1;

She sits on her kitchen floor, tired and tiled, scrolling past missed calls and unanswered texts. She gives each one an ugly glare, leaning her head back and closing her eyes to a sigh. Her legs are bare and sprawled indecently before her. She’s aware of sitting on her favourite tile—wait, no, that’s a little more to the left—and she shifts accordingly.

The ceramic tile feels cold underneath her barely clothed rear, but it’s a nice, comforting kind of cold. Well, it’s always been this time of the year, in New York especially. Somehow, age has caught up to her, and at the not-so-ripe age of thirty, she gathers her old memories and see how her years had ran away so quickly. The wine shelf is empty and so, with a sour twist of her lips, she clambers to her feet to rid of the parched, sandpaper-ish feeling. Grabbing a plastic carton of what used to contain orange juice, she drinks from the rim, but tears away when the water tastes more like dishwater than anything else. She rushes to the sink and spits the water out, pouring everything down the sink and tossing the carton into the trash.

She wipes with her sleeve. Miserable. A few years ago—seven to be exact—she held molding futures together. Like glue, perhaps, fixed the girls’ problems like she fixed their hair, hugged the pieces together and pressed kisses to the sides of their heads till went dry. She’s said so much of the same words that they became a routine, not an obligation as a friend.

So this is post-apocalyptic Tiffany Hwang after long years of dazzling lights and mused laughter.

They’ve left so many wrinkles at the sides of her face, the corners of her eyes. She can’t believe how much they’ve took of her. Her phone rings again, then, and the ringtone sends waves of something intense up her back, following the vertebraes of her spine dutifully, and she shudders.

She picks up on the fifth ring, the hopeless and desperate sound filling her ears and pounding at her eardrums.

She clears . “Hello?” Her Korean is a tad rusty; being in the states gave her no use to talk Korean, or act Korean for that matter.

She doesn’t take off her shoes in her apartment, though the habit had stuck to her the first few months and when her parents had came to visit. The voice on the other end is timid, meek, maybe because the calls are rare and scarce.

They’ve rarely communicated at all. Tiffany had stopped with the group chats and social networking sites. 

“Tiffany?”

She hasn’t changed her name though, it’s like a keepsake of something that used to be grand, something that used to be better.

“Hey, Jess. How have you been?” The question probes at an answer Tiffany is wary of listening to.

“Good. I’m at the States now. Would it be okay if I came to visit?”

You never did before, Tiffany thinks, chewing a lip thoughtfully.

Tiffany’s mind flashes back to the stacks of magazines on the coffee table, the empty Coke cans stuffed underneath the couch, the unmade bed.

“Yeah, sure, Jess…”

The reply is relieved. “Thanks, Steph, I’ll be there in a few.”

The first thing Tiffany did is to brush her teeth, thoroughly, back to the molars and over the canines; it stung a little at the pressure, but she frowns when her teeth look horrible, a pale yellow in stark contrast to the glistening white it had been before. She spits the toothpaste out and avoids her reflection with a ducked head, lifting up her shirt little by little to see what her once-flat stomach had become.

She tries in a breath, and stops, dropping the hem of her shirt and loosening her grip on it.

She hopes Jessica would just have to be content with the Stephanie now.

Listless nights full of roaming hands used to be one of the reasons why Tiffany had chosen to tone down and gain a few muscles. Shared blankets and pillows pressing into their backs used to be a good enough reason why Tiffany needed that hard stomach. Gym sessions with YuRi helped her maintain that, now she wonders if YuRi still frequents the gym at all.

Tiffany pulls away from the mirror and searches through her laundry for her bra, puts it on a little sheepishly because there once was a time when she’s been told that bras were irrelevant in the comfort of their bed. She has discarded her old, lacey, fire-engine red ones in exchange for the skin-coloured, cotton ones. TaeYeon would have smacked her lips and teased Tiffany for an old lady at the change.

Her fingernails are trimmed short, and she has trouble hooking the bra on. She collects the crumpled, soiled tissue papers around the living room, skirting around the coffee table but failing when her hip collides with the sharp edge. Tiffany lets out a howl and almighty cusses her neighbours two floors below her would have heard. Bending over doesn’t seem as easy anymore, Tiffany’s back cracks with an unholy sound and she cusses that follow are even more unholy, but she diligently picks up the soiled tissues with her thumb and forefinger.

She hopes Jessica would be okay with Stephanie Hwang, soft-bellied and bleary-eyed after days gone bland.

~+~

Jessica shifts uncomfortably on the lumpy couch, a regal blue that’s a bit too gaudy for Jessica’s liking. A cup of coffee is served in front of her, it tastes like the kind from the can, and it’s not warmed, but Jessica is thankful for the welcome if not at all. The hug awkwardly offered by Tiffany with arms half open caused Jessica to feel the plush of Tiffany’s stomach, and Jessica smiles fondly.

Tiffany bites her lip when Jessica still looks the same—her hair is a few shades lighter, the thighs fuller—and she jokes about Jessica’s newly acquired Californian tan.

