I had managed to get her to hobble most of the way before she projectile-vomited into a bush along the sidewalk. I held her hair up and drummed her back, chanting let it out, that’s it, let it all out as she gagged. When I glanced up, I could see the vanilla-hued light emanating from her apartment window. I thought I saw a figure sweep across the frame once or twice.
“Is your mom gonna kill me?”
“No,” she groaned between hurls. “She likes you too much.”
“That’s good.” More vomiting. “That’s good to know.”
I had always felt uncomfortable around her mom. She was a breathlessly ambitious, fiercely headstrong, violently loving ajumma. Her hair was (dyed) jet black, with strands that constantly wove and flickered behind her as though her head was on fire. She paced everywhere she went –– fists balled, elbows angled, chest dignified –– destined to get to her next mundane destination no matter the imaginary odds. She always greeted me with hugs and kisses, but the way mafiosos do in the movies before they ice each other. And she always called me Dongwon-a, in a tone I thought belonged exclusively to my own mother.
Every so often, she’d ask me, in Korean: Why can’t Yubin find a boyfriend? What’s wrong? Is it her looks? She can’t be ugly, not when she looks just like me! I’d laugh politely and say I don’t know, knowing full-well Yubin had multiple boyfriends all throughout high school, none lasting more than a few months. Sometimes, Yubin’s mom would grin and whisper oh well in response, her eyes pinched into overcompensating creases. I’d imagine she could hear the lie in my voice, gliding away with some guilty part of me I could never steal back.
When Yubin had flushed out all her dinner and soju, we slumped onto a nearby bench. The seat was still damp from the rain earlier that day, but we sat anyway as the cold droplets seeped into our backs.
“I gotta get you home, Yubin.”
She nodded her head with her whole body, before leaning her temple onto my shoulder. I could smell the alcohol steaming from her boiling cheeks, her eyes opening and closing like the wings of a lazy butterfly. I could feel her heartbeat rattling against her slim frame, each exhale sounding more like a sigh than a breath. She lifted her hand and waved it blindly in the air, her fingers searching for the Gatorade bottle I had gotten for her. I gently placed it into her hand, which she drowsily accepted and tilted into her lips. She ignored the loose beads rolling down her chin until I swiped them away with my palm.
And for a long while after, we sat in silence, admiring the stillness a city like Seoul could offer at midnight.
Across the street, the last train had already rolled away. The sounds of its jittering faded into the low hum of distant car engines. A straggler wandered somberly out of the station, tie loosened and suitcase barely hooked to his fingers. The empty station glowed, like a dying candle.
The sidewalk was sleek with puddles of flattened leaves, printed onto the wet surface of the jagged stone pavement. Like the temporary tattoos we used to paste on our shoulders. Like the paper towels we used to blotch with dirty watercolor.
Every now and then a strong breeze would roll in. The trees would shiver. The leaves would sizzle. And metallic sheets of foliage would brush against each other as they sailed back down to earth.
And then we’d breathe in unison. Our chests rising and falling on the same half notes. Until one of us would delay. Miss a beat. Miss a call.
And we would be ourselves again.
“Should I break up with my boyfriend?” Her voice pierced the air, loud.
“I don’t know. I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do.”
“I don’t know anything about him.”
Her eyes meandered ahead, perpendicular to the direction of mine.
“He’s nice. He’s a decent guy. He studies. He doesn’t drink, not a lot, doesn’t smoke. Not too handsome, but not gross. Went after me a couple times before, and I rejected him.”
“Why?”
“Too much to think about, too much to handle. But eventually I figured, why not? Mom told me to date around — can you believe that? Told me I had to date men to know men.”
“You think she’s right?”
“I think she’s not wrong. I trust her, you know. Even when I say I hate her, I trust her.” She took a sip out of her Gatorade. “He’s a decent guy, though. If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be dating him.”
“But do you like him?”
“I don’t know. I think I did. He got me food, drinks. Helped me with my homework. Spent a lot of time with me. I think you grow to like someone who does that, right?” She teetered on her words. “But I don’t know if I care about him. Not like he cares about me.”
She was quiet for a while, and her eyes averted to her shoes.
“And I don’t need that. I don’t need to feel sorry about him, about ghosting him or hanging around other boys or taking his gifts or borrowing his clothes.”
“But you do feel sorry?”
“I do.”
“And you don’t think this’ll go anywhere?”
She shook her head slowly.
“This always happens to me, you know.” She picked at a loose fiber of plastic on the lid of her bottle. “They never last. I can’t get myself to like someone for that long. Let alone love. And we’re adults now. Shit like this matters. My next partner is either my fiancée or my ex. Same for you.”
She allowed an ephemeral smile.
“So should I break up with my boyfriend?”
“You’re serious?”
“So serious.”
She sat facing me. My pupils desperately searched the ridges of her contact lenses. Hers rested comfortably on my irises.
“I feel like there’s a right answer.”
“You always do.”
I took too much time to reply. I know this because I was beginning to notice just how raw the bench felt and just how bright the moon loomed.
“Yes.”
She continued staring at me, almost as if she hadn’t heard me.
“Okay. Then I’ll do that.”
When it became too chilly, we got up. By then, the lights in her apartment were off. I walked with her up the stairs to the second floor. I walked with her to her door at the end of the hall. She hugged me, punched in her door code, gently lifted the door open, and slipped away. I listened to her footsteps disappear.
And then I walked home, a half-empty bottle of Gatorade dangling between my fingers.
