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thecityandthecities:
The backdoor of Split Ends leads to a maze of alleyways.
Despite the bustle of Monday morning 9-to-5ers bolting towards corporate hell, this remains blissful as is should: still and sleepy and sparse with people as sunlight manages to leak through the crevices.
I lean against the doorway, soaking it in the way it should be appreciated—in silence. Seeking out fresh air in Seoul is like trying to find a needle in the haystack, but I guess you can say I got lucky.
From here, I can hear New Guy bring Guinea Pig in. Sure, it’s a straightforward, run-off-the-mill trim and snip job, not to mention uncalled for to simply reduce his patron to a mindless test subject. But New Guy has become notorious in these parts for being a little too eager to show off with little to, well, show off, and Guinea Pig obviously knew what they were walking into answering the ad.
And to the surprise of absolutely no one, New Guy doesn’t even last a solid five minutes.
With a huff, I kick the stopper out from underneath the door and let it slam shut behind me.
I try on sing-song exasperation: “Saaam.” The exasperation hits, the sing-song not so much, landing with something along the lines of sharp contempt. My vocal teacher had always complained about my emotions being too much, and never handled with any caution.
From the corner of my periphery, Guinea Pig’s face doesn’t leave much of an impression until I’m behind the swivel chair, looking at its reflection. Handsome, in an infuriatingly yuppie kind of way, and sticks out as such.
“You forgot to brush it, too.”
From the drawer of one of the vanities, I grab a comb and a spray bottle full of water. My fingers work through Handsome Yuppie’s hair first for good measure. “Seems like he already washed his hair this morning, so you can skip out on the shampoo.” I give the back of his head a couple of good spritzes before running the comb down. When I’m done, I reach out for Sam’s scissor-wielding hand and line the blades along the nape. “You should be starting from the bottom and working your way up.”
It’s the proprietress, or maybe not. At the very least she appears senior to—Sam, was it—whose last brain cell may as well have been bleached to oblivion. She lances in like she were shears herself, a song on the tip of her tongue and a righteous snarl in the space between alar and cheek.
They’ve turned off the air conditioning. I smell hints of wet heat in the air as she works her fingers through my hair—a smell none too elegant but nevertheless arresting. Was there mildew forming on the boxes stacked towards the back of the salon? Pockets of water that’d splashed from the sinks and been left negligently unmopped? My bangs fall cold in front of my face like prison bars, obscuring the mirror’s reflection. I can’t see the look on her face, so my gaze drops automatically to where my chin might be. Every so often I catch a glimpse of her hands. She works quietly as fine beads of sweat form on thin and nimble fingers and my head tingles familiar.
Sam stands off to the side and watches as she runs through instructions like they were obvious god-given givens, the canonical foundations that make up the laws of our world. Like he’s an idiot for not knowing the meaning embedded in every snip and comb, and the guilt written all over his face does little to refute the suggestion. At this point I am starting to hone in the image loosely forming in my head, that only needs a moment’s clarity—a single, unobstructed view—for confirmation. She hands Sam back the scissors and he picks up where she had left off, his tremors for the most part vanishing and it seems both of us are grateful for the helpful dose of reassurance her presence and occasional intervention grant.
Finally my vision clears as the top of my head and bangs are blowdried to a tapered coif. Staring into the mirror looking pluckier than ever, it’s almost as if I’m the caricatured product of her imagination. Her lips curl at the corners and self-assurance creeps across her face; this, in compliance with the single, unobstructed view of her face that I’ve been granted, confirm my suspicions.
She takes my picture for salon records as Sam sweeps up. While she checks the preview, I cut through the beat of silence between us. “I probably could have used a haircut like this ten years ago,” I’m unbothered to keep the smile pushing my cheeks upward in check. “Your teaching methods seem on par with Jeon ssaem’s. Quite a feat.”
midori sour
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thecityandthecities:
Detachment comes at the cost of ignorance—among these circumstances, it would be nothing more but absolute bliss to have even the smallest taste. What lingers instead is the dread that sits heavy on the tip of her tongue, mouth drying with discomfort. The distance between her and the hypotheticals lessens with each ticking minute, mind hooked to the worst an imagination could offer:
Doug with the body. Doug with the body dead. Doug with the body just minutes before death was even a possibility. Angle of the neck says body fell. Sharpness of it says a fall down a flight of stairs. Blood says hard impact. Doug with the hand that turned push into shove into tumble. Doug with the same hand that had held hers tight for balance, or rather the excuse of it. Excuses. How many would he have if she were to ask him? How many more would she have if he were to ask back?
With Suji taking over the haul, Phoebe moves onto the rug. On days she’s feeling generous, the effort would be taken to scrub the stains clean, but tonight calls for a total wipe out. There it goes, rolled tight and lined up right next to their human disposal. Won’t be long before they’re nothing more but dissolved slush encased in barrels; out of sight, out of mind.
Her instructions only makes the sinking feeling in her stomach worse, but there’s nothing more she can do but give a mute nod. With an inhale, she drops down to shove the rest of their belongings into her backpack. In place of words, she stubbornly insists on gestures—hand over the saran wrap, the brushes, the other girl’s bag, open the windows wide to let cool air circulate through.
Past the doorway, the body relives its own trauma—another shove, another fall. If it’s any solace to anyone, it hurts less. Phoebe knows if she were to take the fall too, it’ll be anything but pain-free. It’s her hand that slips instead, right inside the front pocket to take out a notepad and pen.
The room is momentarily filled with the sound of scribbling, and ends with tearing. She stands, eyes still hidden by her cap, and hands over the ripped out receipt without so much as a peep.
The paper reads as follows:
bd: 550000
crpt: 55000
transp (mnl): 55000
1h / 2wrk: 50000
ttl: 710000
The numbers and letters look up at him plain and matter-of-fact. No quiver to be traced in line nor stroke and nothing to suggest that anything was wrong when everything about the situation was and is just that.
