Featured Prose | October 16, 2025

Sara Beth Greene’s “Drifting in 7-Eleven” follows a young woman whose Instagram posts about Tokyo’s surprising convenience-store finds become her life preserver as she drifts through the wreckage of one abandonment after another. First featured in TMR 47.2, Greene’s short story is embedded with pocket-size encomia to pasts where their writer felt anchored.

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Drifting in 7-Eleven

She hadn’t left a note. She didn’t respond to texts. But night after night, I kept looking for Namiko at Sea Dance. White flecks of light beamed from a disco ball and chased one another along the wall in slow motion. Hypnotized, I propped my head up on my arm and sipped the watered-down remnants of my drink. Sea Dance was the best microbar in Tokyo. Micro because there were only six seats. And “the best” because it was close to the share house where I rented a room. The underwater theme was calming and pretty, with cellophane jellyfish shimmering from the low ceiling.

“One more, Becca?”

Aiko was already scooping ice into a cocktail shaker before I nodded my reply. She was in her sixties, the proprietor of this tiny bar and its only bartender.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked. “It’s been a long time.”

“I don’t know,” I told her. It had been a long time. Three weeks and five days to be exact. “I’m leaving tomorrow myself. Back to St. Louis.”

When I moved into the share house a few months ago, Namiko’s snort-laugh was the first thing to welcome me. She was sitting on the sofa in the common area, legs bent beneath her, watching a Japanese game show. She laughed at some failed stunt on screen, then snorted just as she noticed me standing in the doorway. This unexpected greeting sent us into a laughing fit, sealing our new friendship before we could even catch our breaths to introduce ourselves. It was easy to pretend that my red eyes and flushed cheeks were from all of the laughing and not the days of crying that had brought me there.

We spent that first night on the sofa, eating a feast I picked up at the 7-Eleven downstairs: walnut buns, pickled daikon and carrots, soba noodles, and bonito broth that came with its own little packet of water to help loosen the noodles.

“All of this for only 900 yen! Incredible.”

Namiko laughed as I snapped pictures. “Don’t you have 7-Eleven in Missouri?”

“Yes, but it’s all junk and food-poisoning hot dogs. Even if they had pickled daikon for some wild reason, they’d make it disgusting somehow.”

“Ew. Vom.com.”

Her mastery of American slang was impressive. She credited internet memes, but I suspected her Quentin Tarantino obsession might also have had an influence. When I asked her once if I should try the spaghetti sandwich I’d picked up for 200 yen, all five feet two inches of her stood up and proclaimed, “I double dare you, muthafucka!” And with those five words, I felt my life in Japan finally shifting for the better.

During the day I took two trains to Nishitokyo, where I taught English to Japanese adults. Namiko worked in the opposite direction, at a tech-support call center in a high-rise office tower. After work, we met in the common area of our share house to watch television in our sweats and slippers. Sometimes I shared free lotion samples that I picked up from the mall during my lunch break. We kneaded the scent of almond or cherry blossom into our skin, wiping any excess onto each other’s arms or calves. Our other flatmates passed through the halls like a blurred and faceless breeze.

Meanwhile, my love of 7-Eleven delicacies grew: perfect dumplings, crispy squid rice crackers, pizza-flavored chips, white-chocolate matcha cookies.

“Whelks in miso sauce? What are whelks?” I flipped the package over, trying to find any other English words that might provide a clue.

Namiko read the Japanese. “They’re from the ocean. I don’t know the word.”

The plastic bowl was hot from the microwave. I peeled back the wrapper carefully. Rubbery brown nubs steamed in a thin brown sauce. It smelled like soy mixed with sea air. I took a bite as Namiko turned her translation app toward me.

“Sea snails,” she said, smiling.

“Oh god. 7-Eleven sea snails!?” I scoured the coffee table for a napkin, a bag, anywhere to spit out the mouthful. By the time Namiko found and uncrumpled a receipt for me, I had reconsidered.

“You know what? I don’t really mind them. They’re actually pretty good.” I fished out another bite with my chopsticks.

