to supersede.

“Green, black, or white?” Details are important in her line of work. Clarification draws a thin line between frustration and understanding. White noise is usually the first that fills silence, allowing just enough room for doubt to creep in and plant the seed for miscommunication. Jiyoung knows what she does is senseless from an outside perspective, but is only interested in how he reacts to her behavior when she chooses to sit beside him in the waiting room instead of allowing her intern applicant to arrive at her office by himself. 

“Ah...excuse me.” She drops her hand from beneath her chin to straighten in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. The same hand waves through the air, as if to erase her previous mistake from an invisible board. “I meant what type of tea do you prefer? Assuming you like it at all.”

It would be strange of him not to be surprised. Her face is not all that forgettable, and definitely not one to be so callously greeting interviewees this way. Her published articles on mental institutions and the psychological correlation between diaspora youth creates the history behind infamous disputes. Yet she is still most recognized for the court cases she offers her medical assessments for. At least, that is how the general population has seen her face. From one controversial trial to the next on the news.

But this boy--and very impressive student Do Kyungsoo--knew all of this, at least most of it. So why was such a face like hers the one coming to him? 

The familiar voice of the waitress who was standing near his table had him listening again. An exchange of money for coffee, he realized, after she said the amount that was owed. $4.19? They were awfully overpriced. He hadn’t even intended to remember their menu and the prices, but the numbers and words stuck in his head as if they belonged. It helps the headache…

He caught her gaze immediately upon her pushing the cup of coffee towards him. The scent of the coffee was as bitter and strong as he knew it tasted - dark roasted black without cream or milk. He tilted his head away slightly to avoid the steam that was touching his skin, swallowing down his words. Unless momentary blindness is what you’re after, then–… Her lips kept moving - and it was fine, because he didn’t let himself hear a thing. Instead, he took his time to memorize her features. She was ordinary looking - but far more fresh than anyone else here, effortlessly put together with minimal makeup.

It had become a habit to casually pick a person’s facial features apart upon meeting them. He needed to remember the people that spoke to him, and of the people that surrounded him as much as he possibly could. None of this was out of genuine interest, but rather a hypersensitivity that he was forced to learn, which had now become a part of him. He didn’t need to make sure to be aware - he simply was aware of those he came across more than twice, and those that frequently spoke to him or saw him.

There was a slight shift in his air, and he felt almost weightless again as he let his muscles relax - face, shoulders, hands. He rested his hand back down on the table where his menu was, letting her voice slowly drown out by the cafe noise. A headache was a headache, and it would pass. Nevertheless, it had been a mistake to come here, and he briefly contemplated walking out in the rain. His uncle didn’t care what he did as long as he finished what he started - even if that meant temporarily abandoning his assignment halfway through just because things weren’t going as planned.

It’s not poisoned, she had finished. And he would have smiled just to shut her up, if that line itself wasn’t so concerning. It gave her away.

“How comforting,” he brought the cup to his lips to take a sip, glancing away to see if the kid who had looked at him earlier was still around. Apparently not. The coffee was bland, but he didn’t care. It was during times like this that nothing mattered - he had already lost the sense of time, stuck in an over-crowded place that was beginning to feel sticky, with rain pounding down ceaselessly against the windows.

He placed his cup of coffee on the table, thumb following the curve of the handle. If she were to take notice of his hand, she would see the several old scars the drew up crookedly on the skin, alongside a fresh cut that was plastered over by a band-aid. Maybe she would realize it wasn’t only a headache, but the lack of sleep that made his eyes hurt. He hated when strangers were at such a close proximity, because they could confirm what they could see. Besides, there was something about the force of her gaze that he couldn’t quite place - it had him questioning her actions - because he knew she hadn’t offered him a cup of coffee out of kindness. She was aware and observant - and it showed.

“If I die - it’s on you.”

