Work Text:
I am: her espresso machine.
You didn’t even drink coffee. You bought me for her.
-.-.-
I am: her prescription glasses.
My owner—her—wore me only in private. Last month she even had the prescription for her astigmatism adjusted. At home, she almost always wore me. A proof: I’d been everywhere in this house but the bathroom.
Three days ago, she helped you pack for your flight back to Seoul. You thanked her by plucking me off and kissing her. You tugged her up and you went to bed together. I was forgotten inside your suitcase. The next day, once you landed in Incheon, you found that she’d been trying to call you many times. I think my glasses were in your suitcase, one of her voice messages said.
You found me. You held me with both hands. You called her back.
You’re right. It’s here.
Oh well. I guess you’ll have to take care of it for me, then.
You smiled at the sound of her chuckle. I can send it to you?
No, don’t. Don’t wanna risk breaking it. Just bring it next time we meet, yeah?
Okay. ‘Til next time? I miss you already.
You took care of me for three months. You returned me when you returned to her.
-.-.-
I am: her left loafer.
You met me on your second day in her farmhouse. The house was old (built in 1890), sequestered (somewhere between Meaford and Owen Sound), and far (two and a half hours from her parents’ house). She’d bought the house last year, spent half a year to have half of it torn down and restructured into a large, undivided room with high ceiling and tall windows—her favorite. You could see Georgian Bay from the roof and, if the weather were clear, neighboring vineyards. You didn’t really like the house, but I didn’t care about what you thought. She’s in love with it, and that’s all that mattered. She even planned to remodel the barn next year.
You put your sandals next to me on the shoe rack in the verandah. See, they were brand new. Still smelled of the duty free store. Still shiny. She told you they looked cute on your dainty feet. Because my mate and I were well-mannered, we welcomed your sandals. Like owner, like footwear. Your right sandal was haughty. So annoying. What a prick. Remember you were a guest here.
When the night fell, in the dark a wild raccoon stole your left sandal. I wanted to scream. I wanted to call her or you. I didn’t want you to think I was discourteous. Came morning, you turned into a tornado in search of your left sandal. I know you wouldn’t find it once the forest around the house or the pond at the back claimed it.
You were upset. You were angry at the house, I know. You wanted to dislike the house so you didn’t have to dislike her. She helped you look for your missing sandal, but even that wasn’t enough for you. Why are you so calm? This isn’t be the first time, is it? Of course. A house this big, Seungwan. Of course things are bound to disappear.
Oh if only you knew. Even I once got lost, kicked and left under the car for a whole night when she ran in a hurry to the house to avoid the rain. Nail clipper hid between the couch. Her pen found home in one of the kitchen drawers. Her car key loved the warmth of the laundry room. Sometimes her socks stayed behind in the far back of the walking closet. They loved teasing her because they loved her. Unlike you, I guess.
I just want my sandal back, okay. I don’t care how. How am I suppose to wear only one sandal? It’s called a pair of sandals for a reason. There must be two.
She didn’t respond to your rant. Not at all. And your left sandal was never found.
Three days later, just as you both returned from the beach, a package arrived. Neatly wrapped, ribboned, and in your favorite color. She gave the box to you. The store didn’t have this type stocked, so they gotta reorder. Sorry it took this long, she said.
Inside was the same pair of sandals you had.
I wanted to roll my eyes when you, wordlessly, put down the gift box and went to hug her. You sat on her lap for a long time, my god, woman. You both talked in a low voice. You apologized to her, and she said she’d hope it wouldn’t make you hate her house. You promised you’d try. I disliked you less by then, I think.
-.-.-
I am: her tax return report folder.
We didn’t meet often, did we? Just once a year. She had to file two reports each year, one less than you had to. Most of the time, she just left it to her tax consultant or to her father. That year, though, she wanted to take a look at it before her father took over.
You couldn’t find her when you woke up from your nap, because she’d been pouring over me for the last hour. The side of the bed that was hers was empty and cold. You went out, and you found us in the living room. She had her laptop in the middle of the coffee table, paper forms all over the rest.
Eonnie, you remember last year’s joint donation we made to the Chest Society of Korea?
Why? Any issues with that?
I think they left all the tax cut on me instead of splitting it evenly. She shifted her laptop’s screen to you. You hovered over her, hands on the backrest of the sofa, chin on the crown of her head.
Oh. Well. I guess I should ask my consultant, then.
Yeah. I’ll ask Appa, too.
The number doesn’t bother me, though.
Just wanna keep it fair, eonnie. I get a tax cut from my donation, and you get a tax cut from yours. Not that I mind filing a joint tax with you, of course. I’d love to. One day.
You kissed her hair and straightened up. I’m gonna make some tea. Hibiscus for you?
Mm. Thank you.
She too left the table five minutes later. I stayed on the table for the rest of the evening and night. You both only came back to me in the morning, your head on her shoulder while she talked to her father on the phone.
-.-.-
I am: a store counter in Little Tokyo, Toronto.
To you she had become a series of truncates:
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eyelashes—pale, more, most pale,
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white—fingers, teeth, space,
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tongue,
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mango,
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good for kissing, best for kissing,
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most darling.
Lips.
You swallowed and wished, ridiculous as it was, you were a Pocky stick.
-.-.-
I am: Happiness.
I know your name.
-.-.-