CRUDE DRAWING OF AN ANGEL

she is a body in the world, wanting,

[cataclyisms]

SEUNGHAN —

“and you?” the music resumes and he pulls her closer this time, his touches certain as it was, all those years ago. “do you always go around bewitching strangers at parties? or did you save that specially for me?”

She senses the shift in him as sure as if something inside her’s shifted too. Of course she would, because he’s him and she’s her. Like the back of her hand, the back of her eyelids, she knows him. Her body is a tuning fork sounding out his specific frequency. She’s spent so long trying to sing another song only for her to find it the moment she’s in his hands.

There are things that never leave you no matter how hard you try. She knows this now. That doesn’t make this hurt any less.

Memory pales in comparison to the reality of him: the certainty in his touch, the tenderness as if he thought her too precious, something he wanted to protect. The feeling in his eyes that she won’t name. Here, the reality of the man she’d let into her heart like it had been an open door, like she’d been welcoming him home. And here, the reality of the aftermath: the hole inside her. Four walls and no roof; an empty, cold room.

Collateral damage. She has to remember that that’s all she’d ever been. How easy it was to forget that the moment his hands were on her waist. How easy it would be to soften into him, to look up at him and say his name. But still, the room; the hole; the memory. All these things that won’t let her forget.

The way he’s looking at her is almost unbearable. Call her a coward, but she has to look away.

“Don’t be silly. I’d hardly say you’re special.” It’s as much steel as she can forge in the moment, but she hopes it cuts him a little. A small taste of the knife he’d slid into her that day, the one she’d kept in her stomach all this time, waiting. “Maybe you were just the first person who asked for a dance.”

Her words divide and her body follows. The grip on his shoulder loosens, the air between them cools. The illusion of intimacy, of openness, is shuttered behind her sidelong gaze. But she can’t look up at him — won’t — for fear of falling back under his spell.

It’s all too much.

“I should go.” The hour; the heat; the fact that she actually does have a man waiting for her out there. Any excuse to untangle herself from the situation. She steps back, uncaring that they’re only halfway through the dance. Her arms fold across her chest as she stands rigid, at attention. When scared, make yourself tall. “My date’s probably waiting to take me home.”

Now that — that she hopes stings.

[cataclyisms]

YOHAN —

"Still, I guess it's no fun to drown in excess alone, if that's what you're getting at. Since you have the air of an … expert, you are going to take the lead, aren't you? Take me to the island of the lotus eaters?"

Mission accomplished and she smiles like she’s swallowed a canary, sharp points and all. There is something deeply satisfying about being a proven force of nature. She’s used to shooting her shot — used to the bullseye, even — but it’s always a rush when it hits true. So what if the smile she gives him after is especially vibrant against the soft light of the bar? Sue her. She’s a simple girl, but even she knows making a man smile offers up a whole world of possibilities.

“Kind of you to acknowledge my expertise.” She lifts her drink up to her mouth to mirror his image, sipping slow to savor the taste of her victory. “So. What you’re going to do first is sit pretty and let me finish this glass.” All gall, but she’s pretty enough to pull it off. “Then,” with a grin like a cat, “you’ll see.”

To use his terminology: lotus-eating awaits.

—

Hedonism takes many forms, but she’s sure Yohan did not count her belting girl group songs to an audience of himself as one of them. Add the fact that she’s not known for carrying a tune. Girl of many talents: yes, but singing is not one. In all honesty she’s not sure it did much, but she figures her making a fool out of herself for his viewing pleasure was better than any reasonable alternative. He didn’t much look like a ‘get belligerently drunk to objectionable music at a club’ type of guy. Lone wolf, chip on his shoulder, etcetera — point being, her usual haunts wouldn’t have held the same weight. At least she’d plied him with a flow of too-expensive bottles of soju and offered up the tambourine (which, to her keen ear, she noticed he did not use much).

Half-past a time too late for time to really matter, she steps out onto the curb of the building with her fingers clutching his sleeve for balance, safe harbor. Careful with her touch even if the headlamps blur in front of her; she hasn’t forgotten who he is or how she’d found him. She knows it’s out of his character to have indulged her so long. No need to push further.

