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The sweltering heat of summer in the countryside orchestrates a full-on assault upon Momoko’s body. The humidity, empowered by the surrounding kilometers of rice paddies upon rice paddies, frizzes up her cute little ringlets. Mosquitoes crawl up her arms, exposed in her darling Baby jumper, the gingham one with the fruits printed all over it that make her look like a grandma’s kitchen table cloth (not her grandmother, but definitely someones), threatening to bite her and create unsightly bumps all over her body. The cicadas incessant chirping is ringing in her ears and digging into her brain. Sweat melts off her mascara.
Momoko likes summer vacation because she doesn’t have to go to school. It’s the closest she can get to living her aspired Rococo lifestyle: no daily responsibilities, free to follow her whims sans the constraints of having a government-mandated schedule. She been making the most of this carefree, lawless time so far: waking up in the afternoon, going on long leisurely strolls, embroidering in the shade of her grandmother’s porch.
But today…
God, it’s just way too hot to do anything today!! Momoko is laid daintily on her side, head gently sitting atop her bent arm. Her embroidery tools are spread out across the old rotting wood of the porch, abandoned after Momoko had tried to get some needlework done, she truly had, more than she tries at anything else in life, but just couldn’t bear to move a single muscle in this agonizing heat.
Today is one of those days where Momoko’s want to nap in the afternoon as well, if only to avoid being conscious during this doggiest of days, to leap through time to the cool evening when the sun says ‘Bye-bye! I’ll be back to torture you again tomorrow!’ and the cicadas fall into silent slumber.
She very well could fall asleep, right here on the porch, like a lazy kitten after her afternoon milk, if it weren’t for—
“… And honestly, it’s wasn’t that hard or anything. Actually, I figured out the problem right away! Lightning fast! The real bitch of it was having to screw it off. It’s tedious work, ya know? It’s screwed on real tight— It has to be, or else the whole thing’ll fall apart— so you got a really get in there and twist and twist and twist. Put a whole lot of elbow grease into it, until it pops off and hits the floor with a loud ass clang! It took a lot outta me and made my hand cramp, so I had to take a break, so I—”
Ichigo. Ichigo had decided to pay her a visit on today of all days, to rattle out stories about working at the mechanic’s or wherever during the summer. Momoko couldn’t possibly imagine wanting to spend her precious free time working, but Ichigo’s always been a strange, nonsensical girl. She’s sprawled out haphazardly next to Momoko, the only things between them being plastic cups and a bottle of barley tea, a sorry imitation of the teatimes eighteenth century noble ladies had on their delightful summer afternoons. Ichigo, just arriving, had completely ignored the presence of the cups, and took a giant swig of tea straight out of the bottle. Momoko’s nose had scrunched up and her mouth had twisted in the most unladylike manner, and she refused to drink from that bottle, unable to get the idea of Ichigo’s backwash (she totally back-washes. Momoko’s witnessed this on various accounts) floating around in there out of her head.
Momoko wishes she could ignore her, she truly does, but Ichigo has the sort of voice that’s literally impossible to tune out. There’s an unnatural frequency in that boisterous rasp that forces its nearest victim to hang onto every single word, whether they like it or not.
Ichigo’s wearing a loose black tank top, the hem falling past her hips, and purple men’s track shorts, with white lines going down the sides of them that make them look like they could be Adidas, but they’re most likely fakes. Her feet, messily manicured with chipping red nail polish, are clad in black slides. At least, one of them is. The other slipper is abandoned somewhere, flung away, a victim of Ichigo inability to stop her legs from whipping all over the place when she’s excited. Which is constantly, of course. Even now, she has one foot in the air, twisting her ankle this way and that as she deliberates to Momoko how exactly she fixed the problem some old lady was having with her scooter’s motor. It’s the foot that still has a slipper, although now it’s precariously teetering off the edge of Ichigo’s big toe.