The older girl’s footsteps grow quieter and muddier behind thick walls and under the stairwell. Doug folds the receipt in half and shoves it into his back pocket. “Two payments okay?” He ventures. Carefully chooses his words because if anything else comes out of his mouth it’s going to be stylistic and it’s going to belong to him and it’ll give him away. And he doesn’t want to address anything beyond the here and now and this transaction. It’s better if they stay like this: like two nobodies passing by.
Going down on one knee Doug rummages through his backpack and comes up with 500. As expected, he’s short 250. When he thinks about it, and he would really be better off not thinking about it, he was short last time too. She’d been happy to cover for the both of them since it was her idea after working up a sweat racing in the rink to sit down in a cafe that wasn’t taking cards because of systematic malfunctions that day right across from the bakery where she worked part-time and share a melon parfait. She told him not to worry about it but like a dolt Doug transferred the money back anyway. He feels lame all over again, and then some.
So something comes over him. From his crouched position, Doug looks up, really squints as far as he can past the mask she’s wearing and the shadow under the bill of that cap so he can see nobody and up until the moment he sees Phoebe there.
He murmurs her name. Feebly, Phoebe.
The next thing to come out is his phone. He pulls up the navigation, then the app.
“Can I Toss you the rest?”
bide the dust
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Kim Hyunwoo: Headcanons #1
1. What did you eat for breakfast? Did you make it yourself? What time do you eat breakfast? Do you wash the pan after you cook the eggs or do you leave it for the maid to clean? Do you have a maid?
Breakfast consists of a hard-boiled egg, clementine, and double-shot of espresso
The egg is boiled the night before and espresso is made on the spot
Breakfast is whenever he needs to be up
He leaves the dishes in the sink to deal with after work
No maid(s)
2. Do you have a cat? How many? Do you wish you were a cat? Do you clean the litter boxes every day? Do you have a dog? Is the dog a rescue dog or bought from a breeder? Or do you have any pets?
No cats
No dogs
No pets as he is allergic to most furry critters (to his profound dismay)
3. Do you go out for lunch or bring a sack lunch? Do you take an extra long lunch break and charge the company?
Out, always out
Billing food expenses to the Yuripa or SMPA? It’s a nice thought
4. Are you an only child? How many siblings do you have? Are you close or are you estranged?
Only child
5. If you are adopted, do you know your birth parents? Do you want to find them?
Not adopted
6. Do you call your mother every day, or only on her birthday, Mother’s Day, and Christmas? Are your parents alive?
No calling
Father is alive; has served seven out of nine years for manslaughter and embezzlement
Mother passed away eight years ago
7. Do you like to cook? Do you use recipes or make up your own recipes? Do you eat out every night?
Dislikes cooking
Follows recipes to avoid otherwise disastrous results but only sticks to absolute basics: boiling eggs, cooking ramen, microwaving instant rice
Eats out every night
8. Do you put both socks on first, or one sock, one shoe?
Both socks first
Who the hell does it the other way, he’d like to know
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midori sour
A commercial for soju plays on every major billboard of every major district in the city. While waiting for the pedestrian light on my way to an appointment I happen to catch this advertisement and spare it my most passive, faraway gaze. The male protagonist picks up his beer in a pub. With one sip he portals to a new backdrop: a packed nightclub with a glass of bubbly balanced daintily between fingers. Another confused sip later and he is plopped onto a beach recliner with a minted Mai Tai. His third and final sip takes him to a tented snackery, where he is surrounded by friends and several now-empty green bottles. This is when I am hit with the campaign’s winning slogan: FIND YOUR DRINK.
The pedestrian sign flashes green. National propagandist agenda aside, the commercial strikes me as well-placed. What I mean by this is that it works in absolute harmony with its urban environment. Similar catchphrases cover the city and somehow have eased their way into our daily mental lexicon. “Find your tone” courtesy of the roadside makeup store; “find your stride” pasted just outside the local gym; “find yourself” in accordance with the everyman’s existential crisis.
But “find your drink” registers to me as something resoundingly base. Perhaps more fundamental than the blithe suggestion (necessitation?) to find oneself because it is less about coming to terms with one’s appearance, physical ability, or identity and more about chasing after an ideal and isn’t that the very thing that motivates us as a species? I mouth the words to myself as I rehoist the straps of my backpack and turn into the narrow passage of a darkened alley.
I find my destination. Ushered inside by a young man with bleached hair, I am sat down without fanfare and without the customary drink. Since I had power-walked the entire three kilometer journey over, I find this negligence somewhat disappointing. The room is sparsely decorated, lit only by mirrors. A porcelain wash-stand with brass piping drips in the back. A wooden console has been painted the same deep emerald as the leaves of the fan palms dotting throughout the space. From above my chair I can both hear and feel a never-ending exhale, the man’s breath tickling the crown of my head. I dwell briefly on whether to ask for a glass of water as I am being bibbed but then two crossed knives approach my face with such a violent case of shakes that my mind goes suddenly white with fear. I do not know what to expect. But I suppose uncertainty is clausal to this arrangement—so I close my eyes.
I hear him gasp after one shearing. “Omigod.” He sounds scandalized.
“Hm?”
“I forgot to wash your hair.”
My eyes flutter open. A sizable chunk of hair has fallen from my head to the ground. Forget the drink. Now I am overcome with the need to find my composure and oh good, there it is, goodness. Before I can offer reassurances, a woman parts an invisible drape with her hands and enters. Though her expression is nothing short of stone-cold, her face is warmed by the color of the mirror’s light, the green of the console table and plantlife. My hands twist under the bib and in my lap.
@thecityandthecities
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thecityandthecities:
“Will do.” Her voice pitches with the affirmative, happy to oblige.
( SMS → chia 🍇) can you put in an order for pizza?
( SMS → chia 🍇) extra large w/ anchovies and peppers on mine and suji unnie’s corners pls 😙 we’ll be there soon!
The last of the text is tapped out and sent when the car groans to a stop. Confusion is the first feeling to set, unsure as to why they’re not in front of a million-dollar home but flat, undeveloped land. She tilts her head, still thinking, but her cover’s donned on and time is money, so Phoebe adjusts the hat fit snug over her head, unclicks her seatbelt and leaps out of the car.