Namiko laughed and clapped her hands. My 7-Eleven obsession amused her. I never mentioned how I couldn’t really afford to eat anywhere else. How I felt totally overwhelmed by the grocery stores full of unfamiliar products with indecipherable labels. It was embarrassing to find comfort in the familiar glow of the logo and the layout of the stores.

I had never heard of Instagram when Namiko opened an account for me. It was brand-new, full of strangers’ lunches, selfies and peace-sign fingers, cute puppies in cuter outfits. She chose “@7elevenheaven” as my handle. I didn’t really get the point, but I let her enthusiasm pull me like a current and started posting pictures whenever I tried something new.

One Friday night after work, we decided to treat ourselves for once and go out. Namiko led us to the microbar around the corner called Sea Dance. It was subterranean, down some steps with only a few seats at the bar. The half-windows were level with the sidewalk outside, displaying views of scurrying knees and ankles as they passed. When we entered, Aiko, the owner, shook her head and pointed to a sign: Regulars Only. Namiko bargained with her, promising that we would leave as soon as one of her regulars showed up. She sighed as she gestured to two empty barstools. They quickly discovered they were from the same village to the east, and Aiko immediately softened. We admired the hand-painted mural of coral and fish while she mixed us lemon shochu sours. All night she fed us edamame, homemade takoyaki, and kushiage on skewers.

Namiko loved it. “It’s like I suddenly have my obaachan here in Tokyo with me.”

Aiko refused to charge us for the food at the end of the night, so we left some cash on the bar and slipped out before she could protest. Outside I noticed how buzzy my head felt. I closed my eyes to stop the seasick sway of the alleyway.

“Look!” Namiko ran toward the back of a building where a heavy gray door wasn’t quite shut all the way. It didn’t have a handle, so she tried to grip the thin, exposed edge with her fingertips. Her intense determination didn’t fully register with me until the door was suddenly open and we were inside.

“Yes! Let’s go!”

Harsh fluorescent light flooded an industrial stairwell. “Konnichiwaaaa,” I echoed.

Namiko shushed me and grabbed my arm. We sprinted up three, four, six flights of stairs, out of breath and giggling. At the top, I expected a hallway leading to some nice apartments or maybe a rooftop with a view, but Namiko opened a door to an indoor pool.

“Oh, wow! How did you know?”

“I didn’t. I just hoped.”

The clean, tiled room cocooned us in a damp chemical vapor. Namiko stripped down to her T-shirt and underwear and dove in. I followed in my underwear and bra. I treaded water while she made up different dives.

“This one is called the Dizzy Walrus!” Splash!

“This is the Hamburger!” Splash!

I cheered after each one and then let myself sink slowly to the bottom. The warm water wrapped me in its peaceful abyss. Just above, the surface shimmered with her silhouette. Later, we drifted on our backs, tired and content.

“This is my preferred state,” I said to the ceiling.

“What, trespassing?” she asked.

“Floating. Letting the world push me wherever it wants,” I replied.

“It’s a long way to float. All the way to Tokyo.”

She took my hand. We floated side by side like that for a while. Eyes searching a row of skylights framing the never-dark sky.

It was a long journey, but I had floated all the way to Tokyo. I had followed my boyfriend, Ryan, after a modeling scout recruited him. He had never dreamed of being a model, but some woman had given him her card while he was on a family vacation in New York. A month later, he had a contract with a Japanese agency.

I sold my beat-up Ford Escort. It had taken two summers and every holiday working at Starbucks to buy that car. And then suddenly the car became a plane ticket, then two connecting flights, then a sign with Ryan’s name on it at Narita Airport. Outside the car window, Japan flashed her welcome. Neon signs, umbrellas, vending machines, and bodies—so many bodies scurrying in perfectly choreographed chaos.

Before we left St. Louis, I secured a yearlong visa and a job teaching English. Two days after we arrived, I went for my teacher training, and Ryan immediately started going out for modeling jobs. He’d spend ten to twelve hours a day in and out of a van going to castings. We barely saw each other. He worked late and left early, and my schedule fell somewhere in between. Sometimes I’d wake up with the vague sense that he’d slept beside me. His long body a shadow that faded with the sunrise.