Her other leg is bent and spread wide open, unabashed, even though she’s facing away from the house, practically exposing herself to the entirety of Momoko’s garden. Stupid Ichigo, she thinks. Don’t you know the sun’s not supposed to shine there? You’re lucky that Grandmother and that Loser are out grocery shopping, and there’s so many trees around us that the only one that can see you right now is me. Momoko seriously gets frustrated with Ichigo sometimes. How can one girl be so alluring and be so unaware of it? When she modeled for Baby, she barely even tried, just stood there and stiffly followed the cameraman’s directions, but she turned out so endearing and lovely in the photos that Momoko could hardly believe it was the same person. Even as her normal Yankee self, there are times when she breaks through the barrier of fried hair and gaudy clothes and cakey makeup to charm Momoko with wide, innocent eyes and naturally long lashes and pillowy lips when she wears her matte lipstick, the one that isn’t such a violation to Momoko’s eyes. For a split second, Ichigo is the only thing Momoko can see, until she snorts or spits or picks her nose and the illusion is gone and Momoko is forced to retreat back into the fantasy world in her head where such disgusting things do not exist.
“Oi, Momoko, ya listening?!” Ichigo bangs the wood right next to Momoko’s head. Despite the scare, Momoko can’t even bring herself to flinch.
“No. Leave me alone.”
Ichigo whistles. “Someone’s got their panties in a twist.” Gross. Momoko hates crude expressions such as those that refer to one’s most private parts. Ignoring Momoko’s sickened groan, Ichigo stretches out nonchalantly, rolling her neck. Momoko can hear each individual crack of her bones. Even this girl’s skeleton is obnoxious. “I get it, though. Mine are too, honestly.” Momoko didn’t want to know that. “It’s waaaaay too hot out here! Like seriously. Too hot to even move. Or breathe. Or speak.” You’re sure doing a whole lot of speaking to be saying that. “Or eat. Or sleep. Or walk. Or—”
“Hey, Ichigo,” Momoko cuts her off, unable to bear the long, annoying blathering of verbs that was surely to come if she hadn’t. “I believe my grandmother bought some popsicles the other day. You should fetch us some. It’ll help with the heat.”
As if Momoko had cast a spell, Ichigo bounces up excitedly. Like a doggy who just heard the word treat.
“You serious?! Geez, Momoko, why didn’t you say something earlier?! You’re such an idiot sometimes. We could’ve been coolin’ waaaaay earlier!” She hops to her feet, the last surviving slipper finally falling off her foot, springing away to be forgotten until later. “Which flavor d’ya want?”
“Strawberry flavor, please. The strawberry and cherry flavors are very similar in color. The strawberry is a soft, almost pinkish red, while the cherry is a more vibrant red, like a poppy. It’s very easy to get them mixed up, especially when they’re in the wrapper. Please look closely so you don’t bring me the wrong one, okay?” Momoko speaks very slowly and carefully, making sure Ichigo is able to absorb every single word.
Ichigo gives her a thumbs up and a dutiful ‘You got it!’ before shuffling into the kitchen.
With Ichigo successfully distracted, Momoko has some time to hear her own thoughts. Now that she’s not so overstimulated, she can feel her ringlets (which by now are frizzy blobs) caressing the back of her neck. It’s certainly not helping to cool her down right now. She captures the hair sitting around the base of her neck in both hands and lifts, providing herself a little reprieve. If she had known it would be so hot out today, she would’ve done her hair in an up-do. A high ponytail, or some cute twin tails. Perhaps she should make a habit of checking the weather before getting ready for the day. Although, watching the news is so dull… She’d much rather spend her time sifting through fashion magazines and design collections.
As she’s thinking this, a sudden chill presses against Momoko’s exposed nape. She gasps, whipping around to glare up at the culprit. Ichigo meets her gaze with a toothy grin, like a child who just successfully pulled off a prank. Well, that’s what she is, Momoko supposes. Ichigo gestures for her to take a popsicle. “Here’s your strawberry.”
Momoko gingerly takes it from her, her sweaty fingers brushing against Ichigo’s cool ones.
“And here’s my cherry~” Ichigo sighs in satisfaction as she plops back down in her spot on the porch, like an old lady finally getting a chance to rest her old bones. Momoko’s head perks up at those words. She shoots a totally oblivious Ichigo a quizzical look, then eyes the popsicle in her hand. Carefully, she clutches the edge of the wrapper in one hand, using the other to split it open. She pulls off the wrapper completely. She inspects the popsicle in her hand meticulously, turning it so that the sunlight can hit it from all different angles. This red… is suspiciously bright. One might even say cherry-like. Noticing a droplet of juice beginning to run down the side of the popsicle, Momoko decides to take a chance and just taste it, before it melts under her scrutiny.
She suckles lightly at the tip. As expected, it’s flavor is 100— No, 1000% percent, bonafide cherry.
