Work Text:
I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
-First stanza, Sudden Lights (1863) by Dante Gabriel Rosetti-
Jang Uk hates rainy days. The stinky smell of a wet dog’s fur. Squishy sneakers. Wet pavements. Drains filled up with rainwater, twigs and dried leaves. Fat teardrops from the sky drenching his jacket at the shoulders, the spot where his umbrella fails to reach. Wading his way through the sea of waterproof hoodies and nondescript umbrellas dotting the city streets. People busy seeking refuge from the grieving sky. He cracks open his black umbrella, shielding himself against the water bomb as it explodes; a skeleton flower blooms on the canopy, a talisman protecting him from the careless rain.
On rainy days like this, people pretend to care more; asking him how he is doing, knowing all the while that he could never say out loud how he really feels. He has a decent job. A roof over his head. He has no reasons to complain or to even say what he really feels; shitty as hell.
So he plasters on what he hopes come across as a believable smile and mutters “I’m doing great, thanks for asking.”
People could afford to be more forgiving if you feel shitty when you’re jobless or in between homes. If you lost your family or if you’ve just broken up with someone. But if you seem to have pretty much the basics covered, you’d feel guilty for even feeling shitty.
Working as a copywriter, he has written pretty much everything. Print ads about vacuum cleaners. The kind that could suck the dust from every hidden corner of your house (and your soul) if you let it.
Catalogues about luxury condominiums. Steel-glass dome, gated residence and touch card system. Electronic doorknob and automatic locks. The kind that rises from the ground like the beanstalk heading for the giant’s house in the sky.
Tributes to missing children—the ones who were lost as far back as twenty, thirty years ago and were never found. The ones whose elderly parents and grown-up siblings could never forget and let go of.
He writes obituaries too sometimes, crafting ghostly memories of people he never knew when their loved ones were too consumed by grief to write it themselves. He wonders who will write his.
But what he really wants to do is to write stories; craft another person, another world, another reality, another timeline. The kind of worlds where one would want to disappear into. The kind of world that comforts people; words and lines hugging them tight, like long-lost lovers who just met again. He wants to fill the empty pages with scenes and descriptions that are familiar, although written by a faceless stranger. The kind of stories that remind people they are not alone in this world. That there are others like them, living somewhere else reading the same story, thinking the same thoughts and going through the same motions. Like the many worlds he jumped into once and never climbed out from again.
Growing up in an orphanage, books were the only real friends he had—well, aside from Park Dang Gu, his best friend and perhaps his only friend in this world. Unlike people, books won’t betray his trust or tell him lies. Unlike people, books don’t leave him. Books don’t sell him broken promises and unavoidable regrets. The many stories and characters he knew remained by his side when people walked into and then out of his life. But Dang Gu disappeared a couple years back, trying to conquer another mountain top. Some said he fell from the mountain and his broken body was never found. Some said he probably changed his identity after getting embroiled with some notorious loan sharks down in Daegu. Some said he probably migrated to Nevada. Why Nevada, only Dang Gu knows. But no one really knows what happened to him. Jang Uk has accepted the fact that Dang Gu is now gone from his world and that’s that. He misses him, but he also knows Dang Gu might never return.
Damn you, Dang Gu. Not even a word of goodbye, huh, old friend?
The rain continues, staccato beats on rooftops. Water pooling at his feet. Wet skin and damp hair. Gasoline dripping into puddles, vomiting rainbow lines, zig zaggy. The dampness eating its way into his soul, choking him in waves. He struggles to keep his head above water. He flails. He kicks. He drowns, limbs heavy with lead. Countless nights he dreams of throwing himself into the winter sea, letting the waves fold him into their depths and he would
sink,
sink,
sink…
until he becomes an empty seashell on the seabed. The kind that rides on multiple waves and brushes up to shore occasionally, but never stays on the beach long enough to be picked up by anyone. The kind that gets thrown back into the sea because it is imperfect. The kind that gets left behind because its edges are too rough, too sharp, too dangerous to be turned into a memorable trinket. The seashell that waits for the waves to come and take it away again.
That evening, he decides to skip the after-work party, excusing himself with an upset stomach. His co-workers cajoled him to join them, at least for a round of soju and some more. But he declined; I’m good, thank you. He is not really in the mood to get drunk. Instead, he finds a corner table at one of the older looking coffeeshops, the kind that looks a bit run down, like it was opened since the 1980s, the kind that serves good coffee to longtime customers.
Rainy nights like this make him think of Fluffy, the calico cat he brought home once. He found her hiding under a bush, shivering from the cold and mewing for dear life. Seventeen months later, he buried her underneath a balsam tree one rainy night. His small furry friend. The last couple of months were the hardest, he kept her next to his bed, fed her her meds and took her to the vet a couple of days a week. He used to complain about his ruined jeans—the ones she clawed at when climbing up his leg. About her fur sticking to his sheets—the ones that never washed off completely, despite numerous washes. Only after he lost her did he realise that all she was trying to do was to keep him company, her small body purring softly beside him as he sleeps. The night he buried her, he couldn’t tell whether his cheeks were damp from the rain or from his own tears. A spider climbed his windpipe, blocking his air. Dang Gu delivered the eulogy; To Fluffy, who lived a good life and made Ukkie smile.
