She is on a towel. She is on a beach. There are towels on all sides. Candy wrappers and tissue stick to the towels. The water is warm and full of people. The waves are not high.

She watches her friend.

He is at the shoreline, his hands on his bony hips, looking out. His spine curves like a vine upside his protruding ribs.

She pulls up her calves so she won’t kick the stranger behind her in the face. She pushes hair behind her ear to let the sun come in.

Her friend steps on towels to get to her. "Come in," he says. "Let’s swimming."

She follows him past the towels to the wet sand. "I don’t know," she says.

"Come on. We are at the sea."

A thick ribbon of color winds around the shore. Dry sand is not readily visible.

She walks into the water, wondering about glass and tin cans and seaweed. Surely no crabs will snap at her. She lets herself float. She floats past seaweed, strips of paper. Shortly she bumps into a piece of wood. A red ribbon has been tied to the top of the slab. Characters are burnt into the wood. She stands in water, which comes to the underside of her breasts. She holds up the slab to her friend.

"Is it okay if I take this?" she asks.

"Sure. If you want," he says.

She doesn’t know what they are, but she eats them. She doesn’t particularly like them, but she’s hungry. They’re white in the middle. Rice takes many forms. A smell of fried stuff drifts heavily in the air. There are colorful signs and happiness everywhere. People bump past her without anger.
There are other things she can’t identify. They are white shapes hanging from trees. They float or dangle in the humid breeze.

"Buy souvenir for your mother and father?"

"No, I don’t think so. I’ve got less than ten thousand yen to my name."

"To your name?"

"Yes. To Dana."

"Dana, Dana. How many days until you go?"

"I don’t know. Twenty."
"Mm. Twenty. I miss you."

She will miss him, withdrawal has begun to infect her.