“Let’s try this one.”

When the clerk puts a transparent bottle under her nose, Yuri takes a careless sniff—different female fragrances come and go until every breath she takes smells like the dense, sweet, shiny and pink air in a Barbie fairy wonderland. Even after demanding something “milder and not so feminine,” Yuri prepares herself for the sticky scent of Caramel Macchiato or the stifling ambush of some overwhelming floral aroma.

But as soon as the scent reaches her nostrils, the wonderland in her head disappears—or gets blown away. This one is like a wind: saturated with the sharp bitterness of summer leaves and smooth sandalwood, its unexpected coolness strikes Yuri as if snowflakes were landing on her palm.

She takes another deep, long sniff. When the scent dissipates, she asks the clerk about the secret behind this magic. The clerk smiles knowingly: “Tea, bergamot, and orange blossom.”

“Is that Pour Homme?”

Yuri raises her head, meeting Yua’s curious gaze. Yuri’s mind stops for a second; a sound between “Er” and “Ah” escapes her mouth. Yua takes the bottle for a good look, her eyes widening at the gilded characters.

“I just knew it. Pour Homme, the famous boyfriend perfume.” Yua raises her eyebrows after a sniff, “Whoa, I buy that. Perhaps I’d date someone with this scent.”

Thump, thump, thump. Something hits Yuri’s chest. She watches Yua returning the bottle, a curly lock of hair swaying beside her dark eyes. A voice—soft and round, a voice belonging to Yua—echoes in her chest—

Pour Homme.

“Try this one.”  Mom sprays something onto Yuri’s wrist. Yuri wrinkles her nose. 

“Ah, I don’t think this is the one I want.” 

“Why not?” 

“Too sweet.”

“What about Hypnotic Poison? It’s milder.” 

“Just another kind of sweet.” 

Mom inhales heavily and crosses her arms.

“What do you want, then?”

Yuri silently walks away from the female fragrance section. She walks slowly, eyes scanning around for that familiar corner where she once tried Pour Homme. When her eyes roam onto the shelves of the male fragrance section, a transparent bottle with gilded characters jumps out at her. Yuri walks straight toward it, her steps steady and firm, her hand reaching out before arrival.

She examines it while feeling it—the graceful curvature, crystal-like bottle body, and reassuring weight. Her breath paused, Yuri holds the metal-coated, shining lid with two fingers, lifting it up as if it were sacred. The nozzle, unbelievably tiny and delicate, is exposed to the light.

“What’s that?” 

Mom appears right next to her, her voice cutting the air apart. Immediately, Yuri presses the nozzle with great strength, sending a cursory spray out toward herself. Tiny drops land on her coat, scarf, and face. 

“I just spotted this one. It looks nice.”  

Mom looks down at the bottle, her eyebrows squeezed in suspicion.

“But it’s for men. This is the male fragrance section.” 

“How do you know?” 

“It’s written on the wall. See for yourself.” 

“It must have been put into the wrong category. That’s the shop manager’s fault, not mine,”

Yuri blurts out, volume raised. Her gentle grip on the perfume bottle has become a forceful grasp. Sweat from her armpit flows all the way down her arm toward her wrist. She looks directly into Mom’s eyes and sees her head shaking. 

“Its name says the same. Pour Homme. For men.”

Mom narrows her eyes, her stare increasingly interrogative.

“What makes you so interested?”

Yuri’s look at Mom is virtually a glare—she swears that she spots a triumphant smile on her mother's face. If Mom’s interrogation poured gasoline onto Yuri’s mood, then that smile throws a lit match on it. She has an urge to break the silence—the equivalent of submission—but her logic fails her; in her mind there are murmurs, cries, and screams, but no calm voices talking with any powerful refutation. Boiling blood flows under her reddened skin. She clenches her teeth, her voice trembling: 

“Why? What’s the problem? Its design attracts me, not the name or the stupid label! What’s the problem with you? All you can see is ‘for men’!” 

Meters away, a clerk wearing a man bun takes a quick glance at Yuri—the latter takes one step back, quickly masking herself with smoothed eyebrows and sealed lips; she holds her breath to cease the dramatic rises and falls of her chest. But Yuri knows that her disguise is defective—her eyes are traitors: they must be bulging, reflective with two thin layers of tears.

“I hope that’s true,” Mom says, her tone as steady as marble, her frown not untied.

Yuri watches Mom’s lips, waiting for the next part: but… 

“…but no. You’re just avoiding what’s really important here.” 

“Well, that’s interesting, ‘cause I myself have no idea what I’m avoiding!” Yuri’s scream cuts into mom’s stable voice, “Why don’t you tell me?” 

“Is it because of her?” 