He waited a full six weeks before breaking up with me. I guess it wasn’t a surprise. Twenty-three years old, spending all day in a cramped van with other young, gorgeous models. The world opened wide before them. But also, if I had really thought about it . . . I would have noticed he had never actually invited me to Tokyo in the first place. He’d never said, “Please join me. Stay by my side. I need you.” By the time I realized, it was too late. I didn’t have money for the change fees to fly home. My British coworker found me crying at the break-room table, my face hidden, resting on my folded arms. He patted my shoulders, standing as far back from my sorrow as his extended arms allowed. “I know a share house that might have an available room,” he mentioned. “Shall I message them for you?” I nodded. I didn’t ask questions or do any research of my own. I just followed where the tide took me.

Namiko’s story was less humiliating and came in passing comments that were often contradictory and difficult to decipher. She came to Tokyo to study. To earn money for her family back home. To find a husband, someone who could care for her aging parents. She was the eldest daughter in a family with no sons, so the responsibility of caring for her parents fell to her. Except, she was here in Tokyo, a long way from her family. She wasn’t studying anything as far as I knew. And she didn’t seem to be making enough money to send home, much less trying to find a husband. She spoke to her family on Sundays and always took the calls in her room with the door closed.

After work one evening, we were doing Korean sheet masks and watching one of our favorite game shows, Candy or Not Candy? I was riveted, looking through spread fingertips as a contestant tried to bite through a table. “She’s going to break her teeth!”

But as she took a bite, the table crunched and crumbled. She chewed, smiling with relief. “What?! It looks so real! What’s it made of?”

“Your phone keeps flashing.” Namiko was clearly not as enthralled as I was. “There, it just went again.”

I picked up my phone to an absurd number of notifications. An endless scroll of screen names claiming to like something I had posted on Instagram.

“Weird . . .”

“What did you post?” She grabbed my phone from me. “Oh my god, Becca. I think you’re going viral.”

“What? How?”

“It’s your fruit sandwich post! Let’s see. Strawberries and cream on crustless bread. Summer at the lake house. Sun-warmed skin. The pulse of lightning bugs. Cicadas buzzing. The smell of recently extinguished sparklers. I love that.”

“It’s just off the top of my head.”

“You have messages!”

She thrust a list of random requests and comments into my hand, mostly the words “Delicious!” or “Totally salivating” and all of their various synonyms. Strangers begged me to send them care packages from Japan. One message was from an Elliot who claimed to be the editor of a food magazine. He wanted to start running some of my food posts as a column, online and in print.

That night at Sea Dance we toasted all of the bizarre attention.

“To my fifteen minutes of internet fame!”

Namiko was fixated on Elliot’s request. “You should say yes.”

My palms were sweating. I tried to change the subject.

Namiko pushed. “Please, I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you?”

“It’s just for fun. I don’t want it to turn—” I trailed off. 

Outside the window at street level, the shoes caught my eye first. It was rare to see St. Louis Cardinals gear in Tokyo, much less the custom Converse that Ryan wore everywhere. The feet crossed the street, revealing the rest of his tall, thin frame. It was the first time I’d seen him since that morning when I’d woken up to him sitting on the edge of the bed. His back to me. His voice reaching through my sleepy haze: “This isn’t working out.”

I blinked the sleep away, confused.

“You need to find something that makes you happy. I can’t be the only thing.” He squeezed my calf and kissed me on the head and whispered he was sorry. Then he left for work.

The finality of it bowled me over like a sudden, powerful gust of wind. One I could have avoided if I had just taken a few steps in one direction, in any direction.

But sometime in the last few years, my ability to make decisions had atrophied. When I graduated from high school, so much happened at once. My sister got married. My brother picked up a drug habit and disappeared. My dad revealed his secret girlfriend, and oh, by the way, she was pregnant. She was only a few years older than me. It was like school was done, childhood was over, and everyone suddenly had permission to leave me. Even my mother, who was still there physically, was millions of miles away, struggling after the end of her twenty-six-year marriage. Instead of starting a new chapter myself, I shut my fists and eyes and willed everything to stay the same. I withdrew my enrollment at the city college and upped my hours at Starbucks instead. I kept living at home and spent all of my time with Ryan and his friends.

