The first time I heard The Sound, I was watching the love of my life clear out my refrigerator.
She was crouched on the tile floor—shoes on—bathed in that fluorescent glow. At her feet lay a cardboard box, half-filled with an array of spices, sauces, ingredients I never used.
Mirin, sake, shichimi…
All that was left in the fridge now was an old soup, a half-bottle of ketchup, expired yogurt. I glanced at the rest of the apartment, similarly empty. Funny, how I thought we shared things 50/50. I owned the couch, so that remained. But the houseplants, art and pets were all hers. All loaded in a van, ready to go.
“I’m taking the soy sauce,” she said.
“I use it too,” I protested.
“How? When?”
“On rice.”
“You’ll eat rice without me?” she asked. Then, “Alright, whatever. Let’s split it. Find a tupperware for me.”
And faintly, like a whisper from another life, I heard The Sound. High pitched, piercing, but still quiet.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“Hear what?” she paused, registered the noise. “Might be the fridge. Do you want half the soy sauce or not?”
“It’s fine,” I said. “It’s yours. But leave the yogurt.”
She put the soy sauce in the box, closed the fridge, and was gone.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
The next few days passed without incident, in that gauzy, post-breakup haze. I had a difficult time feeding myself, with neither an appetite nor anything to cook with. On one occasion I managed to visit the grocery store but, faced with an overwhelming array of choices, I realized I didn’t know what to eat on my own.
I ended up buying mirin, sake, and shichimi, but didn’t remember how to use them.
And it was there, chilled by gusts from the freezer section, that I heard The Sound again. High pitched, piercing, but louder now. Loud enough that I couldn’t ignore.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
“Do you hear that?” I asked the clerk. Trevor, according to his nametag.
He stopped, looked up from the tofu he was putting away.
“That whining?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s the freezer, I think.” He turned back to his work. “Thing’s old as hell.”
But when I left the store, The Sound persisted. Even louder now, I thought. I walked home, damp by a mist that wasn’t quite rain, wondering if that noise had always been there. Was the earth always emitting that cry, and I’d only now stopped to notice?
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
No, it was definitely new. And louder. At the front of my apartment, I held the door open for a young woman taking her Australian Shepherd outside. She stopped, looked up, and covered her ears.
The days passed, the E grew louder, and I eventually figured out how to use mirin. You can brush it on meats before pan-frying, or use it to make a noodle broth. Funny, how simple this all was. If I put the effort in earlier, maybe I wouldn’t have had to learn on my own.
All the while, other people began to take notice. Of that high-pitched whining, I mean, not my cooking. At first I thought I was oversensitive, hearing with my frayed nerves. But gradually, I saw people wearing ear-plugs on the bus. Heard people theorize about it in coffee shops. Saw white-noise machines go out of stock in drug stores.
“It’s 5G,” I heard someone say. “Government’s trying to subliminally message us.”
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
“Tectonic plates,” said another. “The earth’s settling. If it was 5G, the sound wouldn’t be worldwide. But people are hearing it all the way in Tibet. They don’t have 5G in Tibet.” A pause. “I think. What’s 5G anyway?”
Which was how I learned that The Sound was global. For some reason, I thought it existed only in my neighborhood, my city. I couldn’t decide whether it was comforting or depressing that she would be hearing this sound, too.
Another week, and I learned that shichimi and peanut butter on toast isn’t half bad, really. The Sound grew louder, and some theories started to emerge. No one could explain what that whining was, only the consequences. Reports in the news of migraines and headaches spreading, along with other strange side-effects. People were shoplifting more. Committing acts of infidelity, too. Which gave me reason to wonder if what happened between us had to do with that E. And maybe if I should find her and try to win her back.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
In the meantime, I learned how to make mirin-glazed salmon. And the sound was now almost like a friend. It’s odd to say, but I found it reassuring. It was loud enough to crowd out any attempt at thought. With everything else falling apart, it gave me a singular thing to concentrate on. That all encompassing, always present, E.
