don’t think so, honey. Maybe some other time.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m in and out of meetings all day.’
Noriko busies herself at the sink. Suddenly, he is behind her, strong arms around her slim waist.
‘Hey – you’re not upset, are you?’
Comfort comes in waves of warmth. It seems like weeks since he last touched her.
‘Look, I know I’ve been busy lately, but I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’
She leans back onto his chest as he kisses her cheek.
‘I wish you could take a day off. I get so lonely here without you.’
‘You’ve got Jimbo to play with.’
She turns to look at him and he holds her tight, his fingers massaging muscles in the small of her back.
‘But I want you, Eddie.’
He kisses her lightly on the forehead and then pulls away, quick and abrupt, grabbing his black leather jacket from its hook on the back of the kitchen door.
‘Gotta go, sweetheart.’
She imagines cupping his cheek with her palm and remembers the feeling of a day’s growth of stubble.
‘Don’t be late.’

He turns and is gone. Doors slam in quick succession as he leaves the apartment without reply.
Noriko stands alone as the empty kitchen comes to life around her, just as it does each day at eight a.m. Water fills the dishwasher, filters clean the air, hidden pumps provide nutrients and moisture to the yucca and ficus plants that line the window sill.

She dozes on the white sofa, her head on plush cushions, her glasses on the floor. The paperback she was reading before she drifted off has fallen down too, with no bookmark to keep her page. She twitches awake with a gasp. For a few seconds, consciousness comes and goes, and then she is present, here and now and looking to the silver starburst clock on the wall for temporal guidance. Seven twenty-four p.m. Her attention moves to the closed-circuit screen set beside the clock and right on cue, she sees Eddie’s restored 1953 Chevrolet Bel Air as it makes its way into the basement garage. Its powder-blue presence is like nectar to her senses.
Until she remembers.
Fucking Eddie –
Where he’s been.
I’ll fucking kill him.
The front door slams. She sits up, determined to ask the question now. There are footsteps in the hallway – footsteps and voices. The living room door creaks as it opens.
Eddie stands there, divine in his leather jacket and ripped jeans. Noriko melts and then freezes back up in an instance. He is not alone.
‘Hey Noriko – you had a good day?’
Noriko cannot take her eyes off the woman at his side. A gaikokujin; all bangs and Alice band, slim and blonde in a pink cardigan and mini skirt.
Eddie looks confused and the newcomer is silent.
‘This is Debbie,’ he says at last.
‘Debbie?’ Noriko repeats the name as realisation dawns slowly. How could he bring her here?
‘She, ah, wants to look at the collection – you don’t mind, do you?’ He is smiling and Debbie is smiling.
‘Hi Noriko – it’s great to meet you.’ Debbie leans her head to one side and fashions a nervous wave with her left hand.
Noriko barges between the two of them and, without a word, she storms upstairs.

Dusk is soft through the skylight, casting shadows in a dim orange glow. Noriko sits on the high stool and the tears well up at last, flowing in silence beneath the indifferent stares of dead baseball and movie stars. Her face is in her hands when she hears him ascending the stairs.
Light from the landing below turns him into a silhouette.
‘Hey.’
Eddie keeps a couple of metres between them. She wants him to come closer, but she knows she wants to hit him too.
‘Was she the one you were on the phone with last night?’ Words come in breaks between her tears. ‘Was she the one you had lunch with?’
Eddie doesn’t look at her and Noriko summons a glare through her fingers, fierce and accusatory.
‘What are you doing to me, Eddie? What are you thinking, bringing her into our home? Don’t I mean anything at all to you?’
‘Noriko, I’m sorry, it’s not… like that.’ He moves towards her and finally, he holds her in his arms. ‘C’mon, it’ll be alright.’
She leans into his chest and weeps. Her hands are wrapped into fists, held tight against her body.
‘What’s wrong with me? Have I ever betrayed you? Have I ever deceived you? Don’t I look the way you want me to?’
‘You know it’s not that.’
‘Well, what then? What is it?’
‘It’s just – it’s hard to explain.’
She feels his hand moving on her back, at first through the thin material of her white vest, and then upon the smooth skin exposed between her shoulder blades. It is like the touch of an angel, but she wishes he would stop.
‘Eddie – don’t. We can’t.’
‘C’mon, it’ll be ok. Don’t worry.’
His fingers are on her shoulders and she can feel him pressing, kneading, exploring. Her tears dry up and she wishes she didn’t feel this way when he touched her.
‘Eddie – please -‘
His fingers caress her neck now and she looks up at him, her eyes puffy and her body eager. She lets her hands relax as he unravels her. Lips part in anticipation. She surrenders to the grip around her waist and the fingers around her neck. He is over her, around her, everything to her. Noriko’s pulse quickens and a rush of excitement courses through her body as he pushes down hard on her second cervical vertebra. A click and a pop and Eddie disappears, along with the loft and the artefacts and Jimbo and Debbie.

It is midnight before she stirs again. Noriko wakes to find herself standing with her left hand resting on the smooth glass of the Veritron. The high stool at her side is empty and Eddie is nowhere to be seen. The room is dark save for beams of moonlight through the window and a strip of light from the angled lamp on the Veritron.

The lid closes with a hiss, enveloping her hand in its glass sheath. The lens whirs, tubes twitch and the solitary lung starts to breathe, slowly in and out, the machine somehow brought to life. She flicks a switch and the lasers fire in a painless dance that illuminates her skin.
‘Well, would you look at that.’
Noriko stares, a girl enraptured. Solid skin becomes translucent under the staccato bursts of light, and smooth flesh gives way to a swirl of fibre optics wrapped tight around polymers and a carbon-fibre skeleton. In just a few seconds, the Veritron completes the analysis, its lid slides back and its breathing stops. It sighs out in a death rattle, as if the gift of life was all too brief. Noriko stands with the moonlight and the machine.
‘You ok?’
Eddie is behind her somewhere, his voice a whisper. She hears him take a step forward and wonders how long he has been there. She is lost for a moment and then turns to look at him. Like a ghost in the in the silvery light, an apparition amid the relics. Old faces, old letters, dead rock; all bear witness as Noriko looks down at her left hand, still flat on the surface of the machine. Words come to her after long seconds.
‘Are we all just mementoes to you, Eddie?’
Her eyes flick toward him and he stares back at her, tight-lipped and unblinking.
‘Guess I should have told you.’
‘I don’t mean a thing to you, do I?’ She turns away, runs out towards the balcony, as tears stream down her face.
Osaka swelters still, but there is a breeze now that feels good on her skin. Momentary relief. City lights shimmer beneath under a brilliant moon.
Noriko climbs over the handrail, balancing. She hears Eddie cry out. She rocks on the precipice as he bursts onto the balcony. His hand reaches for her.
The city beckons and she doesn’t look back.[/private]

Richard Evans is author of the future noir novel Exilium and the short stories Half Life and Touch Sensitive. He writes about robotics, the future and the present at his blog Uncanny Valley (https://blog.richardevansonline.com).