And now, on a busy street in Tokyo, there was Ryan with his new friends. People I didn’t know. A slender Japanese girl with long braids down to her hips. Ryan’s hand rested on the small of her back. I missed that feeling. The gentle promise of those fingertips: “I’m here. I’ll look out for you. You’re safe.”

I didn’t have to explain a thing. Namiko knew. “Let’s finish these and get out of here.”

We stopped by 7-Eleven on the way back, where I bought one of every can of alcohol that wasn’t beer. Back at the share house, we started with all of the chuhais, candy-colored cans of shochu highballs in every flavor: white peach, lychee, yuzu, cream soda . . .

In the morning, a sharp throb hammered me awake. At first I didn’t know where I was, but the Kill Bill cross-stitch on the wall clued me in to Namiko’s room. We were tangled in her small twin bed. We must have fallen asleep talking. She slept curled beside me, softly breathing into my shoulder.

My phone buzzed and buzzed again, alerting me to another viral post. One I didn’t remember writing. I anxiously clicked to see what I’d done.

Kyoho Grape Chuhai. Distinct notes of Welch’s grape jelly. One sip and I’m sneaking Manischewitz at David Blum’s Bar Mitzvah. Slow jams in a synagogue basement. A light-up dance floor. Giggles and glances. Stolen kisses by the bathrooms. A light-headed walk up the stairs. Doors open to glaring daylight. To a world where everything is new.

According to my messages, I had agreed to be featured in the food magazine too. I groaned involuntarily and woke Namiko up. Her groans joined mine as she held her head. “Too many drinks in too many flavors.”

“Way too many. And I regret to inform you, we’ll have to drink the rest too. Because I’m officially a food writer now.”

“You told them yes?”

“Unfortunately, it seems so.”

“That’s great! I won’t survive the hangovers, but that’s really great.” She curled up and covered her face with her pillow.

Elliot started checking in with me every so often via video calls. He wore glasses and a warm smile and encouraged me to explore every strange new product I found. I couldn’t believe I was getting paid for some silly project I was already doing for free. It wasn’t much, but it meant I could go out with Namiko once or twice a week. I probably should’ve been saving money to fly home earlier, but I was having fun for the first time in years.

One of Namiko’s favorite late-night games was to sweet-talk bartenders into letting us drink at “regulars only” bars. Her unassuming charm disarmed even the toughest gatekeepers, and we were rarely turned away. On our way home, we always stopped by Sea Dance. It had become sort of an extension of our living room.

Namiko and I continued eating and drinking our way through the aisles of 7-Eleven. Staying up late, talking. Crashing more and more in each other’s rooms. Waking up more and more in each other’s arms. I basked in the closeness. In the comfort of the universe we created just for us.

One Sunday evening we paired sparkling rosé in a can with our favorite show, Sasuke, which featured an elaborate Japanese obstacle course. We were cheering so loudly that a couple of roommates ventured out of their rooms to watch the competition with us. It felt nice to be part of a community, even an awkward and transient one. Somewhere during the final stage of the competition, Namiko got a call and disappeared to her room. She made it back in time for the finale, but her enthusiasm was noticeably dimmer.

“Everything OK?” I asked.

“Yes, it’s fine.” She grabbed another can and cracked it open. When the show was over, she pleaded to go to Sea Dance even though we both had to be up early for work in the morning. “Please, I’m dying for some of Aiko’s cooking.”

Aiko really outdid herself with hot dogs doused in teriyaki sauce and sprinkled with nori. We washed them down with more drinks and drunken laughter that propelled the night into a messy smear. Linked arms in the street. A Katy Perry song in the elevator. Well-intentioned glasses of water left untouched. Our eyelids closed before our leaden heads even hit the pillow.

