#user.akm

July 2012 Namhae, South Gyeongsang

It’s a scenic drive along Namhae’s cerulean coastline, sweep of hills and winding interstates finally plateauing—the land opens up and gives way to a sparkling sea. Here, the sky seems wider. Their rental Kia traverses a short two-kilometer stretch, crawls leisurely past rice paddy and farmhouse, street dog and fruit-bearing grandmother. Kyungmin feels the tell-tale bump of gravel under the tires. When he squints, he sees it: the signboard to their lodging, lovingly slathered in swishes of white paint: One Dream Pension.

Yujae is quick on his feet and hops out of the driver’s seat before Kyungmin so much as pulls out their reservation, printed and stapled neat at the top left corner. He greets the front desk, procures their keys, and leads the way to their unit, a canary yellow, southern-facing cottage. They take five to settle, turning on the air-conditioning and sinking into the sofas. Kyungmin’s eyes drift towards the clock in the room. It’s taken the form of a mischievous-looking striped cat, curved tail swishing back and forth for every second tick-tocked by. The blinds are closed for some reason, slats of orange sunlight patterning Yujae’s sweating face in bold stripes.

Looks like the clock, Kyungmin smiles, giving Yujae’s cheeks an insistent push of the finger before he bolts upward. “Didn’t you want to go swimming?” He asks, all matter-of-fact and quirk of the brow slinking towards the kitchen counters. On top of the island, their lumpy cooler—he pulls out a single can of beer, keeping his eyes trained on Yujae, who remains splayed on the couch. The leather croaks beneath Yujae’s body with stunning clarity as he stirs. “Get changed before you become one with the sofa,” Kyungmin peels back the tin, krrrsch, and chugs. A third of the can swishes in his belly now. “Before I finish the can.”

Early September, 2018 Seocho-gu, Seoul

The ceremony has ended, the pictures have been taken, everyone is trickling out of the ballroom, filtering back into the hotel lobby. Out here in my cabernet-induced vertigo, the dizzying array of flower wreaths look more like pinwheels in the wind. It’s time to get some fresh air. 

In my hands: a bundle of my own flowers, plucked from the table centerpiece and off the wedding runway. Always such a shame that the unpicked flowers go straight into the dump—I’ve compensated for the guilt by overshooting. A ranunculus bud knocks into the lens of my glasses and I flinch backwards. 

Up ahead, the waitstaff. I hand over the bundle, and a petite young woman wraps and ties it with brown wax paper and rawhide string. “Thank you,” I say, and take the first set of doors I see leading to the patio.