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"is it going to kill me?" she asks as she bites into a piece of sea urchin.
she doesn't hear the answer because she doesn't care. she is dizzy; she could be anywhere. it is her third mojito medley of the night, or whatever it was called. it had a ring to it, that much she remembers. there was grapefruit, mint, and some kind of berry. "is pomegranate a berry?" someone had asked and she is quite certain it is not. she had wanted it without a lot of sugar and they must have listened because it is tart and the first sip stung the soft flesh of her inner cheek where she had accidentally bitten herself too hard earlier in the day.

to her right is a group of young asian men in suits celebrating and taking pictures of themselves. the flash is jarring. several ashy blonde women of a certain age are drinking wine and laughing too loudly at another table. they are from the south and they are tourists. she doesn't know this to be true, but she assumes it based on their fingernails, florals, and updo's. she is acting like a judgemental elitist bitch. she hates herself for this. she looks down at the edamame. they have forgotten to bring a wooden bowl to dump the empty pods into, and her water hasn't been refilled all night. she is sitting at the end of the table with the younger perkier girl. the children's table, she thinks. she says it out loud and the girl agrees and they sort of laugh.

several older men who make more money and who have bigger jobs are also seated at the table. when she speaks, they kind of listen. the restaurant is downtown in a sprawling space of white and wood. there are all sorts of unmarked doors and staircases and rules for the order of ordering and yet it strikes her when a new party walks into the room, the waiters stop what they are doing in order to yell something like "ha-YAH!" and the grating noise is beginning to sound like rush hour in penn station and she doesn't like penn station at rush hour or at any hour for that matter. someone at the table says it's a common japanese greeting. she's not so sure. she eats another piece of sushi with too much wasabi and it goes up her nose.

the girl had been here before, a few years earlier, with a friend and the friends' boyfriend for a tasting. she had taken pictures and rolled her eyes deliriously with the passing of each plate and had stayed until the very end and then, high on food and the newness of exclusivity, she had spoken on the phone with her then boyfriend who was in a far away land about all of the things she had eaten. it was nighttime and she was in a cab going home and he had called her a big shot and she was satisfied. he always called her that when she had done something he deemed cool or important, even if it wasn't.

now she stares down at her plate and stabs at the ginger rose. nothing is new. she feels empty. the only thing new is this empty sensation, which she finds terribly unsettling. it won't go away and she suddenly feels old.
they pile into a cab and ride to the fashion show. she holds her breath like she always does when the models walk down the runway. tonight they are wearing skinny pants and skinny ties and everything is white! white! white! and the backless gowns skim the same girls' tailbones that skimmed their tailbones a month ago in bryant park. afterwards, everyone steps on the backs of each other's hems and heels to get to the champagne.

the girl can't breathe and her feet ache. she surfs the black wave, kisses the air, and hails a cab for the fourteenth time that day. she takes off her shoes, slides down the seat, and opens both windows. as they turn up the west side highway, the hudson river smells like the ocean and a blast of cold air catches her hair, blowing it off her face. she likes it.