But then, a whisper in the dark: “My father is sick.”

Her words clawed me back to semiconsciousness. To my sparse bedroom and the warmth of my duvet. I was still in my cardigan and socks. My mind swam, trying to make sense of her voice. “I’m so sorry. Is it very serious?”

“I have to go home.”

“Of course,” I said. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“I have to care for him. It’s my responsibility.”

We were lying on our sides, facing each other. Our heads and knees touching. I didn’t understand what she meant. I didn’t want to understand what she meant.

“So like, forever?”

“I shouldn’t have left home.”

I could just barely make out the outline of her face. The curve of her cheekbone. Her soft, perfect earlobe.

“I’ll come with you,” I whispered, inches from her mouth.

“No, you can’t do that,” she replied.

“I’m not staying here without you.”

And then the softest kiss, like a question in the dark. Answered by a deeper kiss and another after that. Hands searched bodies, peeled off shirts. Our shadows entwined and consumed one another. Months of closeness suddenly inadequate, nowhere near close enough.

“Please. Let me come home with you. I can help.”

She relented. “Yes, OK.”

In the morning, the sun reclaimed the day with a dagger to my temple. I stretched my hand out for Namiko, but found only an empty sheet, left wrinkled by her imprint. I sat up. Before my feet could even slide into their slippers and lead me down the hall to her room, I knew she was gone. And sure enough, her clothes, her shoes, her Kill Bill cross-stitch—all had vanished sometime in the early morning. The only thing left was her room key, which glinted on the bedside table.

Without Namiko, I found myself floating again. Unmoored, without anyone to lead the way. I sat on her bare mattress, unable to manage the heaviness of my body. I folded into myself. Head tucked. Knees into chest. A perfect origami fetus. I imagined becoming so small that I’d evaporate.

I don’t know how long I stayed curled up. Hours. Days maybe? I called in sick to work. I checked my phone for messages from Namiko but only received one from Elliot, requesting time for a video chat. I forced myself to get up and shower just before the call. My hair was still damp. He didn’t ask me why I hadn’t been posting anything lately. Instead he saturated me with praise.

“Readers love the 7-Eleven Heaven stuff! They love it on our social media. They love it in print. And it’s the most clicked column in our weekly newsletter. You’ve really created something special, Becca.” Such warmth emanated from thousands of miles away through the cold, lifeless screen.

I mustered a smile. “Thanks.”

“We’re interested in evolving the series into something with a more local point of view.”

“American 7-Eleven? No way. Vom.com.” A pang of Namiko stabbed my insides.

Elliot had a good laugh. “No, no. Can you imagine? We’d lose all of our credibility!”

He continued, “No, we want to hire you to cover America’s historic general stores. Like the Mast Farm in North Carolina and F. H. Gillingham’s in Vermont. Shops that are over one hundred years old, locally owned, and still thriving.”

I couldn’t really grasp going from fetal position to international travel. “I’m sorry, but my return flight isn’t for another three months. And I don’t have the money to change it.”

“We’d take care of all of that and help you find a place in Austin. And then of course we’d cover all expenses on assignment. We want to put you up for other assignments too, but you’d have to be here in the office for that.”

I knew I should be ecstatic. But I closed my eyes to the thought while Elliot continued his pitch. “Picture: peanut brittle, smoked ham, local maple syrups, pimento cheese sandwiches, huge wooden barrels of pickles … Oh, I’m salivating! Maybe I should assign this to myself instead!” He chuckled at his own joke.

I didn’t want to disappoint him, but I wasn’t ready to give up on Japan. To give up on the chance of seeing Namiko again. So I improvised, “It’s a great idea. And thank you for the incredible opportunity. But first I think you should take advantage of me being in Japan for one last story. There are these tiny microbars hidden all over the city. Each one is really unique.”

“Yeah, like Golden Gai.” He cringed. “I’m sorry, but that story has been done to death.”

“No, not the tourist spots. The really hidden bars. The ones where only regulars are allowed.” I was riffing.

“Intriguing . . . How will you get in?”