Except, of course, she’s her. Full speed ahead towards everything.

“So,” she says, stumbling forward and turning towards him, looking up at his face in the moonlight. With all the shadow on his face she can barely make out an expression, so she chooses happy. “Will you at least walk with me and help me find a taxi?”

And then: “I’m a pretty good singer, huh?”

[cataclyisms]

SOWON —

the line between jealousy and desire has to be infinitesimal.

Morning comes like a knife’s edge, the balance between sleep and consciousness disrupted by the light leaking through her bedroom window. Her eyes shut tighter in response — accidental revolt — but the only reward is a sudden awareness of the pounding in her head. Not an unfamiliar feeling, but unwelcome all the same.

“Unnie,” her last syllable stretches in the air, the childish coyness coming easily with Sowon. She grins at her, half-hidden by her pillow and the rat’s nest on her head, leaning into her touch like a girl starved. “I missed you last night. I wish you had come. It was so much fun.”

It hadn’t been. Poor form for a Saturday night: first a novice bartender; then, her last month’s fling DJing at her favorite club; then, her objectively toxic but objectively handsome ex leaving her on read. She knows she’s too good for him, but the rejection will scar anyway. Old habits die hard.

She lurches upward only to exhale in regret, the movement prompting a wave of dizziness and darkness in her vision. One hand to her temple, the other grasps for the conveniently placed pills on her bedside. Sowon is her favorite because she misses nothing — maybe if Soojung was half as meticulous, her dad would still give a damn. Maybe she’d see his face sometimes too.

The pills go down easy. This, also, is familiar.

She postpones the fallout with the sting of 80 proof vodka, and postpones the nausea with exactly two tabs of ibuprofen. Not the worst of habits; she’s heard people do worse just to get through the day. It’ll work for her until it doesn’t. For now, the reward outweighs the risk.

It’s yet to subside, but the idea of the ache going away is good enough for her. She smiles, reaches for Sowon’s hand to interlace their fingers. “How about a coffee? Last night everyone said they’d be doing lunch at Trinity, but Jia is going to be there and she’s still mad at me because her ugly boyfriend hit on me that time we were at Charles H.” Frankly, she’d done her a service — not only was he a two-timer, but he was stupid enough to think she’d be flattered. Never let anyone say she didn’t do charity work.

As usual, she assumes her word is law and stretches to a standing position. “I’m going to shower super quick, so you can pick the place and I’ll pick up the tab. Okay?”

[cataclyisms]

YOHAN —

"I don't care how I look. To anyone. You included," another sip, but he stills his lips around the rim. The scent burns his nostrils as he breathes in. "It's none of your business what I was going to do," but perhaps he should not be so bitter. "You're… sweet to concern yourself with it… or whatever… but I doubt you wanna be seen with me right now after what happened the other day. I know you're thinking it. Everyone is."

She lets his words hang in the air between them, clear over the murmur of their surroundings. A necessary grace period to turn them over, absorb their weight. Her mouth is cut into a little smile; he called her sweet. Funny how any semblance of empathy somehow makes her the anomaly here. An aspect of his character, most likely — common in people of their stature sitting so upright on their pedestals. So taxing on the spine. People raised on violence always thought of harm as a strength, of feeling as a weakness. A poor philosophy, in her opinion.

Her eyes trace his features, searching for something in the silence. An opening, maybe.

“Does it matter?”

Elbow on the bar and chin resting on her palm, she angles her body towards him in a gesture of sincerity. Her version of charging forward like a bull, frank and purposeful. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t care what you were like at the wake.” Guilt and secrets aside, they’d seemingly been close, connected by the ambition they shared and the club they grasped for with outstretched hands. Why would it have been a crime for him to grieve? “I know it’s like, taboo or whatever to show people how you really feel, but I think people should give you a little grace when someone you know dies.”

“Besides, you said you don’t care what people think. So what does it matter what I think of you? Or why I’m here, sitting beside you? You’re probably wrong, by the way —” she cuts the seriousness with levity, an impudent smile and a glint in her eyes, “I’m actually sitting beside you only because you’re the cutest guy here.”