It was growing louder. And I started to suspect it was higher pitched, as well. I started to wonder when it would end, if maybe we’d all go deaf. Who would disappear first, that E or me?
The next day, I received my reply.
When the announcement was made—over the radio—it was barely audible, struggling to make itself heard over the ever present, overwhelming—
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Vaguely, I could hear a man’s voice. He sounded official, sounded afraid. Another man was interviewing him, but seemed less afraid. Like he didn’t understand the magnitude of what the expert was saying. This, I realized, was a bad sign.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
“…so while we can’t exactly explain what that sound is, we can predict that it’s, well, getting closer.”
“Closer?”
“So we’ve noted over the past couple weeks that the sound has grown in volume, yes, but also pitch. Are you familiar with the doppler effect?”
“No, I can’t say I am.”
“Imagine a lake, completely still, completely calm. Now, imagine at the centre of this lake is a motorboat. The owner of this boat turns on the engine, chooses a direction, and starts cutting through the water.”
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
“Ok.”
“Now, behind the boat is a wake, ripples traveling outward. Nice and spaced out. But at the front, these ripples are all pushed together in the direction of the movement. The crest of each wave is closer at the front of the boat, in the direction where it’s heading, compared to behind.”
“And what does this sound have to do with boats?”
“You see, sound moves in waves, too. And the fact that this sound is growing in volume—and pitch—means that the waves are being pushed together. So, well,” the man cleared this throat. “Whatever the source of this sound is, it’s coming closer.”
“Closer! As in a meteorite?”
“No, no. If anything, that would be a relief. We have contingencies for meteorites. But whatever is emitting this sound, we’re unable to detect. It seems to be invisible, it doesn’t have a physical form. The one thing we do know, however—“
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
“The one thing we do know, is that this thing is going to make contact with earth in thirty—“
“Days? Months? Years?”
“—minutes.”
Above the sound of the E, I heard a yelp of surprise from my neighbor. Or maybe it was me.
Thirty minutes. An object with no physical form, never before observed, was to make contact with the earth. With me. With her.
“This could be the end of us, yes, or it could be nothing at all.”
The radio went to a commercial. Laundry detergent.
I went outside, and decided not to lock my door. With only thirty minutes left, spending an extra couple seconds to fiddle with keys might end up being the greatest mistake of my life.
Thirty minutes. How to spend them? I had a reasonable idea of where she was. But maybe she’d be on her way somewhere else. Maybe she’d be on her way back to me. Or maybe I was the last person on earth she wanted to be with, at the possible end of it all.
My parents? My sister? My lonely uncle, who lived exactly twenty-five minutes away? Already, car horns were blaring above the E as everyone—nearly everyone—was panicking, making snap decisions on who to spend their last thirty min—
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
—utes with. It wasn’t too late for me. I had a bike. I could make my way through the city quickly. I know my way around. I’ve lived here all my life. Oh god. I’ve lived here all my life.
On the roof of the parking garage, where the bikes were kept, the sound continued to bear down, an almost physical presence. The pulsing in my ears was only felt, not heard. I had to make a decision. I had to find someone to be with.
But somehow, I couldn’t move. Instead I noticed something, at the most inopportune time.
An undercurrent, beneath the swarming mass of people trying to make their way home. Here and there, people stood, completely still, staring up at the sky. Making no attempt to find company at the end of it all. Those who had no one within thirty-minutes. Or those who had no one at all.
I knew that I shouldn’t have been standing there, surrounded by strangers, watching the heavens and waiting for that E to arrive. My bike was locked up just a few steps away. I was holding the key. I still had time.
Yet all around me, people stood still. Huddled together, unspeaking. And as that E started growing louder and louder–so loud that it was almost silent–I found myself growing unbearably warm. Was that heat from The Sound, or the bodies of everyone else, pressed against me? The heat of so many lives, brought together all at once.
23 minutes. But I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t let go.