2;

Tiffany doesn’t exactly remember when the last time there had been a ‘you, me and the States’. But Tiffany would like the pleasure of thinking that it had been pleasant and fulfilling. All she knows is that she’s turning around to get a better angle of her protruding rear in the cocktail dress two sizes too tight. Her jaw juts out in slight annoyance. The last time she had put the dress on was during HyoYeon’s wedding, and that had been a few good years back.

That night the nine of them spent hours scouring over the albums and photobooks shoved to the back of YoonA’s drawer, fished out with a sheepish and guilty grin at their diminished state. TaeYeon had flipped through the yellowed pages fondly, fingertips purposely covering the blotches of yellow from age on the crusty pages. YuRi and SooYoung tried to mimic the poses in the photobooks, and while YuRi was pretty much still in shape, SooYoung had doubled over at the thought of it afterwards, flicking off imaginary confetti off her shoulders. Sunny brought the drinks, and half of them went home, and the other half stayed.

Tiffany was one of them to leave first, the thought of intoxicating herself with eight other girls she thought she would have spent most of her life with unsettling. Who knew what other things would have been said and passed around, drunk beyond relief, lost without hope. She was sure Jessica had stayed though, she didn’t see her in the shared cab the four of them squeezed into.

SeoHyun had stayed, miraculously, but Tiffany had put that behind her and didn’t bother to ask what had happened behind the doors of YoonA’s dimmed room.

Tiffany had clung onto SooYoung’s arm, nuzzling the taller girl’s shoulder and yelping whenever the taxi ran over a hump on the road. She’s had a few drinks, but the lack of appetite threw her high tolerance for alcohol out the window and she felt sick to her stomach. It was probably the feeling of seeing someone being happy—not her—and the grim smile that tightened her lips as she saw the groom appear, without a white stallion and armour, but glorious and fairytale-like all the same.

Soon, Jessica would be married. What is she doing coming back anyway?

The vibration of her phone on the bed brought her back, and she whirls to check the received text, slipping into her heels along the way. The clacking of her heels is disconcerting, loud and filled with hollowness down the marble of her apartment. She shoves her keys into her purse and hesitates over a can of pepper spray, but drops her hand from it and stalks away (she believes no one would want to hit on her anyway).

I’m outside your door.

She briefly wonders what Jessica would wear—something naughty? Dazzling? She never imagined Jessica to be a nun, especially when it comes to these kinds of things and those kinds of dodgy places.

Tiffany opens her door to high stilettos and bright lipstick. The dress is a layer of skin around Jessica’s body, and it makes her bare legs stretch far and long. Tiffany bristles slightly, but it’s unnoticeable.

Jessica’s coaxing and persuading had lured Tiffany out of her apartment. Tiffany eyes the car keys dangling around Jessica’s index finger and is saved the worry of transport. She’d hate to take anything public in the tight dress.

Jessica eyes her up and down, tilts her head and Tiffany waits for any kind of remark, biting criticism, but receives nothing more than a sweet smile that reminds Tiffany of the strawberry lip-gloss Jessica loved to wear before. Jessica inches forward timidly, catching Tiffany around the wrist and tugging her forwards, an initiative to get going and stop staring.

It takes a while for Tiffany to tear her eyes from Jessica’s glittering pair. It’s been way too long.

~+~

It’s nothing like Tiffany had expected it to be, and honestly, Tiffany is slightly insulted. The bar is not the kind teenagers and young adults would go for some ecstasy. The business is slow and steady, just rolling off the tips of the customers’ tongues. The bartender is sleazy and shifty-eyed. Tiffany edges away from him in disgust, though his smile seems to tell a different story. Jessica’s dress is hiking up her thighs as she eases herself onto the tall stool, deftly and easily with her stilettos that Tiffany feels intimidated and climbs onto her own with hopes to disappear and be ignored.

“Just order whatever you want,” Jessica flashes her a smile. “It’s on me.”

The dance floor is vacant and looks like a minefield, Tiffany eyes it wistfully. She hadn’t been fearful of losing her mind once. Jessica’s gaze follows her, and as they settle on the dance floor, Jessica’s hand slides onto Tiffany’s lap. Tiffany recoils and then feels guilty when Jessica withdraws her hand, the barest hint of offense in her sparkly eyes.

Jessica’s voice comes out as a meek squeak. “You want to dance? I’m sure you’ve still got it somewhere in you, American.”

Tiffany scoffs good-naturedly. “I partied too hard when I was young.”

Jessica pushes out a lip. “And I thought you were the party animal.”

Tiffany observes carefully when Jessica slowly slips off her stool and makes a show of skip-stepping to the dance floor. The dance moves are old, obsolete, and it causes Tiffany’s flesh to burn in flustered bashfulness. She scurries to Jessica because people are beginning to stare and the hairs on her arms are prickling and the skin on her back is itching at the burning stares. She captures Jessica’s hands and sways the both of them to the pounding song, whining about saving Jessica’s reputation. Jessica’s left hand is sweaty, which is strange because her right remains oddly cool and warm at the same time. She drags her hand to Tiffany’s waist, cups the flesh there, and laughs freely. Tiffany’s muted eyes begin to lighten.

