the color of the light

The zipper on the bag is the sound I will remember. Not the shove. Not the metal edge of the cart against my temple. The zipper. The decision to slide the sweater into the freezer of my small kitchen in Yeonnam-dong and close the door and leave my hand on the handle for a count I did not count.

Maa approved that sweater. I want to write that sentence small and then write it again large. She touched the collar in her kitchen in Busan and said good, and I wore it to work because I wanted her good to follow me across the bridge. Now the collar is rust. I put it in a zip bag in the freezer and it is the only proof I have of what happened on the 17th floor, which is the floor I have not been able to open a linen closet on since Day 9.

I do not know his face. I want to write that I am calm about it. I am not. He knew the sage blouse. He knew which drawer. He knew when I would be alone.

I sent the photo to Bae Yu-jin. One person. I wrote evidence, please because I did not want to write what happened. She will know from the jaw and the eyes and the line of red down the cream cotton. She has been my friend since the year before this hotel. She will not ask me to be brave.

I keep thinking about the elevator mirror. I do not recognize her. I wrote it for the post because it was true and I am writing it here because it is also true. She is not the one who smiles at the lobby. She is not the one Maa raised. She is the one who walked past the security desk on her way out so she would not be asked.

I sat on the officetel floor among the plants and the fairy lights were on and I thought: this is the wrong life. I held it like a pen and I did not put it down this time.

The red badge light is behind my eyelids when I close them. I am asking it to be a different color tomorrow. I do not know who to ask.