A Useless Kind Of Hope

 “I don’t know how you do it,” she stirs her drink, taps the fingernails of the other hand on the counter.

YuRi mirrors her, drumming her own fingers along the glossy marble. It feels sticky to her fingertips, like someone had spilled their drink all over the counter.

Jessica holds the glass lightly by the rim, YuRi staring at her lips that seem engorged and extra-shiny in the dim lighting. It’s probably the alcohol; YuRi shakes her head, shrugs it off and pretends she saw nothing.

“Humans are not meant to love,” Jessica finishes her drink, wipes her lips with the back of her hand. “Being humans, we destroy everything we touch,”— Jessica gestures languidly to the both of them—“including you and me. Each other.”

YuRi clears her already burning throat and turns away from the lipstick on the rim of the glass. Jessica doesn’t notice the smears of red at the back of her hand and drags her purse to her side, pressing her wrists onto the edges of the counter to push herself off the stool.

“You must really love YoonA a lot,” Jessica staggers to the washroom without really knowing where it is, and in that state of mind, she doesn’t really care if she ends up somewhere else she’s not meant to be. She’s been doing that a lot recently, but she always end up at the same place. Back to Tiffany, back to the leaking air-conditioner, rustling bedspreads, biting into flesh. Back to square one.

YuRi eyes her warily, but says nothing and does nothing. She watches her friend sway on her feet, push past strangers, half-tempted to forget they even know each other.

“Shame I can’t do the same for Stephanie.”

Jessica is halfway to the washroom, across the dance floor when YuRi puts her head on the counter and closes her eyes. The walls of the bar is vibrating with the base, and YuRi’s pulse is jumping along with it, thumping in her head like an imminent headache waiting to happen. She imagines YoonA’s burning eyes, haunting fingers trailing down her spine and down her hips. Kissing YoonA fully on the mouth takes a lot of effort, because YuRi would either peck her top lip, or on her bottom one. Kissing YoonA fully on the lips would mean YuRi really needs YoonA to love her, and she’s not entirely sure if YoonA could do that.

Jessica should have rounded the dance floor to avoid elbowing people away. Her lips feel like rubber, it didn’t belong on her face. It belongs somewhere else, maybe on Tiffany’s collarbones or the tender flesh in between Tiffany’s chest and neck.

She finally manages to push through the door and her heels nearly give way due to the uneven flooring. She gives the strap a tug and she has her heels off. She only steps on the black tiles (there are black and white tiles, much like a chessboard) to reach the sinks, some of them covered in sick with broken eyeliner pencils near the taps. Numbers and words are scribbled on the mirrors with lipstick, and Jessica looks past them, finding a dry spot on the sides of the sink of press her palms against.

She looks at the red welt near her collarbone, and pulls back the shoulder strap of her dress to spot another at her shoulder. It’s getting tighter in there, and she reaches behind her to unhook her bra, the one YuRi had naughtily thrown to her with nothing less than a smirk. She exhales, warping her reflection with vapour.

She arches an eyebrow at her reflection cockily. “Well, we can’t always have what we want.”

Cautiously, she allows herself a deep breath, too afraid of the things that could possibly come with a deep breath. She takes out her lipstick from her purse, the one she had just bought over the weekend, and makes large, messy words on the mirror.

By the time she’s done, half of the red stuff has snapped off, leaving behind a stump. Jessica discards the lipstick into the trash bin. December is coming, and December is a month of unsaid apologies, stung faces, spiderwebs of sorrows. December is when Jessica pays her dues to Tiffany by kissing the girl till she wakes up in the mornings and holds her tight, begs her not to disappear or unravel into thin threads at night. Tiffany only presses her cheek into Jessica’s shoulder and makes promises Jessica doesn’t want to hear, but hears it all the same.

And it makes her sick that they make her feel better. Tiffany makes her feel better.

She looks at the angry red words with a hint of annoyance, unrefined spitefulness.

Promise me you won’t go that far.

~+~

YuRi has been pushed into the taxi, smells a flowery scent that reminds her so much of freshly washed laundry at YoonA’s place. She grins foolhardily, mostly because she has nothing to lose anymore, and because this girl’s shoulder is as soft and warm as YoonA’s on a Sunday morning.

Blonde hair, does YoonA have blonde hair? Or is that even blonde?

“Hey, Kwon, stop looking at me like that,” the girl draws her hands to her shoulders, self-conscious and maybe even afraid.

It is true, what Jessica told her. She really does love YoonA, but YoonA is a part of the universe that YuRi cannot reach. And among infinite dimensions, YoonA’s is the one YuRi cannot grasp.

YuRi settles into the girl’s shoulder, telling her what her name means.

“Glass,” YuRi likes the way the girl stiffens at contact, “YuRi means glass. I’m fragile, you know. Fragile.”

Fingers weave through her hair and scrape lightly at her scalp. YuRi shakes her head to get rid of the working hands, because she doesn’t like how they make her feel. Helpless, like a small child waiting to be consoled.

“Just keep quiet, YuRi.”

“I think Sica’s still in there.”

“Tiffany drove her back.”

YuRi laughs, covers with her hand. Her voice is suddenly sour, sullen. “I didn’t see her. You didn’t let me greet her.”

“You’ll see her when you’re sober.”

Because the girl’s eyes are very intense, looking through half-conscious eyes and making YuRi very aware and alarmed, YuRi draws away carefully, like an animal that has just been threatened. It’s very difficult for YuRi to tell what those eyes are doing, destroying her, picking her up, helping her—they seem to defy all rules and laws and sciences.

YuRi looks away, at the passing streetlamp, at the sleeping stray dog, anywhere.

