Chapter 8

New York City, USA 1844

            The second time the Circus stopped in the States for a show, Seulgi relished in the skewed accents and watered-down tea, opting to drown herself in the life of a commoner before the sun fell.  The sky seemed to always be grey in the town of New York City.  Whether that was a feat of the clouds, or the billowing smog coming from the factories, she didn’t know.  Yet there was a beauty in the atmosphere of the American city that stole her attention all those years ago when she first came.  She found aspects of herself in the melancholy air that hovered over a bustling city with indescribable potential.

It was late fall when they arrived.  Seulgi stood amongst the crowd, tentatively taking a bite of her beans and corn, which she had purchased from a stand down the road.  It was bland.

            “It came out of nowhere,” a man muttered.  He, like many of the men in the crowd, had his chin tucked into the rough collars of his shirt, and kept his head low.  Seulgi followed in suit.

            A young child at her foot tugged at his mother’s soot-covered apron and pointed, “What does it say?”

            That same man addressed the boy in a tone too patronizing to be friendly, “It’s French.”

            Seulgi slipped away with a crooked smile before the talk became too political.

            “You’re late.”

            Seulgi smiled, “That surely can’t compare to the nights I stayed up waiting for you to turn up, Irene.”

            That provoked a laugh, along with some kind of witty French phrase, and Seulgi found herself grinning along before a waiter placed a steaming plate of beans in front of her.  “You ordered for me?”

            Irene nodded, whispering a quick thank-you to the waiter before returning her undivided attention to Seulgi.  “There isn’t much of a selection here.  You could have some of my pork, if you would like.”

            Seulgi slipped off her white gloves after seeing Irene’s lying on the table next to her plate.  They were tattered and dirtied, as usual.  Seulgi found herself wondering why Irene’s gown was never dirty, but only her gloves.  The question was too trivial to ask. 

            “Here.”

            Seulgi looked up to see Irene’s outstretched arm, and a piece of meticulously cut pork grazing the dip of her lip.  She smiled, “You’re being uncharacteristically generous today.”

            Irene huffed, taking the fork back, “In the four years I’ve known a shy facet of you, you’re being incredibly sharp-tongued, aren’t you?”

            “I only learned from the best,” Seulgi winked.  She didn’t miss Irene’s sharp intake of breath as she reached across the table to take her fisted hand within her own.  She pulled Irene’s hand closer before taking the (now cold) piece of pork into .  “Thank you.”

            She was certain Irene could hear the hammering of her heart in the quiet dinner that followed.

            “Are you alright, Wendy?”

            Wendy was the ringleader of the largest tent on the grounds, and had joined two months after Seulgi made the decision