The tip of her tongue just barely whispers against the corner of her upper lip.
She stands upon a white platform—feet spread wide apart, palms facing rosy red backlighting. Her arms are frozen at a thirty-degree angle to her torso. Maybe she's trying to keep the ambiance at bay. Everything she's wearing is trimmed in red lace.
It all started years before this. Jin was gone. Again. Disappeared. Or maybe it all ended.
The bra she's wearing is entirely transparent, stitched with red strawberries.
She was hiding from the sun.
Grandpa Jinrei had brought in a tray for her some hours previous, and she had pretended to be asleep. Item: one silver teapot—steaming and fogged when first laid before her, now tepid and lifeless; the formerly sweet-smelling licorice tea now smelled luke-warm. Item: one teacup, the serving size of which would satisfy only a doll. Item: one dish of seaweed crackers. Item: three white doilies crocheted by her formerly, but not currently, living mother. Item: one plate panda cookies—her favorite.
He must have really been trying to cheer her up. All of her favorite things, she mused minus one.
She doesn't know how much the red stiletto heels cost. She never does. The platform is littered with half-eaten strawberries.
She was cocooned in her comforter, hoping somebody didn't try anything radical—like throwing open the blinds. She had no idea how long she'd been buried in there. Hoping the world would make sense to her when she chose to resurface.
Her exposed toes are French-tipped and lacquered pale, translucent pink.
Panda had left her. You know things are bad when you depress the household pets. The other members of her household recognized grief in all its various forms. They were used to it. Rather, they were used to her. Heaven knew it was always the same with her. Sparkly magenta eyeliner was caked and smeared all over and around her eyelids. Waterproof (adj.): Will smear with ease, but will never wash off, no matter how hard you try.
Her panties are black. Her hair is black. It's parted to the right and glossy, and a swatch of glossy black tendrils distorts the left half of her face. She's modeling bikini-style this time. Bikinis in the bedroom. What will they think of next? Her hair cascades like a waterfall—flat and glossy like a photo print. Her panties are printed with strawberries.
A crack ran through the center of the mirror. Her pillowy sanctuary was losing body warmth. All she could see was what used to be a face and a pigtail on each side.
Now the backlighting is gone. Someone whose name she will never be burdened with the knowledge of is sweeping away the strawberry butts at her feet.
She was sick. She was sick of thinking of her life in terms of "waiting for him". She was sick of putting her life on hold for him over and over again. She was sick of waiting.
Freeze.
Unfreeze.
Freeze.
Unfreeze.
She's not actually licking the bowl, but her tongue is sticking out as if she's about to.
She's surprised the bowl weighs so little. It looks to be about three times the length of her head in diameter, fashioned out of clear glass. An entire beach was sacrificed for its creation.
She was sick of not getting what she wanted, of sitting around, of putting her life on hold over and over again. She was sick, sick, sick of putting her life on hold over and over and over again. Waiting.
Freeze.
Unfreeze.
Freeze.
Okay, now hold it there.
The clasp on her bra is shaped like a strawberry.
She was sick. She was sick, sick, sick. Biding her time, biting her tongue, keeping her needs quiet, waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Freeze.
Unfreeze.
Freeze.
Boredom was setting in.
Bored with the same type of misery over and over and over again. Bored and sick. And waiting.
Freeze.
Unfreeze.
Freeze again.
Unfreeze again.
Freeze. Unfreeze. Freeze. Unfreeze. Freeze, unfreeze, freeze, unfreeze, freeze unfreeze freeze unfreeze freezeunfreezefreezeunfreeze.
Her lips are painted the color of a dark, juicy strawberry. This bowl might've aided topping an entire production line of strawberry shortcakes. And now she gets to lick the bowl. Or pretend to, at least. Her body is turned to the back-left corner of the room.
Sick of putting her life on hold, always putting his needs first, never once getting what she wanted, thinking that she deserved so much better, while he took his time sorting it all out. Knowing that she deserved better.
Waiting.
Freeze.
Unfreeze.
Freeze.
Stop. Okay. Now hold it there.
She can smell Cool Whip. Of course, the bowl isn't really made of glass.
No one can reasonably say anyone who enters a Tekken tournament is a good person. She counted the rings around her eyes—both the magenta and the inky blackish-purple ones. Birds were chirping outside of her window. It made her want to open the medicine cabinet and swallow.
Was she a good person?
The bra is gone now. Her mouth stands open, waiting to take her first juicy bite into the strawberry. The bowl is gone, too.
She pulled out one of her pigtails, then the other. Her whole head looked like it was in shock.
She always wishes she could say it was an accident.
But no one becomes an underwear model by accident.
She holds the strawberry between her thumb and forefinger. Her body is turned toward the back-right corner of the room. One arm shields her exposed breasts. Her stare penetrates the camera, wills each individual part into submission, and winks—just for them. Her stare says: Ice Queen. Strawberry fields forever.