Jessica swallows and nods, glancing down her arms. “It’s been a while, Steph.”

Tiffany’s bright smile—too bright for even her own eyes—fades into something more sober, reminding Jessica of a meager flame flickering on a candletip.

“Yeah, it’s been…”

Tiffany looks down to Jessica’s prim and proper nails, a light pink of the nailbeds causing Tiffany to be painfully reminded of her dull ones, to the fitting diamond on Jessica’s fourth finger. Her knuckles look slightly bigger—has it been that long?—Tiffany now knows the reason for Jessica’s out-of-the-blue visit.

And she’s afraid she fears it too much, as her gaze falls off Jessica’s hands to her empty pair.

“Hey, I got you something,” Jessica turns to rummage for something in her leather, branded bag (Tiffany recognizes the brand to be something out of reach for her now).

“You didn’t have to, Jess,” but her words fall short when Jessica retrieves a velvet box from her bag.

“I knew you liked to wear these back then. And I saw one around, so I…” Jessica fumbles hopelessly, clumsily shoving it into Tiffany’s hands that doesn’t match her graceful, elegant fingers.

It’s a Tiffany & co. bracelet. Tiffany looks up to Jessica, alarmed at the thought of something so expensive.

“I can’t—I can’t accept this, Jessi, it’s way too expensive and I have nothing to give you—”

Jessica’s lopsided, but carefully guarded grin stops the words from Tiffany’s mouth.

“I don’t want anything, MiYoung. It’s just a gift. I haven’t seen you in so long.”

Tiffany has been hoping Jessica would say it before she does, because it’d be weird saying words she hasn’t said in so long—ever since their farewells and amidst tearful promises to keep in touch—but she’s been deprived of loving, sinful caresses fluttering down her back, the kisses over the smoothness and curving of her shoulder, the fingers that fit neatly into the bend of her elbow.

She avoids Jessica’s earnest eyes in that sense, fingernails tugging at the loose velvet of the box. “I missed you, Jessi.”

Both are somewhat bitter over their un-kept promises over the long years. Jessica’s smile is gentle, as are the fingers creeping up to clasp two fingers of Tiffany’s hand.

“I missed you too, MiYoungie. A lot.” Jessica rubs the length of Tiffany’s index finger. “You haven’t been calling.”

Tiffany laughs, though it sounds bitter, brittle, even to her ears. Her lips tending to a grimace, but ending up mangled on her face. “You too.”

Jessica hums a little sadly. “How’s your travelling? You never could stay in one place for too long.”

“It never happened—,” an awkward laugh—“I moved to New York and did a little show-business and modeling. But I guess I was too short for that career.”

Jessica laughs politely along.

“So how about you?”

Jessica wriggles her fingers, “I got engaged. Last fall. We’re moving to Japan after we get married because that’s where his business is.”

“Oh…” she shouldn’t have asked, “Congratulations, Jess.”

“Hey, Tiff,” Jessica sips at her coffee, “no offense, but this tastes like crap. Come on, let’s go and get coffee elsewhere. I know a place.”

Tiffany frowns at the offer. Lately, she’s been feeling insecure about leaving her apartment. It’s something about not being able to fit into old clothes and not doing much about it. Jessica, who’s halfway between getting up and perched over the couch dismally, sits back down at Tiffany’s face.

“Or we could just not go…”

Tiffany flinches, then hurries to get her wallet from her dressing table, “No, no, I’m coming, just hold on for a bit.”

She’s putting on her windbreaker when Jessica notices, “Hey, your shoes are on. Got too used to the American culture now, haven’t we?”

Tiffany’s gaze flits to Jessica’s flats by the door. She mutters, embarrassed, “Oh, I’ve been in America for too long and—”

Jessica holds up a hand with a bemused chuckle. “Hey, I’m American too, remember? Save it.”

“Right.”

Now Tiffany feels stupid. They head out to the café down the block, which Jessica says she’s been frequenting in the past few months and it makes Tiffany wonder how long Jessica has been in town without her knowing.

“I never knew you liked coffee black,” Tiffany pauses, the straw in between her fingers.

Jessica nods, looking flustered as she reaches into her bag and takes out a flask that could only contain one thing. She unscrews the metal cap and tilts some clear liquid out into the coffee. Tiffany looks scandalized, but says nothing.

Jessica sips her coffee with even breaths, looks at Tiffany from the corners of her eyes.

“A lot has changed,” she sighs, leaning back into her seat. Tiffany’s not sure why, but she feels disappointed. “HyoYeon has kids, SeoHyunnie is the head of finances for something,”— Jessica says it a little contemptuously—“YuRi is coaching kids swimming,” she looks wistful, but cheers up and pipes at Tiffany, “but I’ll be in town for a bit, so we have some catching up to do. It’s you and me and the States again.”

Tiffany nods and wonders when those eyes have been as muddy and lurking, when they have stopped looking at Tiffany for Tiffany and not someone else instead.