“So.” Straightening in her chair, she looks him full in the face. An imaginary hand extended in camaraderie, in an effort to be a lifeboat in a storm. Now or never. “Now that we’ve established that all I’m here to do is flirt with you and not at all because I feel sorry for you, will you finally just accept it? You’re kind of hurting my success rate here.”

She doesn’t promise much — just someone close by for the night and a chance to leave melancholy at the door. Not a friend, but a poor imitation of it. It’s the least she could do.

[cataclyisms]

SEUNGHAN —

do not be fooled by his composure. here, watch him take a breath and see the way it shakes. seunghan steadies himself in the exhale, “care to dance with a stranger?” and he holds a hand out. here, pushing forth. here, feeling for the crack. she always loved to dance.

She would know him anywhere.

Scientists study for years to understand just a small part of the surface of the earth. She only had three, but in that time she’s committed his form to memory; from the way his hair falls across his forehead to the slope of his spine to the slant of his smile. The topography of one man imprinted onto her heart, hot and permanent, no salve for the aftermath needed. It was easy, back then, to hold onto the pain when she thought of it — of him — as rightfully hers.

Now? Well — now she’s all hollowed out, a gaping hole in the center of her where she’d kept him, where she’d torn him out. And still he is there in the empty spaces of her heart long after she’d walked away.

Life sucked like that.

She sees him, of course, the minute she enters the room. Call it a sixth sense or a proclivity for masochism; it’s all means to the same end. Of course he’d be here, at this event held by people that made nice for a living, who smiled softly to hide their teeth. Her eyes follow the nape of his neck as he leans into Sowon until something rises in the back of her throat and she has to look away. Thank God for the bar. She lingers at the edges of it, drink in hand, making small talk with her pseudo-date (read: glorified handler) until he sees someone better prepared to receive his regard. She waves him and his exhausting flattery away, already focused on the wine list. More fool her for letting her attention slip.

He speaks and she shivers.

She lets his words hang in the expanse between them, in the space where he’s inviting her to play pretend, an open hand beckoning. Eyes purposefully downcast, focused on the way her hands grasp at her empty glass for dear life. She could walk away; at least he gives her that.

But she’s tired of feeling lonely, so she takes his hand. Masochism and all that.

Just a few minutes, she thinks.

“I’m sure I can spare a dance.”

The slip into insanity is so easy. Frankly, it’s annoying how she feels warm just from holding his hand; how she smiles at him and means it. How five years can fall away with the touch of his fingers pressed against the small of her back. There is a hole in her that longs for the feeling of being complete. She’s careful not to feed into the emotion, keeping just enough distance a real stranger would. Music is playing, probably — she can barely hear it over the thrum of her heartbeat.

“You’re not bad at all, you know. At this dancing thing,” she says, the tease in her eyes and her smile. “I bet this is how you get all the girls to fall for you at parties. How many dances does it take? Two? Three?”

Just a few more minutes.

[cataclyisms]

YOHAN —

Eventually, he swivels around on the bar stool, eyes narrowly avoiding hers before she catches something darker in them. "I'll buy yours," he toys with his bottom lip between two fingers, gaze darting across the floor. He would much rather spend all of what was left of his father's money. "Will that help you leave me alone?"

It’s the oldest trick in the book, to bare your teeth without biting. Scare tactics 101: angry boy edition. Unfortunate for him that she’s a graduate of the Spoiled Brat School of Youngest Sisters, because she can sense an empty threat from a mile away. She’ll never pick a fight she knows she won’t win.

And if she doesn’t — well, there’s always the perfectly manufactured tear.

“Because,” she starts, matching his swivel towards her with her own. Her winning smile is a show of amusement at his obvious annoyance, more to get a rise out of him than anything – though she can’t deny she enjoys a challenge.  “Whiskey neat is so stereotypical brooding man. It’s, like, the drink you choose when you want to torture yourself.”

A quick signal and a bartender manifests in front of them. “Two of whatever that was, thanks,” she says, finger pointed at Yohan’s empty glass. Before long she’s nursing one drink and practically shoving the other into Yohan’s hand, quickly darting across the open space to clink glasses before an effervescent: “Cheers!”