Damn you, Dang Gu. He misses him too, on rainy nights like this.
“Your drink.” The owner places a cup of ssanghwa tea in front of him.
His brows knitted in confusion. “But I haven’t ordered yet.”
“You look like you could use a cup of tea.” Then she leaves, disappearing behind the counter. He tries to catch her attention, wanting to order a cup of coffee instead. But she ignores him or pretends not to see him waving his hand at her.
After a while, he gives up and stares into the cup, watching the raw egg yolk and jujube slices floating atop the herbal tea. Guess you’re stuck with me, buddy.
The small bell above the entrance chimes, signaling the arrival of a new customer. Curious, he glances over and sees her then, water dripping down to her toes. Barefoot, her heels hang by her fingers. The heels look brand new—he wonders if it was her first time wearing them. She doesn’t appear to be the heels-wearing type of woman. She is more suited for ballerina flats or Canvas sneakers; the ones she can easily run in. The ones easier to take off on a beach. The kind of shoes that she wouldn’t mind leaving sprawled out on the sand as she sprints into the winter sea.
His ears perk up, trying to catch some sheepish apology for walking into the coffee shop wet as she is. But he hears nothing of the sort. In fact, she doesn’t look apologetic at all.
He continues to watch as she settles into a highchair a few seats away, the one facing the clear glass window. Lacing her fingers together, she rests her jaw atop them and stares out at the screaming sky, a half-smile lighting up her face as thunder rumbles from above. Her pale-yellow blouse clings to her body, her soaked silhouette visible in the dim lights of the café.
She is sunshine in love with the rain. He thinks, How interesting.
Raising the steaming cup to his lips, his eyes linger on her a bit longer than they should. The hot liquid scalds his tongue and he winces, as something tugs at his little finger; an invisible string pulled tautly.
Cho Yeong welcomes rainy nights like this. Raindrops falling on her head, washing all her troubles and worries away. The smell of wet grass after the rain; acute and earthy. Petrichor. Water drenching her shoes and wetting her toes. The squishy sound of wet rubber hitting the slick pavement. Raindrops pelting her like stones, jolting her dead soul back to life.
She enjoys the empty streets, as people run to seek shelter elsewhere or remain indoors, curled up under warm covers as the sky continues to cry. She would dance on the wet pavement, her clothes clinging to her like a second skin, her jeans heavy with fluid. Moisture hanging on to her every cell, wetting every inch of her skin. She feels reborn, anew. The sky weeps harder, the storm clouds gather closer, and her smile grows wider. She feels invisible as the rain turns her world into a winter sea.
Once, she plucked a stray piece of newspaper from the road—it was drenched to every line of words and crumbled into half a dozen pieces, each alphabet hitting the asphalt like fallen music notes. The way that newspaper could disintegrate into pieces of wet tissue—that’s how she feels when she stands in the rain, all the heaviness tugging her down fading into the background, muted without a sound. Only the tap tap tap of the raindrop remains, reminding her that time is flowing and the earth is rotating.
She avoids water parks in the summer when the pool is so full that you’ll likely end up bumping into another person after every few steps. Loud music blasting through giant speakers, the bass so strong you’ll feel the beat even when submerged underwater. Water bombs raining chlorine upon her skin. Neon-coloured swimsuits and deep tans. She avoids the beach for the same reason.
Instead, she goes for long walks on the pier and settles at the far edge, her back resting against the lighthouse, staring out at the small boats bobbing softly on the water. Up and down, up and down.
Up.
And,
down.
She would throw salted peanuts into the air and try to catch them with her mouth before the seagulls snatch them away. How she envies the seagulls of their freedom, riding on the wind effortlessly while she fights against it.
Sometimes she would sit in one of those clear glass cafés facing the sea and watches as young couples frolic on the sand and kids compete against themselves, building sandcastles. Leisurely, she sips on an orange ade, bidding her time as the waves roll deeper against the shore, destroying the temporary peace and imaginary forts.
She swims in the sea often during winter, the cold water shocking her entire system and numbing her senses. She emerges from the freezing water refreshed and fully alive. Sometimes she would head to the pool during rainy days, floating in the lukewarm pool as raindrops hit the water’s surface like bullets from a machine gun.
She is happier when there is no one around. Working in event management has taken its toll on her. An introvert working in a people-oriented field is not what one would call a good match, but a job is a job. It pays the bill and put food on her table. As long as she could get away once in a while when the job ends, she figures she’ll be fine. Donning her sunglasses and music blasting into her ears, she takes her annual leave and boards that flight back to Jeju Island. Looking out from the window seat, she breathes easier as the flight ascends, taking her further and further away from the city.
