My friend Sachiyo is a Kewpie doll of a girl. All of her personal electronic goods

shimmer with rhinestones; all of her facial expressions end in exclamation marks.

She is fascinated by my eating habits, and often pulls out her leopard-fur-upholstered

cell phone to photograph me eating the chocolate off of a Choco Pie or siphoning

the filling out of those panda snacks. She is convinced that I am going to die of malnutrition,

but also wants to know how I stay slim. Yesterday she poked me in the boob.

“What size?” she asked, in Japanese. “E, F?”

I wriggled out of the question by responding that sizing was different in America. She nodded

knowingly, looking down into her own cleavage. Her forehead wrinkled.

“Is it padded?” I shook my head, no. Her eyes widened and she let out that Japanese gasp

of disbelief: “Eeeeeeeeeeh!”

“They’re always padded in Japan, right?” And always frothy, ruffled, embroidered with hearts

and balloons, accompanied by high-waisted underwear. Cupcake lingerie.

She gave me a grave look. “For protection,” she said in English.

Etude House