“My friend gave me some pointers. I can probably cover a couple a night. And I guarantee nothing about these places has ever been published in the US.”

That sealed the deal. “OK. Sure, why not? We can see what you dig up. But then, after that, what do you say to Austin and Americana?”

I channeled relief into feigned excitement. “Moon pies and beef jerky, here I come!”

I went straight to work that night, choosing bars in areas where I might run into Namiko. I knew she was probably already back in her home village, taking care of her father. But part of me worried that she regretted that last night we’d spent together. Otherwise, why would she have left so abruptly? Why wouldn’t she text me back? The city felt impenetrable without her, so I started with the bars we had already infiltrated together. My Japanese was halting and broken, but I managed to communicate with the help of a translation app. It didn’t always work, but I barely registered the rejections. I was drowning in heartache. In a way, it made me invincible.

I surrendered to the maelstrom of Tokyo’s nightlife, coasting from one barstool to the next. I discovered a bar with an unsettling surveillance theme. Another served drinks in test tubes. A bar called Vanish took its name literally by covering every inch of its walls with erasers. Dizzying rows of rubber cakes, fruits, tigers, pandas, toilets . . . But I didn’t spend much time on physical descriptions in the pieces I wrote for Elliot. Instead I lingered on the bar’s clientele, oftentimes getting carried away with the imagined backstories I concocted:

It’s always midnight at Hiro’s. A woman with perfect hair, smooth and black like an eel, sips a cocktail in a floor-length black cashmere coat. She blends in with the wall in the dimmed light—which suits her just fine. She’s a notorious diamond thief, wanted in a dozen countries, but she always returns to Hiro’s. This bar. This anonymous corner in the shadows. A dirty martini and a jukebox of ’60s soul. A place where even a wanted fugitive can relax and unwind.

“I don’t know if this technically qualifies as food writing,” Elliot wrote in his email, “But I definitely get a feel for Hiro’s, and I want to have a drink there ASAP. So bravo!!”

I spent my last night in Tokyo at Aiko’s. She made my favorite hot dog especially for me, but all of the drinks, the anxiety, the lump in my throat—I couldn’t eat. She seemed to understand and left me to work on my final submission.

Just below street level, Sea Dance transports patrons to the depths of the ocean. The languid disco ball. Glittering jellyfish. The blub blub of the blue lava lamp. It’s a world away, but somehow it feels like home. Perfect drinks and comfort food. Memories fleeting and floating. Music like a distant lullaby. It’s all here. Everything I need. Except for you.

When the tsunami hit, I was back in St. Louis visiting my mom. It was my first time home since returning from Japan. Between apartment hunting in Austin and traveling to general stores all over the country, I hadn’t sat still in weeks. It was a beautiful spring morning. Just outside the kitchen window, a bird splashed, carefree in the birdbath.

I watched him while I sipped instant coffee from a mug.

“Oh no. There was a big earthquake in Japan,” my mother gasped without looking up from her computer. “And a tsunami.”

“In Tokyo?” I peered over her shoulder, catching glimpses of rubble and endless water on her screen.

“Thank God you’re back.” She squeezed my arm. “Do you think Ryan’s OK?”

I retreated to my childhood bedroom, packed with relics from my old life. Soccer trophies, Stephen King novels, faded photos of faded friendships. I spent the day clicking and reading until the internet ran out of new details. Then I emailed Aiko. She confirmed that her village was flooded by the ocean. The same one she and Namiko both were from. I watched and rewatched videos. Zoomed in to the blurred pixels. Was that her jacket? Her shoes in the debris? Miles of water erased row after row of buildings. Entire farms vanished in seconds. An 18-wheel truck became weightless, a leaf in a stream, before being swallowed whole. Was that her arm? Her gorgeous black hair? I couldn’t grasp it. What did it mean? The moment I finally stopped floating, an enormous wave just wiped her away.

***

Sara Beth Greene is an American film and music video producer currently based in London. She’s also the author of two children’s books, Los Angeles 1 to 10 and Portland 1 to 10, published by Sasquatch Books (Penguin Random House).