The surrounding air condenses in an instant. It dawns on Yuri that this is the real declaration of her defeat. Her eyelids tremble, eager to flutter and let her eyes change focus. But Yuri only stares harder, so intensely that Mom’s face begins to blur. 

“Who?” 

“You know.” 

“So what?”

Yuri licks her lower lip––as dry as autumn thatch. 

“So do you have to put yourself into that category?” Mom takes one step closer. Yuri can tell that she is moist-eyed. Her tone, near pleading, sharpens.  

This can't be more familiar. Countless times in Yuri’s childhood—when she broke a vase; when she cheated on her finals; when she arrived home late—Mom has given her the same look. This expression has always been the key to Yuri’s sense of guilt, and the moment it appears, Yuri surrenders. But not this time. The idea of Mom shying away from that word only repels her.  

Yes, I am exactly in that category, Yuri imagines shouting at Mom, and I chose Pour Homme because she likes it. But I do not feel ashamed. You are the one who should feel ashamed. You refuse to accept what your daughter is really like. The tips of Mom’s eyebrows would go down, but Yuri would not stop. You said I am not that kind of person because neither you or dad is. You said it’s all because I think not being heterosexual is cool. But you are wrong.  

Yuri would pause here to ponder what to say next, and Mom would put her hand onto the shelf, bend her body, and fix her eyes onto the floor. Mom would pant as if Yuri’s words had drained her energy. She would order, then beg, Yuri to stop. But Yuri wouldn’t, and what would follow would crush Mom’s spirit: You said it’s not love but friendship. A sneer. Friendship! Headshaking. No, not really. I want to be her girlfriend. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. You cannot stop that. I’ll run away. Sooner or later, I’ll live my own life. You cannot order me around, not about which perfume to buy or which person to love. Not even leaving a second for Mom to react, Yuri would take Pour Homme to the counter and then storm out of the store.

It is a perfect in-mind rehearsal, but nothing more.

When Mom recovers from her grief, she will call, screaming in the phone about not admitting Yuri as her daughter, questioning if Yuri wants to “see her die early.” She will call over and over again, and in her last call she will tell Yuri "never come back."

The cooling scent of tea, bergamot, and orange blossom gently permeates Yuri’s surroundings, absorbing her anger; fatigue, in its place, crawls up Yuri’s body. What difference can another fight make? The light in Mom’s eyes shows no tendency to retreat. It terrifies Yuri to realize that for half her life she may have to see it, confront it, and feel it piercing on her back and haunting her in her dreams. Why not just avoid the trouble?

“I…I already promised you.” Yuri squeezes the words out of her throat.  

Mom raises her eyebrows.

“So what’s all this about?”  

“You don’t have to worry, really. What I told you before was only half the truth.”

Yuri lets out an exhale, her eyes turning to fix at the ground.

“I mean…” Yuri clenches her fist, “I was quite…irrational that night, when I told you that I had… a crush on Yua.”

“We were fighting, and I was trying to make you angry. Yua and me were close anyway, so I knew making up that story would get on your nerves.”

Yuri exhales again and finally looks up, seeing Mom’s sealed lips and still raised eyebrows. Yuri decides that it is a signal for her to continue, so she swallows before opening her mouth again.

“But I don’t k…I was not in such a feeling for her. I liked her and I do, but only as a friend.”

Yuri looks down again after finishing her sentence, dazed by the white floor. The world falls into silence despite the thump, thump, thump in her chest.

When a hand suddenly appears in her sight, Yuri nearly gasps. But instead of slapping her face, the hand lands on her shoulder.

 “Don’t cut your hair so short ever again.” The light now emanates from Mom's eyes like a mid-summer moon’s halo.

“Don’t be into those boyish things anymore.” Mom removes her hand, reaching for the bottle of Pour Homme instead. Yuri loosens her grasp and lets her. I have to. I have to do this to buy her and myself some peace. Yuri’s fingers are sweaty. What follows the motherly “That’s my girl” is the heavy tuk sound of Pour Homme’s bottom hitting the glassy shelf. That sound crushes something in Yuri’s heart.

Mom turns and looks Yuri head to toe. She is baked under the LED lights and feels like a newly manufactured doll that is being examined for flaws. Heterosexuality, check. Then the inspector smiles with satisfaction: 

“So, Miss Yuri, shall we keep searching for your perfume?” 

“Perhaps later,” Yuri’s facial muscles pull up the corners of her mouth to make a sheepish smile. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” As soon as Yuri turns around, the smile disappears. Being a good daughter is more important than being an honest one. 

She walks toward nowhere, her steps steady and firm. Her stiff shoulders relax, her breath is smoothed by the wind. Loneliness embraces her, and Yuri savors it: it has the smell of tea, bergamot, and orange blossom. It brings Yuri to a forest of summer leaves and sandalwood, in which she feels at home.