And as expected: “Ugh — ew, no, hate that.”

The burn slides down her throat, twisting her face into a sour pout. God, the things she does to help others; she’s practically a candidate for sainthood. The half-drunk glass is slid over with a deft hand to her unwilling partner as she signals the waiter again. “That’s horrible, sorry. You have that and I’ll get a gin and tonic, thanks.” New (better) cocktail in hand, she settles back into her seat and grins as if he hadn’t just seen her dramatics over his (worse) choice of drink. “This one’s on you, by the way.” As if it wasn’t obvious.

The thing she’s learned about anger is that it’s always about how you hold it. How to grip it so it doesn’t shatter you. She knows his type well: raw, serrated fury. A weapon that self-inflicts as it strikes. Understands it because it is often her own. Best to keep it in check before the scar is permanent. Just this time, she’ll help him out – she’s held fast through worse. Sainthood, remember? “I’m not sure leaving you alone is a good idea right now. Like, look at all the drinks you have — people are going to think you’re a drunkard.” Nevermind it’s because one of them is technically hers. “At least if I’m here beside you people will think you’re doing it to impress me.”

“What’re you going to do by yourself anyway? Mope around? You don’t have to talk to me about it, but I’m not leaving you alone to do that. Mope with me; I’m sure I can cheer you up in no time.”

[infected]

what's ur gender?

angel

[cataclyisms]

SEUNGHAN —

seunghan pulls his gaze back to her. “tell me a half-lie, soojung. or — scratch that.” a smile, “tell me a half-truth.”

What does it feel like, the moment before the fall?

Pulse like a drum, the rush of warmth and feeling. The feeling of your body, in space but not; the whir of every sinew lighting up with electricity. Last chance to turn back, she thinks — breaking point before the scale tips into the unknown.

In truth, she’s never been one to live in half-measures. With her, the glass is always overflowing. Rather the memory of the inevitable hurt than a laundry list of what-if’s; failure shaped by her hands than not. To be clear: she may look beforehand, but after she will always leap.

The after:

After is the emptied glass on the table. The body shifting closer, a heat seeking missile. After is something in the slope of his lips, the study of his mouth, the theory of tasting it.

“A half-truth,” she repeats, eyes lifted to the ceiling in a pretense of thoughtfulness. Truthfully, there’s only one thing on her mind. She looks at him — into his eyes, at his nose, at his mouth, lingering. Then she smiles, says: “And what do you get if you guess which part’s the lie?”

In the back of her mind is the echo of a warning bell; the understanding that there are people in this world that have the capacity to eat you alive. The intrinsic need to avoid the possibility of extinction ignored in deference to the gravity of the moment. The pulse. Him him him.

(Okay, so maybe she shouldn’t have downed those last few ounces, but a little liquid courage never hurt anyone. Least of all her.)

“Let’s see — okay. So it’s maybe past seven or eight, because I got here when it was just getting dark and it’s been a while.” At least it looked to be, judging from the near-finished bottle. On the other hand, she did like to drink to calm the nerves. Purposefully, she circumvents his gaze. “And I’m a little tipsy. Just a little. That’s probably why we can’t get through the questions. That or the fact that sitting next to you is making me nervous, because sitting next to guys I like always makes me nervous.”

She supposes she’s being a bit unkind, having him try to parse fiction from fact. But then again, who didn’t like a little give and take? Here, she’ll even help him out. Reaching a hand up to his face, she makes a show of brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead (imaginary, of course), tucking it behind his ear with a soft touch before pulling back to look him in the eye. “You had a hair there. I promise.”

[cataclyisms]

PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE AFTER THE BEEP.

“hello, this is officer park donghyun of seoul metropolitan police. we’ve been trying to reach you regarding the noh hyungseo case. the case has recently been reopened as some new evidence has come to light. we would like to invite you into the station for a voluntary interview to clarify a few details from your previous statement. please contact me at your earliest convenience so we may book in a time. you can reach me directly at this number. we are aiming to conduct this interview sometime next week. thank you for your cooperation. we hope you have a good day.”