The menu was cool against his palm, and it was only then that he realized how humid the cafe had become. It seemed the weather wasn’t going to give, unfortunately. The same waitress came by again and glanced between the two of them, before carefully picking up his cup of coffee. With a tray in her one hand, she held out her other for the menu, to which he gave without a word. She left without smiling or thanking them, and that was cue for him to leave. His uncle had his way of installing trusted people in every location that needed monitoring - the waitress and the kid were only two of the many. This way he didn’t need to wait for a phone call, or a text, to know everyone was in their place, and that the only thing left was for him to proceed comfortably knowing he could finish his assignment without fail. He was still alone though, but if anything went wrong, the blood wouldn’t be on his hands.

The clock on the wall near the exit read 3:14 p.m., and he was due for 4:30 p.m. - so he had a little over an hour to spend waiting for the rain to stop.

It is undeniable in moments that she does not want to be needed by the government or relied on by the people in her life. She wants to be somewhere she can observe. This is a form of her escaping a rigid routine, no random act of kindness in a corner café for a stranger. So she listens to the one who fits this scene in a placed manner. As if he were planted, but groomed to fit neatly into the folds of an every day situation. 

She believes he is an odd boy with peculiar reactions. Not the worst, or even questionable—but far from average. She notices significant motive in his words. A potential end to her curiosity if she dared act on such an eccentric thought. Whether he would leave the situation first, or tell her to leave. It does not matter to her. She does not expect more to result from this. Instead she pays attention. Tilts her head and feels long strands of hair fall across her cheek. 

There is a statement in his tone when he mentions his death just to blame it on her, and the fact that he is not ignoring what she says speaks louder than that possibility. There is not ‘if you really poisoned me’ in his voice, but a definite result from even considering it. Jiyoung contemplates, and folds her hands on the table. Fingers thread together. She presses lips to a closed fist and dares to think he is interesting.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Her throat itches to ask more, but she forces herself to remain simple. Wondering if he would catch the shift. It may be something or nothing he wants, after all. “A nice boy like you with a face like that. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a date.”

Nice. Handsome. Punctual. She wonders if he’ll deny any of her assumptions. The glaring menial detail in a loud room remains from the bandage on his hand. Camouflaged only by an array of activity. She would not have noticed. Not the pressing weight. This heaviness on their actions is just as normal as their hands, and she assumes it is not typical at all. Even the way he holds the coffee is with automatic detachment. Perhaps from the entire situation and not necessarily her. She’s sure he would notice the hesitation if she paused too long. So she wraps fingers around his hands and brings them closer. Touching his hands reminds her of her brother. There are callouses in the same places. Not worn hands, but precise hands accustomed to the same movements over and over.

“You have good circulation,” she comments, more because she probably should say something. Though he does not seem like the type to think silence is uncomfortable, her actions are often premeditated based on the one she speaks to. Rules of social exchange run together in her line of work and this is just her observing him. Even the way shoulders rise is with purpose, and she fakes a shiver (though the steady fall of rain presses an unnatural chill upon the room). Touching has nothing to do with the weather. It is an exchange of attention. “My hands are so cold all the time. I’ve been told it’s like holding hands with a dead fish.”

There is her reason. Her hands are cold, so she takes his. Waiting for his as rain drums against the roof. This wave of noise joins the interference of every voice in her head. It becomes a game of plucking out the noteworthy tones and ignoring the crash of sound hollowing out her thoughts to observe his expression. There is the smell of chocolate pouring over into the poignant odor of coffee. She leans forward just as a plate smashes against the floor. Her attention lingers over shards peppering the floor. Concentration is just as broken. She presses the toe of her boot over a white sliver of a plate and applies pressure until she feels the edge barely against the underside of toes.

Silence envelopes each voice in the room just so they can all watch a waitress struggle to sweep up remains and apologize to customers. She of course says it is fine, as it always is, and her only question is pointed. Not a whisper between familiar people and just meant for him.

Situation: In a shared dream/Hotel Lobby (i accidentally shuffled twice so combined)Sentence: “How likely is that?”

She finds herself memorizing architectural schemes of hotels they shuffle her into. We need your professional opinion in New York, they say. Pyongyang, Shanghai, Sicily, and now—Gangnam. The expenses for her are usually paid, so she never complains about the requests.  Some businessman wants his employees assessed, but she would not be here if she wasn’t curious about one thing in particular.

