The Orange Light, Then the Tooth

I walked into the anteroom and said Bae Yu-jin's name out loud. I said outside counsel. I said sixty days. Through the open door where Im could hear, in front of Hye-jin. I watched Im's smile stop for half a second, then come back as her own. That half-second is mine now. I am keeping it.

In the morning my badge light had flashed orange — compliance review. I walked the front desk pretending my hand was not shaking. By afternoon a printed notice under my keyboard restricted me to the twenty-first floor. The system wrote it in language I cannot argue with. I read it four times. I folded it into my wallet. Someday it is proof of something.

The man on the walk home was the same height as a man I have seen on this street before. I did not look at his face. I felt the bag press into my palm and I kept walking. In my bathroom I opened it on the mirror beside the lock of hair from the freezer. A single human tooth, bloodied at the root. I held it between my thumb and forefinger and my hands were not shaking. That is the part I do not trust myself about. I photographed it. BUILDING. I texted Bae Yu-jin: Thursday police box, Jongno. Four words. The cleanest sentence I have written this week.

On the floor among the plants, the soft blue pen on my knee, the fairy lights throwing small green shadows. I thought about Hye-jin walking into the lobby at six and actually showing up. She showed up. Three witnesses in one room. I had not known I needed three until I had three.