And the very sight of him strikes her dead cold.
Instinct kicks in. Keep your eyes down. Busies herself instead with the gravel being smoothed under their heels, her own sneakers idly making patterns in the ground as Suji handles the logistics. But there’s nothing therapeutic in neither the motion nor the sound.
Against better judgement, she peeps from beneath the hood of her baseball cap. The sinking in her stomach confirms the worst: Douglas Whangbo in the flesh, as clear as day with his fright. Two months ago at the skating rink, that same face hadn’t looked so petrified as it did now.
It’s sacrilege within their field to even consider probing. Dogma to know as sparingly as possible. From the getgo, Phoebe has no right to even an ounce of the truth, given what she knows already and what she does.
Yet walking side by side in the dark, their hands pressed to their sides, curiosity gets the best of her and an unspeakable question rises to the forefront of her brain: Had he done it?
Suji’s ascending footsteps are enough to ground her. Still shaken, but nonetheless shaking off the idea all together, Phoebe’s own feet find their purpose. Doug looks on as they enter the room, and she avoids his gaze. Immediately, her eyes zero in on the man laying limp on the living room rug.
Unzipping her own bag, she pulls out the cleaning solution, brushes, a long roll of parchment, sarran wrap, a washcloth, homemade Febreeze, and a folded polybag. She crouches to inspect the damage, gloved hand at the side of his throat. The bleeding has long stopped, but the unnatural bend of his neck is telling. The saturation of the blood staining the carpet completes the picture: it’s been at most two hours since the incident, and this isn’t where he had his dying breath.
Eyes still averted, Phoebe undoes both the rolls, sets down the paper and gets to work. In place of her usual pep and vigor is nothing but somber, deliberately placed silence and the squeak of plastic echoing as she starts wrapping the body from the head-down.
A simultaneous wash of relief and weight of burden come over him as soon as the door gives way to reveal an empty apartment and a single body; the other bodies bolted out as he’d instructed. His first act of martyrdom and this is what it feels like. Guilt and penance and hope bunched up and swirling like whites and darks in the wash. But it all drains out quickly, leaving a feeling that’s been picking at his brain ever since the cleaners arrived. Even with the mask and cap those round, forward-facing ears don’t lie—and Doug hardly considers himself the observant type, not by a long shot.
If his intuition is right then he’s got some explaining to do. How would he even begin? Hi, this is Junyoung’s friend calling on behalf of my dead friend Junyoung. Did I mention that he’s dead? I think he’s called your service a few times. I think if I were him I would’ve done this for me. Scrambling to find the right words to stay her faith in him but catastrophe is catastrophic no matter which way Doug tries to spin it. He watches on in silent horror as the younger of the two girls winds around the body, plastic encircling and encasing Junyoung by the foot.
But if intuition is right then this doppelganger-not isn’t getting off scot-free either. Doug’s eyes bore in on the tendril of hair peeking out behind those shell ears as she works in tandem silence and painstaking concentration. He runs through another hypothetical. Hey, Pheebs, what the hell are you doing here? Actually, let me rephrase, what the hell are you doing? His stomach drops another tier when he runs through hypothetical answers. With this drop it’s at least made it to the sixth circle of hell. His body temperature spikes but there to extinguish the flames in his face is a cold sweat forming on the tip of his brow bone. Doug paws it with the back of his sleeve and breathes raggedly out.
He’s seen some bad ODs, a few nauseating scenes and near-goners. But it’s his first time coming face-to-face with a dead body. The way this girl operates, Doug wouldn’t be surprised if this was her hundredth corpse for takeaway. Soon he can no longer make out any of Junyoung’s features, the heather gray of his shirt, the open-toe wear of his socks—everything’s been mummified by wrinkled bands of saran.
The older girl meanwhile crouches down for the final roll. From the moment they entered the apartment until now Doug can only vaguely recall her pacing in and out of his periphery with a bottle of air-freshener and bleach pen. Everything out of her mouth is as good as underwater warble but he catches onto a few small details here and there. Things like no carpet in the apartment, and how the entryway and living space are the only places where she can find traces of him. How she tag-teams the push and with two low grunts the both of them have Junyoung wrapped like a swiss roll along the floor mat and seal him off with heavy-duty luggage belts.
Doug gets a jolt when she throws the backpack at him. The older girl’s switched out her gloves for a fresh pair. “It’s way too suspect for us to get everything to the car from here, not to mention this is heavy as fuck.” She points to the pristine six-foot long burrito. “There’s a loading dock by the side entrance of the ground floor. I’ll get the body down and meet you there. You help move this stuff back.” She shifts her gaze back to the other girl. “Run an invoice for him while you’re at it. Is fifteen minutes generous enough.”
bide the dust
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thecityandthecities:
Perched on top of a stack of crates, Phoebe jumps down just in time to save Jingoo from his total demise, and steal a look, too. The sentiment is an exact mirror of Chia's—she just knows better not to voice it word for word and find safety in providing a suggestion instead.
“There’s also Kun from the same group or…oh!” She fishes out her cellphone—hurriedly tapping away the Doug selfie screensaver—to reveal her background of Kim Minggyu. “He’s cute! You’ve met him before, haven’t you?” Surely Chia’s met at least one of these guys during her short-lived stint as a trainee.
Meanwhile Eunri’s turns a shade redder seeing the ridges along Jingoo’s perfect, perfect (though not as perfect as Seongwu’s) head. “HEY! Be careful!”
She grabs him from Phoebe, and like a mother cooing a hurt child, she puts him against the glass in a vain attempt to smooth out the damage. As she does, her mouth opens and closes, and out the spout comes the next slew of complaints. “He’s not even the cute one from NCT, anyway. What the heck is your problem with Jaemin?”
