avocado toast & other stories

iii.

The world is red and Yuriko Fujji is in need of too much alcohol circling through her system. The lights are bright, pretty at first but then a bit overwhelming, blazing a trail of music along the ballroom. The satin material of her dress is too high for comfort in complete contrast to the hesitancy lined around her throat. Yuriko swallows down her distaste and toys around with a couple of dark-chocolate strawberries sitting on her plate, half-melted and expired.

Serena takes a seat next to her in a mess of silver chiffon. "I think I have blisters," she groans, slamming her head on her hands. "God, this music is complete shit. Should we just ditch?"

"We've only been here for half an hour," Miles counters, palms shuffling through a few loose curls. He leans against his girlfriend with an annoyed expression painted on his eyes. "I paid, like, forty dollars for this ticket." A pause.

"Bitch."

"Yeah, we're all bitches, baby. Get over it."

Junior prom is—not what she expected. It's not like the movies: she has no date, no plan to get drunk or lose her virginity, no expensive purse or pair of heels or necklace. Instead, Yuriko slumps back in her chair and rubs the dark maroon material through two fingers, a restless heartbeat stuttering underneath her jaw. It is loud and reckless and nervous, a bundle of anxiety, coupled with nerve endings and so many electric shocks that Yuriko starts to shrink. This feeling is familiar, of course, because it is what she grew up with.

But now, at seventeen years of age, her best friend is away at college. And now, she is lonely. Sue her.

Yuriko tilts her head and says, "I think these strawberries are moldy underneath."

"Gross." Serena collects her braids in one hand and pins it up with the other. "It's even worse that I believe it."

"This might be the lowest peak of my life," Miles groans. He's cute in the traditional sense, someone who looks like a lost puppy that paws his way through every confusing situation, dark bangs fluffy and long. "Look, oh my god look, Cynthia and Michael are literally hooking up on the dance floor. Holy shit? Holy shit."

The girls don't look over. There's really nothing to see.

Yuriko sniffs. "I don't like looking at Michael unless it's absolutely necessary," she tells her friends with disdain. "Please don't make this night any worse than it actually is."

The truth is, instead of lingering on the hundred reasons why she doesn't want to be here right now, Yuriko just misses Gwen. She misses the way it felt to have arms around her waist right before falling asleep, body gliding between the lines of buttery euphoria and sweet dreams. She misses the instinctual kisses peppered across her forehead, delicate stars that never seem to evenly connect, the bratty remarks and the easy banter. She misses the smell of gingerbread, the snap of mint leaves, the color of baby blue. Now, it's through video calls or texting—and it's not the same. Not even close.

("Hey," Gwen whispers into the line. "My roommate is asleep, so I'm not sure I can talk for long."

Yuriko smiles and giggles breathlessly. "That's okay," she tells her. "I just missed you. How was your day?"

"Homework. Emails. More homework."

"Ah," Yuriko says, nodding even though the other girl can't even see. "Oh, I made dinner tonight. Just thought I'd tell you."

The other girl lets out a soft, airy sound. It reminds her of ocean waves, crashing and calling within wisps of nature. "Are you eating well, Yuri? You know I'll come by first thing tomorrow with groceries if your fridge is empty."