The Obsession with an Unsuspected Catastrophe
She sawed and nailed wood on the fourth-floor terrace of a high-rise apartment that doubled as her studio, during the hours her husband worked as a copywriter at an advertising agency. She was a commercial illustrator for magazines and posters making assemblages with wood. In early summer, it was an entirely comfortable dwelling. She watered the potted plants in between jobs. The coffee bee hawkmoth larvae were noisily feeding on the thick leaves of gardenias. In front of the terrace was a fishing pond filled fed by spring water. To circulate the water, a fountain rose in the centre of the pond in the evening.
By mid-summer she had already started work on the astrology page of a fashion magazine for the following year. The publisher ordered her to produce 12 spreads at a time. Liquitex painted wood chips and shavings littered the concrete floor of the terrace. The coffee bee hawk moths died behind the potted gardenia before they reached adulthood. Numerous bats nesting in a nearby shrine filled the dusk sky and cast pitch-black shadows on the calm waters of the fishing pond. Meanwhile, she continued to have insomnia and her drinking increased.
One afternoon, as she lifted her head from the desk during a break from work, her eyes met with a man cleaning the poolside through the window. The barefooted young man was a janitor employed by the landowner of the fishing pond. All year round he wore a tattered hoodie and cotton half-pants that seemed to slip off his poor hips. The summer was almost over and the dead leaves were flying, he was staring up at her room still holding his broom in his hand. Hidden by his long fringes were black eyes as big as pitted prunes. He was a dry-eyed alien. She felt as if her personal mental image was being viewed through her naked body. And gradually it became a disgrace for her to have her appearance itself seen by others.
That evening, she stood outside the window with a glass of whiskey in her hand. A cold wind shook her drunken body, the dark depth whispered from the bottom of the pond.
“Come here. Jump to escape from now!”
Just as she was about to climb over the fourth-floor terrace railing, a phone called from her husband.
“I will be working late, you can finish dinner first.”
His distant muffled voice barely took her arm and led her under the light of the kitchen table.
●︎Brown Sugar and Maple Multi-Grain Cereal
●Crunchy Granola
●Cheesy Macaroni
●Creamy Pasta & Vegetables
●Gluten Free Potatoes and Chicken Flavoured Pot Pie
●Gluten Free Teriyaki Rice
●Savoury Stroganoff
She noticed the dinner prepared on the tablecloth. Freeze-dried meals that could be eaten simply by adding water. However, the shelf life marked on the emergency food ration pack had long since passed.
The kitchen light is still on for a cup of coffee. In the dead of night, a deep sleep repeatedly sinks and floats in a fishing pond. A sigh of awakening from a dream bubbles on the surface of water. The alien with jet-black eyes like candied prunes must be planning his return to another comfort planet without foretelling a catastrophe. A lighthouse illuminating the caramel-hued ripples will guide his voyage. She hears the chant echoing in her skull. An unstoppable monotonous melody. The sound of water springing silently from underground.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
hiromi suzuki is a poet, fiction writer, artist living in Tokyo. Her writing has appeared in 3:AM Magazine, RIC journal, Berfrois, Minor Literature[s] and various literary journals on-line.
X (Twitter): @HRMsuzuki
IceFloe Press 