To her left, Ichigo, none the wiser, groans as she obnoxiously slurps on her own popsicle. The vulgarity of it makes Momoko’s eye twitch. “Mmm. This cherry tastes kinda weird, Momoko. When’d you say your granny bought these popsicles again?”
“Maybe they’re expired,” Momoko deadpans, starting straight ahead. The idea that Ichigo could be wrong doesn’t cross her tiny brain even once if she isn’t told. What a terribly simple girl.
“Well, whatever. Expired or not, they should still be good to eat, right?” Does she know what expired means? Momoko simply hums in agreement, content to let Ichigo live in her own little world where cherry tastes like strawberry and expired food is safe to consume as she escapes to her own. They sit in silence for a while, save for the sounds of Ichigo’s sucking and her little hums of enjoyment. Momoko closes her eyes for a while, taking in the sounds of bugs chirping and birds cawing and leaves rustling in the intermittent refreshing breeze. For a little while, she imagines herself a noble lady, perched atop the rolling hills of rural France with a lady friend at her side, eating freshly picked strawberries— Er, cherries out of the tiniest, daintiest, decorated porcelain bowl.
She is broken out of her daydream when Ichigo squawks out an ‘Ah!’. Momoko glances over to see what the issue is. Ichigo’s elbow is twisted up towards her face. She’s fretting over a chunk of popsicle that’s sliding it’s way down her arm, her tongue wildly flailing in an attempt to catch it. Momoko watches it melt and drip and unceremoniously splat onto the wood beneath them. Ichigo deflates, her straight shoulder-length hair suddenly resembling floppy dog or bunny ears. Against her will, Momoko huffs out a giggle. Ichigo glares at her.
“What’s so funny?”
“You looked so sad just now.”
“Obviously I’m fucking sad! I just lost the last bite of my popsicle. Everyone knows the last bite is the best one!” Really? Momoko would argue that the first bite is the best. The bite you take after working so hard to acquire your treat (be it making the trek to a trendy cafe in Tokyo or tip-toeing to the fridge in the middle of the night without waking anyone up). It’s a bite with the promise of more bites to come. Well, that’s not really relevant right now.
“That’s your fault. You’re not supposed to bite a popsicle, you’re meant to take your time with it. Serves you right for trying to rush.”
“Well!— I just!—” Ichigo sputters, roses blooming on her cheeks as she’s made aware of her own foolishness. Her voice trails off. “… I was getting sick of eating it.”
Momoko simply sighs, placing her own popsicle inside one of the disregarded plastic cups. She brandishes a handkerchief from a small pocket she’s sewn onto her dress for convenience. It’s light blue with pink ruffles around the hem, complimenting her jumper quite nicely, if Momoko says so herself. Ichigo reaches out to grab it from her, but Momoko scooches in close and takes the deceptively thin wrist of Ichigo’s dirtied arm in her hand. She brushes the cloth slowly across the silken skin of Ichigo’s arm, wiping away the juice. Due to the heat she isn’t able to get all of it, the rest of it rapidly drying and creating a sticky, sugary sheen on her arm. Momoko is not unaware of Ichigo’s slight shiver in the summer heat, the way her head is down-turned and her gaze is sidelong, the fall of her hair over her face. It brings a tiny smile to Momoko’s lips.
There’s some juice stuck to Ichigo’s fingers as well. Come to think of it, that’s Momoko’s strawberry flavor on there. The taste of cherry left her quite unsatisfied, being sharp, syrupy saccharine rather than the more grounded sweetness with a hint of bitter she was expecting.
She leans in and licks two of Ichigo’s fingers. It tastes more like skin and sweat than anything else. Ichigo squawks, snatching her wrist out of Momoko’s grasp. “Are you fucking crazy?! What the hell was that for?”
Momoko blinks at her. “You ate the strawberry popsicle.”
“I did not!”
“You definitely did. I still wanted to try it, and there was some left on your hand, so I went for it.”
“You idiot! You’re a fucking pervert!” Ichigo roars. She scrambles backwards on her butt, but not before punching Momoko in the arm. The pain certainly stings and she’ll definitely have to ice it later (as to not have to deal with an ugly bruise that would ruin her coords), but there’s a certain delight in watching Ichigo pant and heave in a flustered panic, eyes wild as if she were about to be eaten, that doesn’t quite let Momoko regret her actions.
