Bergamot in the Teeth

I keep coming back to the way he said my name. Twice. Practiced, like he had been rehearsing it in the back of a car on the way to Hannam-dong, rolling it around his mouth the way you roll a wine you are about to spit out. I have been called Park Seo-yeon by thousands of people and none of them have ever made it sound like a verdict before.

Im's eyes and Cha Seong-jin's jaw. He said those names across a wine bar counter like he was reading me back to myself, then leaned in close enough that I could smell bergamot on his collar and asked which one I would like to keep. As if I could carry my mother's bones home in a bag. As if my father's jaw was something I had borrowed. I have not heard Cha Seong-jin's name spoken out loud by anyone in my family in at least six years and this man in the charcoal suit brought it up like he was ordering a second glass. I want to know who told him. That question frightens me more than he does.

I poured the Sancerre into his lap. I did not think about it first. My hand just decided before the rest of me could catch up and I think that is the only honest thing I did all evening. I walked past Kwon Min coming in and asked him to walk me to the taxi stand. He put his hand at my elbow past the gallery windows and I let him. I do not let Kwon Min touch me. I let him tonight because my elbow felt like it belonged to someone else and I wanted someone else's arm to hold it.