"A call?” Then, after the beat: “Me?”

Her junior comms officer-turned-glorified secretary is visibly unimpressed, but in her defense: a call? For her? She’s not exactly a lightning rod for mystical phenomena, but she supposes everyone has their day.

“I said you’d call back but they left a voicemail anyway. You know how to access it, right?”

Yes, in fact, she does, annoying junior officer with the stink face. She may be a nepo baby but she’s not an idiot.

At her desk, she takes the time to run through the likely suspects. Not one of her brothers, surely; Soohyuk in particular would take every opportunity possible to vex her in person (and to get out of doing his, you know, job). Whatever recent hanger-on was calling her their friend was also a no-go — not only because they know her personal cell but also because they know that she’s practically fused to it. For anyone to reach her voicemail is her ultimate lose-my-number move. No perfunctory ‘call you back!’ necessary.

So she’s out of options — oh, wait. Was it that CEO her dad had been needling at her to finally call? First: she didn’t want to, and second: he was like, forty-five. Hardly her MO. He was cute, though. Okay, assuming it was him, the message was probably a request to set up a date. Maybe she’s feeling generous enough to give one.

She picks up, phone to her ear in muted anticipation. And then the world comes to a halt at the tone.

“What the fuck?” With emphasis. And again for good measure. Her knuckles are white against her skin, phone still against her ear long after the message has played itself out into vacant noise. She wonders if life cycles are always like this; always about replaying the blood and the dirt and the pain. About burying secrets in tiny graves only for the earth to spit them back out. All this grief for something she’d left behind to rot.

Needless to say, she’s not inclined to answer.

[cataclyisms]

[cataclyisms]

In between the empty spaces, she sees him.

It’s not nearly as sentimental as it seems. He is, after all, the only figure at the bar, the seats parallel to him vacant on purpose. The way his back is arched reminds her of a wounded animal, spine bent with the weight of survival.  It’s a reminder of him at the wake; all that bark and that bite and that break. She remembers thinking that there is nothing romantic about that particular grief. The type that’s self-inflicted, a two-way knife.

And now he’s here alone. He’d kill her if she said it, but she feels fucking bad. Where they come from, they gut feelings out of you like the insides of fruit and polish the empty until it gleams. Then they look at you funny when you bleed anyway. Making machines out of men: an imperfect process. She would know; her dad had never managed it with her.

Back to the boy:

There’s probably a wealth of literature out there about how you’re not supposed to confront ticking time bombs, but to be honest she’s not big on the whole reading thing. So she goes off pure instinct: open hands, open face as she slides onto the seat on his right with ease, the ice in her glass tinkling from the maneuver. Let the change in atmosphere settle into the silence. Half of her feels whatever is just before regret — and the friends she’d left behind at their private table would swiftly agree — but she’s not in the mood for second guessing. Never been the type. So, okay, think: here she is next to a crouching tiger, and all she’s got for armor is her mom’s old Gaultier.

Light work.

“Let me guess — whiskey neat?” Airy tone to match a similarly carefree expression; from her point of view the glass is drunk clean, so really it’s a shot in the dark. “You kind of seem like the type. That or like, a martini. Bond style.” And then a big old smile, to set the mood. “Whatever it is, want another one? My treat.”

RED LIGHT — @silenthowls

[cataclyisms]

can you describe your relationship with noh hyungseo?

When she was young, she had the nervous habit of worrying at the skin near her thumbnail until it was raw, blood-red and frankly ugly. Her mom had told her in no uncertain terms that it was unsightly, and to pick up another vice, for god’s sake. Something she couldn’t see, at least. A line in-character for her mom; and to listen half-way in-character for her.

So now she scrapes at her palm, tracing her life line ad nauseam. Still red, still capable of ugly, but easy to hide away. Good enough for mom is good enough for her, she guesses. One of many faults she’s picked up faster than she can throw away. She thinks carrying too much is, ultimately, her fatal flaw.

But where can she put this all down?

