“Fuck you!” the first guy shouts back. They collapse over one another, laughing hard. It’s fine. I can grab a napkin, wipe the sticky liquid off my fingers and the glass. No harm done, my little friend. Well, maybe it got my suit a little, but other than that —

WHAM.

Someone slams into me, hard. My drink slips from my grip. The music is at full volume, the bass is shaking the floorboards, but everyone can hear my glass crash onto the floor. Is it an unfortunate accident? One of those things that happen in a crowded bar? No. Several women glare at me, swearing. They wipe at their clothes and their legs, then stand upright with relieved sighs that they are completely dry. Makes sense — all of my drink has already soaked through my shirt and skirt. The guys are laughing even harder now, their voices lost in the music as they retreat. The last words I can hear are how the Coke stain on my shirt matches my face.

My co-workers seem to have made new friends, too: a small group of foreign guys, including Josh, flank their sides. Their faces light up as they raise their hands and clap: “Nice. Way to go. Brilliant.”

“Brilliant?” asks Misaki. She turns her back on me and tilts her head. “Why? What do you mean, ‘brilliant?’”

“It means ‘smart,’ Misaki-chan.” Lieko appears behind her. “But, he means, that girl is not smart.” She turns to Josh and tilts her head, too. “Hiniku, ne? Sarcasm. Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right! Hey, I used to know that girl, like a decade ago! Check this out — I KNOW I can find an old photo of us on here somewhere! Thank God for Facebook, you know?!” He whips out his cellphone and invites Misaki and Lieko to lean in close. They both giggle behind their hands as they do so.

It wasn’t a decade ago. It was six and a half years. I’ve been in Japan for six years and six months, and probably about six days, to be exact. It’s fine. I’ll let them figure that out on their own. I need to find a bathroom. Something’s really going on with my eyes.

I stagger through the tide of people, following the signs to the washroom. They point toward a tiny nook where I see at least ten women lined up along the wall. It’s fine. I just need to step out. Find a convenience store or a McDonald’s or the like. They all have bathrooms.

I walk down the main street but all the stores are closed. The temperature has dropped, or maybe it’s colder here because we’re close to the bay. I can smell it in every deep, panic-reducing breath I muster. It smells like salt with a hint of onion.