“Kun, huh.” Suji hums out semi-distracted. He’d never stuck out to her as particularly charismatic but she humors the idea if only out of brand loyalty. “His time’ll come,” she says at Phoebe’s suggestion, only realizing the potential morbidity of her statement after she’s succeeded pasting the first half of Haechan’s face onto the window. She smooths down the pocket of air that has formed under his left eyeball.
The mention of Mingyu, meanwhile, sets Chia’s eyes ablaze. She’s positively tickled—touched, even—at Phoebe’s recollection. In retrospect, their “meeting” years ago had been underwhelming: a purely one-sided affair in which the preteen Chia pressed cheek to glass practice room enclosure trying and ultimately failing to match gazes with the rookie rapper-turned-actor. But still. The fact that she’d managed to catch a glimpse of his tell-tale tanned skin warranted full bragging rights.
“Yeah!!” She exclaims, grin stretching from ear to ear. “He was super hot!!”
But before she can expound on the thought, Mingyu’s image is replaced all too quickly with Jaemin’s. Mingyu vanishes ephemeral like a shallow exhale. “Jaemin’s hot too!!” She strokes her chin thoughtfully just as Suji, concentration now unbreakable, concludes the pasting of what looks to be Haechan’s thickly gelled hair. She crouches down next to Eunri and smiles something almost sage before her next words ruin her. “Way hotter than Haechan!!”
“You know,” Suji mutters, swiping blow-up sticker Jingoo away from Eunri a second time, nevermind her betrayed expression. “I was hoping for some masking tape so I could shut you all the hell up but maybe vinyl’s not bad, either.” She rips off one of Jingoo’s ears, yanks Chia up by the collar of her shirt, and slaps it over her mouth. Then she tears off the other ear. “Anyone else with something smart to say better say it now. Or forever hold your peace, yadda-yadda.”
new order
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thecityandthecities:
By now, disruptions are more or less expected. She’d been tweaking the anti-kitten contraption newly added to the vending machine dispenser—a work in progress that will remain in progress so long as Bubbles continues to insist on being the problem—when Chia picked up the call.
On the second “‘Allo?”, the gears whirring in the back of Phoebe’s brain had slowed considerably, the metal squeak of her screwdriver in tandem. Any second now, the click of the receiver being set down is the 50-50 signal: Chia doesn’t run in here, it’s not their green light; if she does, it’s one they’ve all been trained to hold out for.
There’s the sound of bead curtains get pulled back. Bingo. In goes the screwdriver, out goes the toolbox, kicked to the side. “Not done with this juuust yet, you hear?” she grins, looking down. The Siamese only meows forlornly in response.
“They’re a regular, apparently?” She’s cranking the recliner handle of the passenger until it’s angled past the 45-degree mark, just how Eunri hates it. "Not that it matters, really, but.”
A shrug ends the thought there.
It’s a wordless, but universally understood rule of thumb. Better to be safe than sorry. Just like anyone else in the distribution chain, the middleman has troubles that keep him up at night. Getting caught is the obvious one. Deep-seated abandonment and trust issues, another.
Through the window shield and the view to her right, her eyes are glued to the ways of the street signs. The van passes by a blue square one stamped with the letter “H” for the Severance Hospital a couple blocks down, and she feels that sinking in her chest with the reminder. Right, Mr. Baek’s is staying there overnight.
“Should we go get pizza after?” It’s out of the blue, but it comes when the sign is finally out of sight, and eventually, out of mind. The smell of cleaning bleach will be a distraction soon enough, poured out to circle the drain clean. Her feet tap against the dashboard. “I don’t know about you, but anchovies and capers sound pretty good to me!”
They reach an intersection. GoogleMaps marks the destination dead-center of a developing subdivision. Anyone who can afford this probably shits money on the daily, which is only better news for them. Phoebe begins pulling her black facemask from her chin up on over her mouth. “A left here, unnie.”
“Yeah, we can do that.” Hand momentarily off the wheel, Suji gestures to the phone on Phoebe’s lap. “Text Chia and tell her to put in an order. We’ll eat when we get back.” Her nose wriggles, already anticipating. There are few pleasures that trump the sweet relief of delivery food after a working up a good sweat—and all the sweeter when that hard work happens to deal with dead bodies. No matter how many times it wafts them by or however long they sit in the invisible fog of it, the smell of death never registers particularly well. The look of death, though—the novelty there has long faded for all of them.
They pull up but the plot’s empty save for one shadowy figure. The only source of light comes from the phone in his hand and as they pull in, the headlights of the car that illuminate him into view. For a loyal customer of theirs he seems awfully young but Suji knows how deceiving appearances can and typically are in their field of business.
“There are cameras in the parking garage and this is the next best place I could think of,” he says mouselike, eyes to his feet. Nope, the kid’s as young as he sounds. “But the body’s within walking distance… it’s just the complex down from here.” Suji places both hands on her hips and takes a few steps forward, looking westward. Sure enough, a concrete structure pokes out from behind dirt mounds and scaffolding.
“The apartment building.” Suji scratches behind her ear, annoyance detectable despite the muffle in her voice. “It’ll cost you extra for manual transportation to the vehicle.” She hoists the backpack of equipment over her shoulder and hops onto the empty street. “All right, let’s get to it.”
But where she expects the shuffling of dust and gravel, there’s nothing. Not for a minute anyway, before Phoebe eventually catches up. Peripheral vision tells her there’s been a sudden shift in Phoebe’s mood, what with her eyebrows practically crossed like arrows. The kid catches up and then some, taking the lead. He looks back once. But until they reach the top of the stairs and arrive at a certain apartment unit #619, he doesn’t look back again. His already heavy shoulders slump heavier and he pushes the door open into a low-ceilinged room.
And there it is, her favorite smell.
bide the dust
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thecityandthecities:
Ong is a 2019 Chevy Express Cargo van in ink black. Technically it belongs to Mr. Baek and is meant for business-related affairs only, but she’s been behind the wheel so many times—and customized it to the point it no longer looks anything like the original—it’s practically hers by association; from the sugar white upholstery to the Hello Kitty bobblehead, everything.
