Dead Hours — Off Camera, Page 2
By Suha · Published
Transcript
Four panels. Panel one: Kaito pauses mid-wipe, cloth still on the counter, glancing sideways at the face-down phone beside Rin's elbow. KAITO: Your phone's face-down. Panel two: Rin, chin propped on her hand, half-lidded and bored, not looking at him and not looking at the phone. RIN: It does that. Panel three: Kaito stands very still behind the counter, counting silently on the fingers of one hand, brow furrowed. KAITO: Nine nights. Panel four: he turns fully toward her now, flat and serious. Rin is unmoved. KAITO: You haven't filmed me in nine nights. RIN: Okay.
Image description
Kaito notices the phone is face-down, counts on his fingers, and works out that Rin has not filmed him in nine nights.
About this chapter
3 A.M., rain on the dead-hours store. Kaito notices something he cannot put down: Rin's phone is lying face-down on the counter, and he works out that she has not pointed it at him in nine nights. Unable to bear being the one thing in the room not worth filming, he declares quiet war on his own dullness and sets out to earn the camera back before his shift ends, spiralling over whether a person can be interesting on purpose. All night he stages spirals that are not spirals — squaring the receipts, re-stacking the baskets, declaring war on nothing — then cuts his eyes to the counter and finds the same matte black back staring up at him, muttering the same dead-eyed '...still down.' A ladder of night regulars hands him contradictory, unverifiable verdicts: the tracksuit regular says you cannot make somebody watch you; a drunk salaryman insists he should break something, then fall over; a cheerful jogger beams that the secret is just to be yourself, which is the one thing Kaito cannot do on purpose. Rin dismantles every argument he builds without looking up, and has one flicker of near-sincerity late on — that it isn't about him — which she will not explain. Near dawn, hollow, Kaito gives up performing and simply works: mops the gangway, wipes the counter, restocks the rack badly, yawning, watched by nobody. That is exactly when the phone comes up, the running beat inverting — she is filming him at last, and only because he has finally stopped doing it for her. Then the turn: she lowers the phone, sets it down and says it flatly. Someone wants to sign her. For nine nights she has been writing a reply and deleting it, and every time she points the camera at him she has to decide something, so she stopped pointing it. Kaito asks the wrong practical question and gets no answer. Dawn light fills the store from exactly the angle the night began — the phone raised and filming him again, the blank card lying on the counter beside it — and Kaito, who spent six hours wanting the camera back, has it back and would trade it for the nine nights instead.