Away.
She has lived in Jeju for half of her life. Her maternal grandmother offered to take care of her after her parent parted ways and both started anew without a child in tow. Her mother has remarried since then, she sees her once a year on Lunar New Year’s Day, dutifully slurping at rice cake soup and praising her mother’s cooking. Then she would make some lame excuse about having to leave early to meet up with friends at a bar. She hugs her mother before leaving; goodbye mum, see you next year. She recycles the same excuse every year and her mother never asks her to stay longer than necessary.
Her dad, she hasn’t heard from him for quite a while, but there is nothing unusual about it, so she shrugs it off. He’ll re-appear again, sooner or later. He always does.
Then she would head home and order food, rewatch the Grave of Fireflies and cry her heart out. She falls asleep on the couch, empty bottles of Yakult lying on the floor. Her mum would call her the next day to check if she got home safe and she’d lie through her teeth; Yes, I did.
She misses her grandmother on rainy nights like this. She makes a mean seafood pancake, the kind that she likes best; crusty at the edges and yet moist in the center. Slightly charred with that bitter taste of charcoal. Perhaps she’ll take that annual leave that she keeps postponing, packs her luggage and buy that overdue flight ticket, fly out to Jeju to see her again one of these days.
Perhaps,
Perhaps…
Perhaps.
She stops dancing and notices the café. There was nothing Instagram-worthy about it, unlike the hundreds of cute-looking cafes that littered the city of late, the ones with various themes and pretty-looking cakes too precious to eat, but those things don’t really matter to her. She doesn’t do Instagram anyway. She tried that app once. A year later, she decided she’d be better off without it and deleted it from her phone. She breathes easier without it.
She could feel their eyes on her the moment she entered the cafe. She was used to curious stares like that. She couldn’t really blame them for doing so, particularly not when she walks around barefoot in the rain. There were only three people in the café—the owner waiting behind the counter, another customer seated at a booth, and someone who shouldn’t be there.
She chooses one of the window seats, the one with a highchair meant for a single patron like her. As she settles into her seat, she could sense those eyes gradually leaving her, except for one. He pretends to nurse after his drink and she wonders what it was that he was having.
The cafe owner appears beside her before she could find the answer.
“Would you like some ssanghwa tea, miss?” She asks.
I—yes. One ssanghwa tea, please. She wanted to say, but she finds herself nodding instead, those words blocked from leaving her mouth. Behind the owner, the one who shouldn’t be there cracks a friendly smile. She pretends not to see him.
Soon, her drink arrives. She leans into it, landing her elbows on top of the faded yellow Formica tabletop. She inhales the aromatic fragrance rising along with the steam and savours the nutty smell of pine nuts littering atop the black tea.
Sipping the slightly bitter flavour, she feels a pair of eyes burning into her still, the intensity growing heavier with each passing second, the weight of his stare landing against her like the waves carrying her further and further away from shore as she floats in the sea during winter.
Without a warning, she turns her head, and his eyes widen a bit at the sudden confrontation. Sheepishly, he tears his gaze away, avoiding a direct showdown. He fidgets with his drink, continuously stirring it with a spoon.
Now is her turn to appraise him. She notices the damp hair in need of a haircut or two and the wet spots on his right shoulder, guessing he must be left-handed as his umbrella clearly favors his left side. He is dressed in an all-black ensemble, dark coat upon a black top, as if he wishes to blend into the night unnoticed.
He is a missing raindrop, she thought. The one that fell too far from the storm clouds. Still studying him, she lifts the cup to her lips again and she feels it then, a slight tug at her small finger.
“You sure about this? Those two?” She asks the young man once again.
“Yes.” He replies, grinning.
“Friends of yours? Don’t look like they know each other.”
“I knew him. Never met her, though. Or have I? Hmm…maybe a long time ago, maybe in another world.”
“Then why meddle with the affairs of the living—you have too much free time now?”
“Ouch, you just have to burst my bubble like that, don’t you?”
“Just saying. And I have no time to play matchmaker—I have a business to run.”
“Ahjumma, you do realise that doing what you do best would probably bring you more money than running this…this sorry excuse of a coffeeshop?”
She slaps his back, but her hand goes through thin air. He couldn’t help but chuckle at that.
“And deal with the likes of you all the time? No, thanks. I would rather make a hundred cups of ssanghwa tea and give them away for free. Anyway, I’ve done as you asked.”
“I know, thank you.” He whispers, ghostly breath against her ear.
She wipes the chill away. They’re always ice-cold, even with the heater on at full blast. She could never get used to them. But she couldn’t turn this one away either, so she lets him in and complies with his absurd request. Perhaps he has a point, she thinks, as she observes the two strangers stealing glances at each other. Lovebirds, huh?
You have been mine before,—
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
-Second stanza, Sudden Lights (1863) by Dante Gabriel Rosetti-