Everything save for the rear window, that is.
Eunri huffs as the blow-up of Jingoo is peeled off from the glass, another pretty boy retired for the fresh new Heartthrob of the Month: To Be Determined. It’s the same argument that is recycled at least twelve times a year, almost always, always starting off with:
“NO!”
She crosses her arms. “Ong is not going around with that face slapped on the back.”
She’d been careful about it, too. Treated vinyl Jingoo with utmost care, starting by picking at the curve of his elbow instead of from the top of his head because if last time’s peeling was anything to go by—well, Suji would rather save herself the earful.
But an empathetic one, Eunri is not. And Suji doesn’t have nearly enough caffeine in her to warrant this kind of abuse so early in the morning. She’s already got Jingoo’s torso off the glass and his is neck suspended taut in the air; all that remains is his head. With one merciless, downward tug, Suji rips the rest of the Jingoo decal off the glass and lets it flutter to the ground, his head distorted with uneven ribbing.
Ever the helpful bystander, Chia lifts the new decal up. “Are you talking about this face?” She asks, a little too disdainfully. “Who is this, anyway?”
“Haechan.” Suji snaps. She snatches this month’s Heartthrob and scrapes the bottom with her fingernails to release the virgin sticker. “It’s happening whether you like it or not. And like I say every time,” she intones dangerously, turning around towards Haechan’s dissenter with eyes blazed wide. She grazes her thumb across her neck, “You take him off, I take you out.”
new order
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Roh Suha: Survey
What is your character’s name? Nickname?
Birth name: Roh Suha
English name: Susan Roh
Nickname: Sue/Su
Does your character have any birthmarks? Scars? How did they get them?
No birthmarks. A few moles on body: back of right calf, left ankle, hip, ring finger. Only scars to note are a burn the size of a kidney bean on her knee, several mosquito bites on her legs, and scratch-marks on her left wrist from a minor fall she’d taken off the back of her second boyfriend’s bike.
Who are your character’s family? Are they close?
Father: Roh “Jimmy” Joohyuk, 74. Chairman and Co-founder of Oh+Roh Architects. Member of the Architectural Institue of Korea and the Korea Institute of Architects. Lecturer at University of Seoul. Warm persona despite tight-lipped face and towering disposition. Level-headed, with the comportment of a monk. Suha is very close to him and admires him most.
Mother: Heo Yeeun, 70. Recently retired anesthesiologist. Practical but emotions are in constant flux. Known to hold grudges. Spends most of her time these days hiking and photographing nature. Hopes to see one of her photos published in the National Geographic someday. Suha is fairly close to her, but they do butt heads from time to time.
Younger brother: Roh Suhyun, 32. Hair stylist. Unabashedly outspoken. Bright, feigns idiocy. In a long-term relationship with boyfriend from university—they had been fellow pre-law students (before Suhyun dropped out to pursue his current line of work). Scares Suha because his intuition is always fuckin’ spot-on. Suha is very close to him.
Describe your character’s closest friends/types of people they surround themselves by.
Suha keeps a large circle of friends around her at all times but the majority of her friendships are superficial/prolonged only by some lingering sense of obligation and because sometimes you need to get out of the house and see someone other than your whining kid or your husband’s dumb face. Regularly lunches with work friends (current coworkers, former employees who moved on to start their own practices, clients she clicked with) or classmates from SNU and Cornell. Suhyun is her best friend. Her neighbor, Heesun used to work alongside Sewon until she decided restaurant business was more her flavor please don’t mind the pun. Together they bitch about him with reckless abandon.
Where was your character born? Where have they lived? Where do they call home?
Born and raised in Seoul. Father was just starting to get a name for himself, mother had just started residency at the hospital. Home was a small apartment in a well-to-do neighborhood south of the Han. Six years later, family moved to a slightly larger unit just a few streets away, to accommodate for another little one. Family’s final move took place after Suha’s matriculation to SNU, to a single-story home in Yongsan-gu designed by Suha’s father.
Lived in NYC for a few years after graduating. Lived in Ithaca, New York, to finish a master’s program. Returned to Seoul and lived with family for another two years until engagement in 2010. Commissioned a fellow architect/former classmate to design a small house in Hannam-dong, where she stayed with husband until their separation in 2016. Currently living in a two-bedroom loft in Daechi-dong.
Where does your character go when they’re angry?
To the office. To the gym. Work and working out are the only two things that will take her mind off her boiling rage.
Does your character have any phobias?
Gets squeamish at the sight of blood.
Describe your character’s most meaningful past relationships.
Wouldn’t consider any of the relationships that came before her marriage meaningful—just necessary learning experiences.
Age 17: Her first boyfriend. Stupid attractive and otherwise completely vacuous and unable to hold a conversation. 3 months.
Age 20: A heartthrob (none of her friends agreed with her on that) from Busan. Stoic, short of words. A truly fear-inspiring face, with a protruding jaw, high cheekbones, and long monolids. Emotionally unavailable unless drunk, which was most of the time anyway so maybe in retrospect he was actually very emotionally present. Helped her mature. 2 years.
Age 23: A go-getter. Felt like she was constantly in competition with this guy. Unhealthy relationship, but did get her past her career slump/minor existentialism. 1 year.
Age 27: An Asian-American guy from Denver, Colorado. Enthusiastic, spontaneous, and fun-loving—but a total smart alec. 7 months.
What’s in your character’s refrigerator right now? On their bedroom floor? On their nightstand? In their bag/wallet? In their garbage can?
Fridge: Two tupperwares of banchan: kimchi and pan-fried potatoes with pepper. A carton of eggs. Leftover shrimp vindaloo from yesterday’s lunch. A drawer full of vegetables: cucumber, radish, spring onions, kale, broccoli, asparagus. A drawer full of fruits: strawberries, blueberries, apples, pears, grapes, melons. Whole milk plain yogurt. A carton of coconut water and two bottles of sparkling.
Bedroom floor: Hardwood floors and a pewter cowhide rug.
Nightstand: A lamp and a Byredo candle, Tree House scented.