Momoko’s never been good, but this badness in her is novel, an entirely different brand. Doing things to get a reaction out of Ichigo… A long time ago, Momoko might have dismissed it simply as a form of amusement— an easy pastime in these dull, boring backwoods. It was an experiment. Momoko, an ambitious scientist (although she would never wear a lab coat!), keen on unraveling the mystery of the peculiar Yankee species, and Ichigo, the unknowing subject, being observed with great mirth through ornate opera glasses.
Momoko would still like to unravel Ichigo. Just in a different way.
“You’re a real fuckin’ piece of work, you know that?” Ichigo grumbles. She’s come down from her state of agitation and is now scooching her way back to be close to Momoko again. She seizes Momoko’s abandoned popsicle, declaring: “If you want some of my popsicle so bad, then I’m having some of yours!” Before Momoko can protest, she takes it into her mouth with a loud slurp, flopping down onto her back.
For a while, Momoko simply looks at her, expressionless. She watches as the bright red disappears and reappears from Ichigo’s mouth. Red juice runs down the sides of her face and her chin. She thinks about the remnants of her own saliva that lingered on the popsicle, now merging with Ichigo’s own inside her mouth. Ichigo’s legs begin to spread again as she gets more comfortable. Momoko observes a droplet of sweat run down her raised arm, past her armpit, and into her shirt, and isn’t even disgusted by the thick, unshaved mess of hair on her underarm.
Suddenly, Momoko is much too hot. Desperate to cool down, she hastens in opening the bottle of barley tea and taking a swig, only belatedly remembering the reason she was so averse to it in the first place.
The term “swapping spit” comes to mind.
“Ichigo,” Momoko breathes, slinking closer to her on her knees. Like an elegant house cat chasing after a feather, and not like a stray kitten scampering after a street mouse. Ichigo begins to sit up, at attention, but Momoko clutches her face, holding her in place, and looms over her.
In the Rococo period, noble ladies spent their days eating, sleeping, going on walks, spending time with friends, and making love. Come to think of it, Momoko’s been doing all but that last one. It’s never bothered her before, but now she can’t help but think she’s not living her Rococo fantasy to the fullest.
Ichigo’s lips are painted red and swollen from the chill of the popsicle. They’ve never looked more decadent than they do right now. Her cheeks are streaked pink and red, and her lashes are long, fluttering. The skin between her eyebrows, however, is all crumpled. “Stupid Ichigo,” Momoko mutters underneath her breath. Noble ladies in the Rococo period didn’t frown. Do you know how many facial muscles that takes? It’s far too much effort. She uses a thumb to smooth it out.
Momoko leans down and presses her lips to Ichigo’s. They taste like cherry and strawberry and a note of… motor oil? Something odd and ridiculous and entirely Ichigo. Momoko realizes that she’s doesn’t actually know how to kiss anyone, and they’ve been sitting here touching lips for a second now, so she pulls away.
Ichigo’s eyes are blown wide. It seems that she didn’t even close them the whole time they were kissing. Even Momoko knows you’re supposed to do that much. She’s blinking like crazy now, and her chest begins heaving rapidly, and before she knows it Momoko is getting grabbed by both shoulders, nails painfully digging into her bones, and Ichigo is screaming in her face. Not even screaming any words. Just thirty seconds straight of yelling, until Ichigo is out of breath. Momoko feels a little bit of spit land on her face, and the moment is so gone that she’s able to feel disgusted by it again.
“Are you finished?”
Ichigo nods, her mussed-up hair shaking with the movement.
“I’m sorry for kissing you without asking,” Momoko says. She truly does feel bad. Her Rococo lifestyle allows for shameless indulgence, but Ichigo is a Yankee, with a completely different set of values and policies. There was a mutual agreement between the two of them to respect each other, even if they didn’t quite understand each other, and Momoko had broken it.
Luckily for Momoko, Ichigo is a very good, innocent, forgiving girl.
“‘S okay,” Ichigo clears her throat. “It’s wasn’t the worst thing in the world or anything. Just fuckin’ surprised me.”
Momoko hums, a small smile gracing her lips. She takes hold of Ichigo’s sweaty hand. Ichigo intertwines their fingers. “Would you like to try again?”
Ichigo nods again, slowly this time. Momoko uses her free hand to stroke Ichigo’s cheek and pulls her closer, having long forgotten the heat that was bothering her so much. No, all she sees now is Ichigo, leaning into her touch with hooded eyes and a lazy grin.
They kiss, again and again, until the sun goes home and the cicadas go to sleep.