Each city is different—a culture reflects in its structure even if she does not see the distinction. Jiyoung wants to claim Korea as her home, but there is always a slight disconnection. Not born, not raised, and valid here only by blood. She feels placeless, even if her role in the world is not. All it takes in return is her mind and her sleep. She’s begun to journal again at the suggestion of her sister (her devout father’s voice rings around her head unsound, mentally unstable, family disgrace, locked away, why would you listen to her). Jiyoung experiences recurring dreams. Each night, one boy tells her how she will die (beware of false prophets). The subjectivity of art is comforting when she records it by sketch.

Fate, as it is, remains impartial to human circumstance. The randomization of life events lead her to this case, but the decision to accept was at no fault but her own. Holding tight to only your own interpretations can shrink the world into a one-sided view when it is truly multifaceted. So she observes, and listens, and decides.

She hears footsteps, and sees the line of men in suits. Light shudders across each of their grim faces from the open check-in window where the receptionist is flustered–can I help you, can I help you, sir–one seems too young and out of place among such serious men. 

No one is quick to smile, and she decides to bow.

[ We want you to meet someone. ]

Of course.

[ He’s very important. ]

His name?

[ Not important. ]

–ah.

Jiyoung’s brows press together before the weight of her gaze falls to the row of shiny black shoes and then back up. The likeness of this kid is inked on her personal sketchpad. She should be at least embarrassed, if not perturbed (he is no longer product of just a nightmare). Instead, she’s thankful it’s tucked in her briefcase so no one will ask questions.

Do not project irrational feelings onto a stranger.

“How likely is that?” she asks after a moment, holding their eyes for as long as she can. “We’ve met before.” This is true to her, and she speaks matter-of-factly. People in your dreams are drawn from experience, so they had to have met before. She’s been staring at the boy too long, but hopes he has something to say in return. Even if it only is to prove her wrong.

In front of him, she is reminded of how powerful a conviction can be.

Situation: On a Blind DateSentence: “Sorry, my mistake.”

A prologue

She has readabout grief, and in that aspect prepared patients and case studies on how tohandle it. Her mind is attuned, and the steps may as well be tattooed to theback of her eyelids. The world moves on and her feet are still rooted inmoments no one else realizes the importance of (it is intimate, the memories betweentwo people). Impossible to replace and many waste time in an attempt toduplicate a feeling.

Pain, asmost things, remains relative. She convinces herself she is okay after hisdeath due to her job description. Mental stability is an ideal in psychiatryand yet she is bothered by her own stagnant observations. Is she alreadyruined, or just accustomed?

What was not enough–

“Jiyoung—“

She is atwenty-something in the United States in the middle of her busiest years. For aface so young, the eyes that glance up remain heavy with thought glancing overtheir slim shoulder. She had been expecting a man. Her friends never askedabout her sex life, her preference, and now she feels foolish for assuming (always overanalyzing and never seeing) when she notices a woman in front of her.

“Christ,”she immediately interjects, hand about to cover her mouth but pinching the bridgeof her nose instead. She’s already apologizing and they seem unbothered by hersurprise. Jiyoung decides she hates the spontaneity of blind dates now and cannot tell if they find her reaction funny or off-putting. For once grateful the music in this club is loud.

It’s good—her eyes widen only slightly as sheremembers other words—if you meet otherpeople.

She’s askedagain if her name is Jiyoung, and straightens her shoulders. Draw a breath in.

“No,” shefinds herself disagreeing, and standing. “I mean yes, I am. You would know,wouldn’t you?” Closes her eyes–exhale–opens them again. “I believe there’s been a mistake.”

This world is still turningand she is so focused on its senseless internal workings. Fingers curl around the crook ofher arm and she pulls her purse further up her shoulder.

“Sorry,” sheexcuses herself without moving while her words fall apart. “My…mymistake.”

They remainquiet. She feels like a child.

“Is thatright?”

No, it neveris. She is already sitting back down.