Flash Fiction #2: Active Idling
An exploration onto digital tech, anonymity, and womanhood. Single Story.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Akane re-read the message, her heart accelerating in her chest.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
She checked and double-checked the sender.
“Unknown number.”
Fuck, she thought.
Fuck fuck fuck.
She looked up from her phone, her eyes involuntarily searching for an immediate, proximate answer. The metal carriage suddenly transformed into a cramped space; a crowd of unknown, masked people surrounded her.
Akane looked around, her eyes darting between the fast-moving Parisian scenes and the other passengers. She could only guess who lay beneath each mask. Experience told her she’d likely be wrong in whatever she imagined.
Steady, steady.
Box breathing. Remember.
Box (inhale) breathing (exhale).
She focused on the eyes; but none in the crowd of brown and occasional green eyes deemed her worthy of direct contact.
People in public transports didn’t like that kind of intimacy.
To her eyes, no-one looked vaguely responsible for the message either.
Akane scoured her memories; tried to remember if she was supposed to meet someone.
Tried as she might… She wasn’t.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Her heart still pummeled from the adrenaline jolt. Her hand went to her chest; there was a tightness that hadn’t been there before. Her palms were sweaty.
She didn’t even have that much of a social life. It was hard enough for a Japanese to meld with Parisians.
She felt like an attraction. A circus freak.
She opened the Line app, and texted her mom. She was only supposed to arrive tomorrow, but…
Maybe.
Her fingers darted through the smartphone screen.
“お母さん、私にテキストを送りましたか”
The response was almost immediate.
“No. Tomorrow only. You O K?”
“Yes, sorry, everything is fine,” she typed in reply.
Her stop was closing in.
She needed to breathe.
This fucking mask, she thought, her fingers sliding beneath it ever so slightly.
The air was hot and heavy from the continuous circulation.
She focused on the message again.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Akane quickly tapped a response. Her fingers trembled slightly over the smooth glass screen.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I don’t seem to have this number, apologies. Who is this again?”
As she sent the message, she held her breath. The years of competitive pool swimming served her more than she gave them credit for.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The train hit a curve in the tracks, jostling her against the other passengers. She lost her concentration — and with it, her breath.
She felt the phone tremble in her hand again, the screen lighting up with another notification.
“Deux pour un sur poke de Oi Sushi…”
“God, for fuck’s sake!” she whispered.
The train announced her stop. As she got up, her legs feeling like an unholy cross between jelly and bamboo chopsticks, another notification buzzed.
As she felt the crowd compressing her in anticipation, she read the message.
“Hi, Akane! This is is Joan, your new Australian flatmate! Sorry, I forgot to sign the message.”
Her chest suddenly expanded in time with a short laugh. The tension abandoned her; the crowd was no longer oppressive.
Another message from the unknown number chimed in.
“I was only supposed to come in next week, but I had to leave my previous room earlier than expected. I hope that won’t be a problem? I’ll help with utilities and everything else, of course.”
Akane’s sneakers hit the Parisian streets with renewed confidence. The familiar green and red of café Pepita warmed her insides through memories of a hot, foamy coffee.
All would be well.
All was well.
This story completely came out of the photograph. In the Paris of January 2022, COVID was still a concern. The face-mask, the clinical lighting, the concentration at the message’s phone… The story was already there - or at least it was one of the many possible stories hidden within the image. This one wanted to come out.