Bag: iPhone, keys, wallet (+ daughter’s photo at eighteen months), two pens, a pack of mints, tissues, two hair ties, Sensai lipstick in #16, Garrett Leight sunglasses, ibuprofen, hand sanitizer, a fine-tooth comb, a few spare pads, her business card, a compact, hand lotion, band-aids, tweezers, and two flash drives.
Garbage: Banana peels and other miscellaneous food compost.
Look at your character’s feet. Describe what you see there. Does your character wear dress shoes, gym shoes, no shoes? Ratty socks, or slippers knit by grandma?
Manicured toes unpainted thank you very much under white socks under The Row white lace-up sneakers.
When your character thinks of their childhood kitchen, what smell do they associate with it?
Sesame oil comes to mind first and foremost—mom had always been liberal with it. Spice did not feature heavily in the diet as both her parents and brother had a low tolerance for it (much to the chagrin of Suha’s bolder palate), so chicken soup and other clear broth-based meals were customary.
Your character is doing intense spring cleaning. What is easy for them to throw out? What’s difficult for them to part with?
No sweat: most everything printed on A4; tabloid magazines; Christmas cards; anything that’s been relegated to the Reject portion of her closet; discolored/damaged cook and bakeware; museum pamphlets; airplane tickets; electronics; gifted perfumes
Second thoughts: cookbooks that she’s been meaning to flip through; kid’s crafts projects; baby shoes; high school mixtapes; polaroid photographs; dad’s handwritten letters, sent during her studies abroad; vintage hand-me-downs from mom
It’s Saturday at noon. What is your character doing?
Finishing up a morning bikram yoga class; picking up Saeeun from Sewon’s for some wholesome mother-daughter grocery shopping; fixing a simple lunch or cutting up fruit while Saeeun’s occupied with the iPad.
Your character is getting ready for a night out. Where are they going? What do they wear? Who will they be with?
Likely checking out the opening for a new shop or show—alone, now. Black’s the easiest and the first thing she’ll reach for until she remembers that Maison Margiela dress she’d plucked off the off-season rack last Sunday.
What is your character’s greatest regret(s)?
Not speaking up for a girl who’d been ostracized from her third grade class for having cleft lip. Not being able to provide a full family for Saeeun. Letting her marriage break down—not having done more.
Is there anything your character was/is currently obsessed with?
Speed-walking on a 5% incline on the treadmill; using her milk frother for perfect vanilla lattes; (dancing to) old bossa nova records.
What is the trait your character likes most about themselves? Likes least?
The good: integrity. Probably her guiding principle. The work relationships she fosters, the foundations for a new plan, the flatware on her table, the food she puts into her body, the specs on her car, the hairstyle she decides on for Saeeun. Everything requires a heavy dose of intentionality and integrity.
The bad: impatience. Her tendency towards perfectionism manifests in other, less productive (re: destructive) ways. Has a hard time keeping that fuse unlit.
Does your character have any medical problems?
Suffered some hair loss back in university thanks to a crippling case of clinical depression (lost another good chunk from the anxiety wrought by the hair loss itself), but the time’s passed and her follicles are in tip-top shape along with the rest of her health.
What kind of car does your character drive?
2015 BMW 3 Series Sedan in black.
What fragrance(s) does your character use?
Imaginary Authors’ Saint Julep (2017) is the current casual go-to—sweet mint, tangerine, bourbon, and sugar cube. Her classic pick is MEMO’s Moon Fever (2007)—bitter orange, lemon, sage, vetiver, leather, and tonka bean.
Does your character own any pets?
No. But her brother and his partner own a massive chow chow named Diablo, who also happens to be the sole reason she never visits. It’s essentially wild. How they manage to keep it on a leash is beyond fathoming.
Describe your character’s educational and work background.
Education:
Public school, then foreign language school. Always kept to herself. Selfishly smart, why don’t you share, kids used to say. Finally took a peek out of the shell over the course of her short-lived first relationship. Crawled out of it for good and let all hell loose after getting The Acceptance Letter, i.e. the crowning achievement of her childhood. Nearly flunked out of SNU her first year but cleaned up her act and just barely made it to Dean’s List. Her reputation at work/shining referrals thereafter landed her a place in the graduate architecture program at Cornell.
Static work history:
Oh+Roh (Seoul), Partner, 2014–
Oh+Roh (Seoul), Senior Manager, 2012–2014
Oh+Roh (Seoul), Senior Architect, 2009–2012
Oh+Roh (Seoul), Architect, 2008–2009
Richard Meier & Partners (NYC), Architect, 2004–2006
Richard Meier & Partners (NYC), Architectural Intern, 2003–2004
Oh+Roh Architects (Seoul), Architectural Intern, 2002–2003
What did your character grow up dreaming of becoming?
An ice cream store owner. Then a rocket scientist.
How good of a singer is your character? Dancer?
She can carry a melody, but there’s no technical finesse to her delivery. Never had time to humor afternoon noraebang trips. Solid dancing skills. Took ballet as a kid and picked up dance again after grad school as a fitness hobby.
What is your character’s political affiliation?
Left-leaning. Voted for her girl Sim Sangjung in the 2017 election.
Which countries has your character been to?
For school: USA
For work: USA, Japan, China, Hong Kong, Denmark, Switzerland, France, Brazil, Mexico
For leisure: USA, Japan, China, Hong Kong, France, Germany, UK, Italy, Spain
What cuisine is your character’s favorite? Dish? Dessert?
Cuisine: Mexican, Indian, Sichuan
Dish: Galbi-jjim
Dessert: Mango sticky rice
Does your character have a sweet tooth?
Unfortunately. Has to keep herself in check.
What genre of film does your character enjoy?
Animation. Must have been Saeeun’s doing. Before her, it’d probably been crime or action or thrillers but she also could just be making this all up.
What are some of your character’s pet peeves?
People who interrupt (hypocrite), bad table manners, slow walkers (especially the ones that refuse to walk in a straight line so it becomes impossible to pass), “irregardless” and “I could care less”, humble bragging.