“I don’t think we had one, really.” Categorically the truth — the worst thing about all of this is that she’d barely known the guy. So in line with that type of man, to keep holding onto everything the whole way down. She’d just been unlucky enough to be collateral. “I mean, like, I knew of him. Our parents were friends, maybe? Acquainted, I guess, is the better word? I saw him at, like, social events and stuff. I think my brothers probably knew him better.” Little kings-to-be and all that. Slim to no chance Hyungseo had ever considered her worthy of entering his orbit when he could’ve just gotten along with them instead.

They press her for more, as if her honest-to-god answer wasn’t good enough.  “I really don’t know what to tell you,” she says, exasperation leaking like light through a curtain. “We had that relationship where we were like, friends of friends. I wasn’t really interested in getting to know him more. Like I said, he probably knew my brothers, and to be honest that was kind of a turn-off.”

when was the last time you saw or spoke with him?

“At the resort, I guess. I got in pretty late, so maybe in the evening?” The uncertainty in her voice is not completely manufactured; even after hours of introspection she was hard-pressed to remember the last time she’d really taken notice of the guy. What a wound to his ego — if he was still alive. “I saw him walking around at some point with his, like, group of friends or whatever. I didn’t say hi — like I said, I didn’t really know him.”

“I’m sorry,” it’s sincere. Ish. “I really can’t give you a time. It was almost dark when I got to the hotel, that I remember.”

were you aware of any threats or hostile behavior directed towards noh hyungseo?

Broken records, echolalia — whatever the phrase is. Look, this is the fact of the matter: she didn’t really give a fuck. About him, about anything. Last thing she’s gonna do is get into the root of it here, four walls and placid cleanliness. Not when it’s more than just dirt underneath her nails. Not very old-money to talk about feelings; that, at least, is a lesson she’s learned well from her father.

A pause, the pretense of recollection. “No,” is what she comes up with after the silence. “Like, okay, I don’t think he was a nice guy; he kind of seemed like an asshole, to be honest. I’m sure there were people that didn’t like him, but I can’t think of anyone that hated him enough to… to kill him.”

Another fact of the matter: Icarus flew too close to the sun. People will call him a fool without ever understanding how he felt when he took off. The rush of the flight, the hands so close to triumph. She thinks she can understand Hyungseo in this; to jump headfirst for the promise of coming out to more on the other side. Tragedies have been made out of less.

[cataclyisms]

Out the window, December is in full bloom: ink-black by half five and the city lights warm against the expanse, the scarf on the chair a reminder of the biting cold she’d left at the door. By the window she sits with a boy, pretty from every angle and the picture of attentivity. Even the lamplight is strangely sentimental — romantic, even — if not for that one thing.

The thing: her date with the police tomorrow. Better a rendezvous with the devil; that would be an easier pill to swallow. Luckily for her Seunghan is all things clever, twice as handsome, and evidently sympathetic to her barefaced pleas for assistance. She’d be hard-pressed to find anyone so willing to incriminate themselves in someone else’s crime (though to be fair he’d been scheduled for one as well, and she was a big believer in collaborative effort). And, okay, sure, a little bit of it was because she wanted to spend time with him. A little.

Probably not the best thing to say to this very nice boy who was helping her out. A bit too forward, maybe. Totally not her style anymore.

They’ve run through a generic list of questions already, him bouncing them off to her at light speed in likely a far more lenient imitation of the real interview. It’s the rush that gets her, the thoughts too fast for her tongue, the nerves taking over and causing her to short-circuit. Mid-(fake)interrogation she feels her throat closing after stumbling over too many words and has to signal to stop. Track record so far: not great.

“I’m nervous.” Let it go unsaid that in part it’s because of him. Fuck her, she’s never been great at hiding her heart, sleeve notwithstanding. “I— ugh.” Her hands twist as if to expel her anxiety, the only thing to show for her effort being the crescent shaped indents on her palms. In a huff she sinks further into the sofa, head lolling over the backrest as she looks over at Seunghan. “This is really hard.”

As if the detectives would make it easy. Be a big girl, Soojung.

“Can we try again?” And, in a moment of levity, a smile and a tease. “Be a little nicer this time.”