Tiffany blinks, and she is eighteen again, believing in first loves, believing in fairytales and holding the beliefs closely and tightly to her heart. In the dark, magical confines of her bedroom, she feels claw-like fingernails run down her back and count the indentations of her ribs, her thighs and her eyes rolling back into her skull. Soft wetness clamps down onto the side of her neck, and her heavy head is being pushed to the other side, the room heavy with sweaty panting and lust, greedy, sinful lust. Red haze is entering Tiffany’s mind.

It had broken Tiffany’s heart to learn that fairy-tales don’t contain lust, and the characters don’t feel lust. Just how flawed could she be?

“Hey, Tiff,” the murmur is from her shoulder—how did that get there? “I love this, a lot.”

The honest opinion causes Tiffany to balk. Jessica shouldn’t have come; it brought up too many feelings buried from old age. The wedding band feels tight on Jessica’s finger as Tiffany squeezes her fingers around that finger. The cold band stings and Tiffany’s hand move elsewhere, the flesh in between her shoulder and neck.

“I think…I’m going to get a drink.”

Tiffany tears away and moves directly to the bar, inquiring if the bartender could make a drink good enough to knock Tiffany out. The bartender lays out the options, Tiffany says ‘whatever will do’ with an uncharacteristic roll of her eyes—it’s not her, it’s the red haze clouding the thinking part of Tiffany’s brain.

When Jessica finds her again, Tiffany is circling her empty glass with a finger, her eyes on the verge of watering while Tiffany’s insides churn and jitter and blame everything on the alcohol.

“Hey, Jess?” Tiffany’s voice is hoarse, and she feels like a blasted frog for croaking when Jessica’s voice sounds like the infinite smoothness of her freshly pressed sheets.

Jessica looks at her, maybe a little wary at the impending question. She looks like she’s been expecting it, Tiffany notes, and it makes her angrier.

“Why did you come back? You didn’t call me for a few years. And then you came back—with a wedding ring and sparkling eyes,” it sounds harsh, hard, but that’s because Tiffany has been trying to understand and trying to come up with explanations and answers for the question, and is frustrated when nothing makes sense.

Jessica sighs, resigned. She brings both arms onto the counter and leans forward. The bartender knows that look, and stays away from the pair for a while, at least until it’s clear and either one of them (maybe even both of them) wish to forget everything.

Jessica has no answer. She looks at the bartender imploringly and he hurries to make her a drink—the same kind he had served the pretty lady with madly reddening eyes.

The pretty lady looks horrible now. And the glittering bracelet around her thin, sinewy wrist hits the counter as she lets her arm down with a loud, horrible sound that causes him to wince inwardly. He shies away into the safe corner, doing what he does best: being ignored until needed.

“Why did you come back, Jessi?”

“I—I wanted to.”

“You didn’t the years before?” Tiffany looks hurt and Jessica looks cornered with panicky, rapidly averting eyes.

Tiffany plays with the charm of the bracelet Jessica had given her, tempted to remove it and throw it away, and counting the seconds in her head until she does it. She isn’t aware of the moisture collecting at the corners of her eyes, which feel hot and bothered. She can see Jessica’s sunken collarbone from her perch over the counter, and the feeble rising and falling as Jessica still breathed.

“You’re my best friend, aren’t you?” Jessica shakes her head as she shakily drinks. “You are, right? Are you? MiYoung?”

Tiffany’s lips are sulky, her shoulders slouching over herself, brooding and sour.

“I’ve grown up, Jess. That one was flat-stomached, beautiful, collarbone-protruding, eye-smiling Tiffany Hwang MiYoung,” Tiffany hides her face, spitting bitterly.

Jessica calls for the bartender, mumbling tremulously, “What is this—it’s good—yes, give me one more—no, make it a couple more…”

“You love yourself too little, MiYoung,” Jessica chides lifelessly but decidedly. “I don’t care what your jeans size is. Any Stephanie Hwang MiYoung is my best friend. You pinky-promised to that. Did you forget that?”

Tiffany doesn’t need to be reminded, and she shivers at Jessica’s breath blowing against her bare shoulder. Please don’t go near me, she begs miserably.

“So why are you here, then?”

“I missed you,” Jessica tries, knowing very well that it’s useless, and they’re just useless words to Tiffany, who has missed Jessica endlessly for the seven long years, even when they had met.

“Home,” Tiffany manages to rasp, “I want to go home.”

She hates this miserable place, she hates her madly uncomfortable shoes, she hates her ripping dress, she hates her stubborn zipper, she hates that sad frown on Jessica’s face, she hates Jessica—

“Okay, I’ll take you home,” Jessica finishes her drink and takes Tiffany by her forearms.

Tiffany struggles weakly and pushes against Jessica’s restraining shoulders. “I don’t want you. I don’t want—I don’t want—not you. Call TaeTae, YuRi. Call Soo, call Yoong.”

“Don’t be difficult, Steph.”

“I don’t care, call them—call—oh my god, just don’t—”

Jessica’s lips have already taken everything, the words off Tiffany’s mouth, the strawberry scent marking the parted lips Tiffany used to be proud of owning, kissing the swell over and over again. The red haze clouds Tiffany completely and Tiffany kisses back, from light pecks to her back pressing into the cubicle door (how did she get there?).