What are some of your character’s bad habits?
“I told you so”, never admitting that she’s wrong or apologizing when it’s too late, pulling out her phone at any given moment.
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CHARACTER STUDY #1
What is your character’s name? Nickname?
Birth name: Song Sewon. Affectionately known as Won by friends and family when they don’t feel like full-name dropping. Has “Simon Song” listed for any business cards he hands out to white people abroad.
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bide the dust
“But what if it’s the wrong number?”
Couldn’t be. He’s seen Junyoung call at least twice. Transporting packages, relaying contracts. Nothing as sinister as what he’s about to ask a quote for, but he’s too panicked to think of another viable alternative. His lower lip trembles violently as he releases his hand from the contact, revealing oily fingerprints. Could be the residual high and all the fries they’d ingested before things went terribly awry but the prints look oilier than usual. It is Doug’s last occuring thought before the phone rings once and his mind fades.
“—llo? Hallo? …’s Quick ‘N Clean…, hallo??”
The connection is bad. So startlingly bad that it pulls him out of the dark and plunges him straight into white panic. Whatever modicum of assurance he’d had a second ago high-tails out the window. Caught in his throat now is something like a wrangled confession. “I have a… job. A b-body,” he breathes into the phone—Junyoung’s phone—more aware of his own breath than ever and of his own body hunched and folding into itself for every incriminating word. He doesn’t want to know the look on Yeonju or Yua or Jaein’s face. Doesn’t want to know anything, doesn’t want anything except to be g—
The voice pierces through the line quicker than he can finish his train of thought. “So you do! Okay, we can take care.”
Take… care?
“...Of the body?”
“Yes!”
No questions asked?
The voice chips away at the silence like this is standard protocol. The voice even sounds a little restless, like she can’t stand to waste another second. “Yes! We can send two movers. Where are you?”
—
“Looks like it’s just you and me, Pheebs,” Suji grins. “It’s a body so we’re ditching the bike. Since we have to make good time, I’m relying on you for nav. Doesn’t seem like the body’s gonna be that heavy so we should be okay bringing it back for cleanup and disposal. This one should be done with her nap by then.”
She spares a glance at Eunri’s dozing face. Rough day, going back and forth between air cargo and the shop today and all that withstanding she’s still clutching to her keys for dear life. Suji takes a brief moment to wrestle them out of her iron, gel manicured grip. They’re not too light, nor too heavy. Suji twirls them on her pinky. Just the right amount of dangling pink accessories to give them some heft. Then she kicks the door to the driver’s seat open and slides in the vehicle to leather seats and artificial strawberry air freshener—more Eunri things.
“Hope I’m not missing anything. Did Chia fill you in on anything else or we good to go here.”
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scar pt. 2
“How’d you get this one?” He asks you. You’re on the couch, his head on your sweaty lap on a lone couch in a barren gallery that smells like paint and sawdust at high noon in the sweltering heat of mid-August in the center of Daegu city. Just outside smudged windows the cars release their smog in thick grey clouds and you swear to God you can hear eggs sizzling on the sidewalk but you’ve always had something of a wild imagination for all that rationalizing you do.
Anyone peering inside could have had a taste of the moment you were sharing together. It didn’t matter, you were both outsiders anyways. Just a couple of city-bred dogs here to make a buck or two under the guise of benevolent erudition off mid-tier townsfolk looking to broaden their horizons, or something like that. You were both pretty sure the average Daeguite had no business in this space but were both young and frivolous enough to say to hell with it. Let’s pollute these couple of hundred square feet with bad art and see where that takes us.
You lift your leg far enough that your shorts ride up and suddenly you are reminded of all the times you’d seen twenty-three year old college student Sewon in ill-fitting shorts putting his hairy legs on proud oblivious display. His wardrobe had seen a slight transformation since then. Now he was wearing the jeans you picked out for him a few weeks ago. Like a domesticated pup you were free to groom however. But when his hand touches the crescent-shaped burn on your knee, you flinch and come very close to whimpering and you’re no longer so sure who the puppy is. It doesn’t hurt but you can’t help it. Your memory hurtles further to when you are eight years old reaching for the stove.
“This? I think it was right after Mom had Suhyun.” You tell him. “He’d been sickly from the start. My parents were always in the hospital and our nanny had been playing hooky for the past couple of days and I had nothing to eat so I tried cooking ramen for myself.” Sewon sits up, then leans back in. With lips hovering above your knee, he breathes onto your skin. “Big mistake,” you continue. “One of the side handles of the pot landed here. I don’t think I’d ever screamed so loud in my life.” This is when Sewon arches an eyebrow. You force your hand into his face. “But nobody was home. That scream went straight through the halls back to my own ears. For a long time, I really resented that.” Sewon licks your palm. You snort and release. “Hey. You asked. It wouldn’t hurt for you to take me a little seriously.”
Sewon presses a chaste kiss to the scar, folds your leg back, and pins you to the couch. Now you feel small. You eye him suspiciously, but he only smiles. Just as you feel your expression soften, he slumps on top of you. “I’ll make you ramen when we go back. With whatever toppings you like.” He says. “Let’s just stay like this for a while.”
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scar pt. 1
It could have been ideation, or something else. You took the seat across from him at his favorite bistro-boulangerie in the city. His lips had parted as if he’d been summoned to the rapture. But it could have been projection, or a mistake on your part. It could have been you at the rapture.
You consider this because you happen to remember him down to the very last stitch. Heavy, side-swept bangs and shaggy locks that drooped far enough down that were he to shrug, his shoulders would give them a little lift. He was wearing an oversized green polo shirt that had probably seen the hot-water wash one time too many, and a pair of khaki shorts that rode up to reveal his knees—ill-fitting for the times. He had deep-set eyes and a velvety, melancholic sort of Western appeal that sat right at home amongst the powdered beignets but seemed at odds with your sharp angles and cut, cruel-looking face.