MAGNETIC — @5threquiem

[pityroad]

— from Little Weirds, Jenny Slate

[cataclyisms]

SEUNGHAN —

“soojung,” there are years between them and twice the amount of hurt, so suppose it is only right that he breathes her name like a prayer. like something worth hurting for. “are you okay?” seunghan steps cautiously forward, hand reaching for her. “if you want to leave, i’ll take you home.” hear the final plea. please.

At times she thinks she is a glutton for punishment. At times she thinks that she thinks too much. These are not mutually exclusive; in fact, they are often partners in her crime. See here: that feeling, the one she gets when he reaches out for her, palm to the ceiling, gentle like a lion before the leap. All soft face and eyes, all comfort and a home she’s never felt before. As if he isn’t her undoing, a learned lesson in self-annihilation. Reaching out to touch him would be like sinking a knife between her ribcage, and she knows this.

A part of her would do it anyway. This she knows, too.

Don’t —

The word catches in her throat. Or she bites it back, teeth catching the inside of her bottom lip, gnawing. She’s thought about this moment sometimes, in the hours between sleep and the morning. Would she yell? Would she be angry? Would she be empty?

(Answer: none of the above.)

Really, she’d known it’d be this way, if only because they’d always been this way. A one-sided affair; a lover and an executioner. Here she is, hands full, raw feeling pooling on the floor; and there he stands, closed to receive. They’d never fit from the beginning. She was only the last to know.

But still, his hand. The way he says her name.

She blinks, two, three. Be calm, beating heart. Honestly, he may think that he knows her, but it’s been years — she’s made sure of that. He doesn’t get to pretend that this time’s the same. Doesn’t get to pretend that this time she’s the same. She owes herself that much. So even when her eyes shine and her knuckles are white she looks extremely bravely at his chin as she says, “You didn’t have to follow me. I don’t need this — this whatever this is.”

Her arms wrap around herself. Protective cocoon. The drumming in her chest reaches her ears. “You don’t have to pretend you care, you know.” Timidly, she steps a wide berth around him, just to ensure that she doesn’t smell his fucking cologne — he probably still wears her favorite one, the jerk. “I thought we were both past pretending.” Him, that he ever gave a damn. Her, that he would be different.

A small miscalculation: she looks into his eyes. Her courage falters and her hands go slack. She almost says she’s sorry, even though she doesn’t really know why.

Then she thinks about how the back of his head had looked like when he left her behind and steps out of the room.

[cataclyisms]

SOWON —

"you know," she says flicking ash off of the end of her cigarette before sighing, "i thought the family vacation i went on when i was 12 where my grandma had a heart attack was bad but, honestly this little weekend get away might be the worst holiday i've ever been on."

The comment evokes a recollection unbidden; fragments of nights in like homes, similar spaces. In her mind’s eye she’s young again, attended to by her weary nanny or locked in with the other kids in a makeshift playroom while their parents made nice in fancy dinner rooms parallel to this one’s. Not nostalgia, really — there’s no sentimentality to be found in her time as an afterthought. More like the feeling that history repeats. Point being: hardly a holiday.

“Well it’s not over yet, Sowon,” a too-bright smile and an overly effusive tone, her go-to when she’s being inappropriately cheeky. Sowon’s used to it by now, she’s sure. In the last few years alone they’d drunk each other under the table more than either of them likely care to remember, a strange bond forged between one pour and the next. Sowon knows the impudence that comes with the slow burn of tipsiness; knows it rises up after the first two drinks only to give way by the fifth. Right now, Soojung’s on three; well on her way to oblivion. “Maybe we’re getting a round two and he’ll be in one of the tubs.”

The thought is sobering, three drinks aside.

Realistically, he couldn’t have been saved. She knows this; she’s looked it up, turned the thought over in her head like a stone. Over, and over, and over. It doesn’t stop her from thinking: maybe? What if?

As her dad would say: a useless thought only finds a home in a brain that resembles it. More fool her for hoping things could be different.

“You thinking about just getting the fuck out of here?” Like she was sorely tempted to; like she should, actually. As if she doesn’t have her driver on speed dial and the audacity to strongarm her way onto the first chartered jet out of here. “I could probably have you come with me, if you wanted.”

Not like there’s anything here worth staying for, anyway.

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