December makes her skin tear too easily, makes her think if this—all of this bull—is worth it at all.

~+~

Jessica glides her palm over the leather of the seat, laughing incessantly to herself. Tiffany glances over at her from the steering wheel, lips pursed and locked, knots in her head.

Tiffany doesn’t know what the point is, because Jessica is drunk and will never give her a straight answer when she’s intoxicated. And she would probably have to say this again in the morning when Jessica is suffering from a hangover, and she would probably refuse to bring her Tylenol, but she would eventually.

Tiffany says it anyway, hoping to understand some of this. “You promised not to drink anymore.”

Her voice is soft and tender and quiet. The laughter on Jessica’s part has stopped, died with a lonely sound from the back of . Tiffany floors the pedal, wanting to get home fast, undress Jessica fast, cup Jessica’s shoulder blades fast.

“You promised you wouldn’t, Jessi,” Tiffany says again after a minute’s worth of silence and averted gazes.

Tiffany beats the red light, doesn’t slow down till they’re entering the parking lot, her speedometer spiking at hundred to hundred-twenty. The night road is quiet, tranquil. It gives way to Tiffany’s car, traffic lights just skeletal poles and divided lanes all mean the same thing.

Jessica unbuckles her seatbelt with cold, fumbling hands, staggers her way to bed, body half bent over. She strips the dress blindly, numbly, with Tiffany standing at the doorway, fingers hesitating at the switch.

“Don’t,” Jessica warns. “Don’t turn that on.”

Tiffany obliges and pulls off her hoodie, jeans and goes under the covers, searching for Jessica’s warmth and accepting whatever Jessica has to offer her. She grabs at fingers and presses them to her cheek, swallowing at the touch. Jessica looks at her weakly, wanting to surrender.

“Just go to sleep,” Tiffany tells her. “I won’t bring this up in the morning.”

Tiffany is so understanding and patient with her, loving her so sincerely and deeply that Jessica feels like drowning.

When Tiffany folds over Jessica like an ocean, embracing her bones and kissing her flesh with every bit of her soul, Jessica gasps, struggling and sobbing, swearing this is not what she wants, making herself believe Tiffany is a part of her wrongdoings.

The words leaving are a complicated mess of ‘no’s and ‘I don’t want this’s, ‘please stop’s and ‘I hate you’s.

Yet Tiffany kisses her the same, presses warm lips onto the shell of her ear and breathes into them, so her breathing is all Jessica hears.

“If you love me,” Jessica begs as she falls asleep, sounding desperately pathetic but knowing there is no other way to say it, “don’t stop halfway.”

~+~

YuRi has her shoes off, her socks dangling over her toes and the bend of her knees fitting over the frame of the bed. Someone is tugging at her socks too, and the hands now move up to the belt hoops of her shorts, pulling them off too.

YuRi chokes on a laugh, “You can’t me.”

The girl throws her a sharp look that warns YuRi not to say anything more. “I’m not you. Shut up before I decide to.”

YuRi wriggles and writhes on the bed, pulling the blanket along with her. “I’m a burrito.”

The girl smiles tightly, the one without flashing gleams of white teeth, and tugs at the blanket so it won’t strangle YuRi or suffocate her.

“Looks like a straightjacket.”

YuRi frowns deeply. “But I’m not straight.”

The girl sighs, dimming the lights. “I know, YuRi.”

“How do you know?”

The girl pauses, hesitates on her answers before carefully choosing her words. “Because…you love me?”

“And do you?”

“What?”

“Do you?” YuRi turns to face the girl slipping into bed. “Love me, I mean.”

The girl has tender fingers. Her fingertips fall down the sides of YuRi’s face to her jaw. She flinches every time YuRi breathes, shivers at the alcohol on YuRi’s lips. Her shuddering shoulders makes YuRi sweat, and it’s not because she’s wrapped in a blanket.

“I’m a burrito?” YuRi repeats when the girl doesn’t answer, backtracking by reflex to save the conversation.

The girl laughs, and more fingertips press into the lines of her face, at the corners of her lips.

“You must really love me a lot,” the girl whispers, like she’s afraid to admit it. “And truth is, maybe I love you too.”

YuRi nods, words betraying YuRi’s numb tongue. Maybe they are an ‘almost’, a series of ‘almost’ interactions. YuRi doesn’t recall ever hating the word ‘maybe’ as much.

But the girl pulls YuRi closer, so that YuRi’s head fits under her chin. “I learnt how to fall in love when I fell out of love, YuRi. And we’ve never said it each other, but we both know it.”

YuRi studies the microscopic details of the girl’s eyelashes. They flutter when the girl talks. “I’m not asking for much,” YuRi murmurs. “I just want consistency, wake up in the morning and you’re solid.”

The girl shakes her head sadly. “I can’t give you that. Nobody can. Some people are meant to fall in love, but they aren’t meant to stay in it.”

YuRi nods, closes her eyes to stop looking at things she can’t really see. It really does feel like a straightjacket now, with the girl’s humming heartbeat telling her to go to sleep.

“Tiffany loves Jessica. Why can’t you love me?”

“I love you YuRi, I really do. My only regret is that I couldn’t get myself fixed so I could love you more than I should.”

The scent of flowery laundry engulfs YuRi and she doesn’t even care if it’s YoonA in the same bed as her, holding her. But it really feels like YoonA’s smooth legs against hers. It could just be an illusion. It might as well be. YuRi’s breath evens out.

YoonA’s ‘I love you’s have never sounded so bitter. But they are a useless kind of hope to YuRi.

—ジュリエット