He had stood up to shake your hand. His grasp was sturdy even if his frame was slight, swallowed up by fabric. It’s nice to meet you, he’d said. Hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place. When you sat back down, the rays of high noon hit his cheeks just so. He maybe only had an inkling of an idea of his own handsomeness but there you were. You sat in silence before he pointed out something on the menu. This part you don’t remember so well. A Wednesday special, or a tasty fish chowder? Maybe. You nervous for your interview tomorrow?
The next time you met, you were back with your work visa in tow but he was soon to be off with his. You went out for drinks at his favorite dive in the city and you weren’t sure what that was until you arrived and the musty stink of beer all but assaulted you as you attempted to squirm your way inside. This okay? He checked in, and his expression, at once apologetic but crooked, told the whole story. Sorry he couldn’t take you, a girl of relatively high repute, to a nicer place, but this place doesn’t take shortcuts and you can handle your drink, right?
Never one to shy away from any challenge, or really any opportunity to nab the spotlight, you told him this was perfect. It felt so quintessentially American. Right?! He laughed, and bought you a drink.
The two of you sat on pleather stools, sipped on strong gin and tonics, and talked about stinky cheese and Kill Bill. This time around you wore a mini-skirt and he wore shorts that still rode up. After tequila shots, you mentioned something that had been bugging you for a while, ever since the first time you met. What’s that from? A run-in with The Bride? You pointed to the ridge traversing vertically across his knee while crossing your own legs. Ah, this thing? T-boned. He hit my knee and then hit the gas until he crushed over my bike too.
It was your turn to laugh now. You told him you had a biking accident of your own, though nowhere near as traumatic. Oh yeah? He raised his brow. Yeah. You were drunk. A lot of personal anecdotes start out this way, don’t they. You were trying to mount your ex-boyfriend’s motorcycle, but your heel got caught in a crack in the sidewalk and you fell and scratched your wrist on the pavement. You lifted it up for him to see and he wrapped his fingers around your arm. His grip was sturdy and warm and he looked you in the eye as he thumbed across the skin in relief there and you might have shivered.
Hoping you’re remembering that one correctly, you will the melatonin to kick in, shivering under the covers.
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pieces, part one
The storm was meant to end here.
Where the solid curve of the coastline ends, the water begins, blue as a clear, summer morning even if it’s barely May and the sun has barely peaked through the thick loom of clouds hanging low on the horizon. Last night’s weather report had called for a bright and beautiful day, with no chance of precipitation. You can always leave it to nature to change its mind. Take beautiful to mean a rendering a landscape into something a little more understated and bleak.
Behind them stands the inn — a small, two-story fixture on one of the lower cliffs, vinyl the color of pale sea moss with a white trimming, balcony and porch.
(“Much better than that mustard yellow, don’t you think?”)
They’d been painting the last of the suite, rollers back in the paint trays. The bay windows are flung open, and the breeze brings in a tang of brine. Obscure ’70s soul romance from the dock station set in the corner, Desmond Dekker to Cat Stevens. Wine by the glass, maybe one glass too many because it’s way before cocktail hour and the bottle of Belle Epoque is near the half-empty mark. Warm ivory for these walls, maybe eggplant for the next. With a small brush he draws something on one of the sample cards—a thin green line for a vine stem.
“Yes? No?” He lays it above one of the baseboards, unsure if it’d be too much. “What do you think?”
“It’s sexy.”
“That sounded really sarcastic.”
“As sexy as wanting to have a mustard yellow beach house.”
“You’re never letting that one go, are you.” She’s been doing a pretty good job so far. (For instance, the follow up from two days prior: We could’ve smeared some ketchup too, while we were at it.)
“Mm,” Suha hums absently. She’s picked up the roller again, eyes on one of the unfinished corners. “Let me get back to you on that.”
He hears a smile in her voice, so he says, “The clock’s ticking.” But he’s smiling too. There’s no need to hurry.
Not when there’s a whole lifetime ahead of them.
A lifetime.
Yeah, right.
He must’ve been wearing rose colored glasses for that moment, for that day, for these past five-six years. It’s the easier thing to believe. Something softer than the stones they’ve downed, one by one. Small truths that aren’t as elusive as he’d made of them.
It’s been hours past daybreak, and not a single word since. Breakfast was a quiet affair, this moment quieter. A faint rumble breaks through the air.
Thunder, and it’s the quietest, most fragile sound of them all.
“A map. Over there, maybe.”
His hand pulls out from beneath the pillow to gesture somewhere in the dark of their room. The windows here are closed, but the blinds are half-parted. Moonlight in thin beams. Over their toes, her right shoulder, spilling into the dip of her collarbone. His other hand holds the turn of her head.
“A vintage one.”
It’s his most practical suggestion. Something to cover the barren space, and still as sentimental. He could see it now: the pictures, the dried stems, the little pieces of memorabilia pinned over the circle of lakes, peninsulas.
“Something to help us keep track, you know.”
For all the places they’ve been, want to be. Will be.
And this is it.
Somewhere by the coves is an old, abandoned canoe. Archaic in design in its half-moon shape, with no sail. It sits, as if waiting for the right hands. The right push.
A love that rolls through the sandscapes, rocks the waves, makes motion. The boat makes its way into the sea, as it should.
But what has been done to keep it afloat?
What could have been done?
Here are the words to say: it’s not that we’ve fallen out of love, but it’s the patience that’s long run out, exhausted. In the kitchen, there’s milk that’s been left on the platter, uneaten fruit, the houseplant shriveling from too much of the sun. Small, mundane ruin. A kind of decay done by our own hands. The lack thereof.
But words don’t mean a thing when all has been said or done.
Here, the storm was meant to end.
And all they have to show for it is this residual space, held by a shoulder-span but a foot feels like a mile, and a mile feels like a hundred, a thousand, a single rope stretched to unreachable distances.
It’s been said that no man is an island. And yet, the distance says everything. So far apart they’re nothing more but two separate landmasses with water all around. Where in between, the voyages of old ships that know the greatest pain of leaving their native shores, have long passed.
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