The distracted man lights his
cigarette. He drops her hand and pulls his hair back with
a fast jerk of the neck; he covers the flame. She walks on
talking. She’s thinking of her problems, and he, his burnt
hand. He had touched the flame on accident.
He towers above her. He’s tall, good-looking, if not a
bit thin. His hair is scruffy and long. Her
shortness makes him laugh. He grabs her hand again.
The distracted man takes the cigarette out with his other hand
and lets out smoke.
She doesn’t notice the smoke. Her thoughts are of
comfort—he is holding her hand. He must like her.
Where they are going doesn’t matter; they are together. He
never looks straight into her eyes when they talk. He
looks astray, as if he’s talking to others. She is not
bothered it. She finds it strange, though.
They step into a coffee shop. He talks real fast.
“Isn’t this place great?” he asked. They listen to the
fast beating pop music. The distracted man lights another
cigarette. “What do you want to order?”
“What’s good here?” she asks with
affection. “It’s a coffee shop, dummy.
Drink coffee or green tea or orange juice,” he reproaches
her. They both order coffee. He talks
above her again. “Yesterday, I met my buddy
again and we played pool till early morning. It was fun.”
He doesn’t like looking into her eyes.
She asks what he did after that but he can’t be bothered to
answer. She silently holds her expressions and wonders why
he doesn’t answer him. She’s always considered herself a
strong girl but feels weak in his presence. When she was
young she once told her friends she would never be in an unequal
relationship. A strong woman she would become, she
thought. Now, she doesn’t know what to make of her
predicament. She looks at his hand.
The distracted man is tapping, tapping, and tapping his
fingers on the table to the melody. “Why do I waste my
time?” he thinks to himself. This isn’t really that
interesting. I feel no warmth in my fingers when I hold
her hand. Why is honesty so hard for me? I remember
my mother once told me that a cold heart makes a cold man.
Why did she tell me that story?
II.
The distracted man stands on the balcony with his circle of
co-workers. As he smokes, he looks off in the distance at
the trees.
“How was your weekend?” his friend interrupts his
thoughts. “Cool?” he laughs. “I met Jina
and we had coffee and talked a lot.” “I thought
you don’t like that girl?” his friend asked insinuatingly.
“Oh, well…”the distracted man laughs again.
He hates being cornered on matters he’d rather not
think about. The truth is he doesn’t know why he meets
her. She’s short and far less attractive than his
expectations. Her way of talking is an uninteresting as
her hairstyle. Nonetheless, the amount of effort it takes
to meet new girlfriends tires him. He grabs another
cigarette. His friend bangs his shoulder with his elbow
and moves on back to work. No reason to continuing
hassling someone.
Jina is at her favorite coffee shop. Her squeaking
voice rises and falls. Her friends giggle and raise their
voices. The pop music drowns out their laughter.
"Wow! How wonderful! And then he grabbed your
hand! Terrific! Going great! You two will be
married before long," the friends continued on. Jina is
quite thrilled, really. When's the last time she felt such
love? Ah, yes, her first boyfriend in the sixth
grade. He'd given her some chocolates--well, not to her
specifically, but the whole group of friends. But she felt
it was directed at her. "Yes, so we talked about pop
stars. He really likes nightclubs, too. I don't
really see what the fascination is. But I guess it's nice
to be around the music, lights, and lots of friends. Isn't
he so handsome, though?" Jina's friends roll their eyes,
and shake their heads. They are joking, though, for he is
quite handsome. Jina secretly sighs. Something is
not right.
III.
The time passes in this way for many months. They meet
weekly and laugh and walk and drink coffee. If they get
drunk, they slept together. Jina, nervous and innocent,
never fully releases her tension. She can't have an
orgasm. The distracted man thinks of smoking his cigarette
during sex. Sex is rough and not enjoyable for
either. They both desire love so badly that they are
blinded by their want. The distracted man thinks of a
story his father once told him: It's better to be sexually
starved for years than to pretend to love. He stands up
and stares at his naked body in the mirror. Jina calls his
name, but he turns so he can't see her face in the mirror.
Her small chest irks him. He's bothered by his
insecurities.
Jina watches him get dressed. The silence is
oppressive. So, this is how her mother felt. She
visualizes her mother's face--that face of pain Jina saw so
often when she was young. Mother always covered her face
in her hands and cried after that sad face. But wasn't it
supposed to be different this time? Haven't we
changed? Aren't we more mature and educated then our
parent's generation? What has modernity brought me?
The distracted man closes the door. Jina is chocked up;
she giggles as warm tears slide down her cheek. She's
never smoked before, but she grabs a cigarette. It tastes
salty but pleasant.
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