My heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the first door, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once, but fortunately not sprawling on to the immaculate sandstone floor. I race for the wide glass doors, and I’m free in the bracing, cleansing, damp air of Seoul. Raising my face, I welcome the cool refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what’s left of my equilibrium. 
No woman has ever affected me the way Hyomin Park has, and I cannot fathom why. Is it her looks? Her civility? Wealth? Power? I don’t understand my irrational reaction. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. What in heaven’s name was that all about? Leaning against one of the steel pillars of the building, I valiantly attempt to calm down and gather my thoughts. I shake my head. Holy crap – what was that? My heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and I can breathe normally again. I head for the car. 
As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely, I’m over-reacting to something that’s imaginary. Okay, so she’s very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with herself – but on the flip side, she’s arrogant, and for all her impeccable manners, she’s autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. She may be arrogant, but then she has a right to be – she’s accomplished so much at such a young age. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but why should she? Again, I’m irritated that Soyeon didn’t give me a brief biography. 
While cruising along the I-5, my mind continues to wander. I’m truly perplexed as to what makes someone so driven to succeed. Some of her answers were so cryptic – as if she had a hidden agenda. And Soyeon's questions – ugh! The adoption and asking her if she was a lesbian! I shudder. I can’t believe I said that. Ground, swallow me up now! Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe with embarrassment. Damn Park Soyeon! 
I check the speedometer. I’m driving more cautiously than I would on any other occa- sion. And I know it’s the memory of two penetrating dark eyes gazing at me, and a stern voice telling me to drive carefully. Shaking my head, I realize that Park's more like a women double her age. 
Forget it, Jiyeon, I scold myself. I decide that all in all, it’s been a very interesting experience, but I shouldn’t dwell on it. Put it behind you. I never have to see her again. I’m immediately cheered by the thought. I switch on the MP3 player and turn the volume up loud, sit back, and listen to thumping American pop music as I press down on the accelerator. I love this song, Fake Love by Drake. As I hit the 1-5, I realize I can drive as fast as I want. 
We live in a small community of duplex apartments in Gangnam, Incheon, close to the campus of SNU. I’m lucky – Soyeon's parents bought the place for her, and I pay peanuts for rent. It’s been home for four years now. As I pull up outside, I know Soyeon is going to want a blow-by-blow account, and she is tenacious. Well, at least she has the mini- disc. Hopefully I won’t have to elaborate much beyond what was said during the interview. 
“Jiyeon! You’re back.” Soyeon sits in our living area, surrounded by books. She’s clearly been studying for finals – though she’s still in her pink annel pajamas decorated with cute little rabbits, the ones she reserves for the aftermath of breaking up with boyfriends, for assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. She bounds up to me and hugs me hard. 
“I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner.” 
“Oh, I thought I made good time considering the interview ran over.” I wave the mini- disc recorder at her. 
“Jiyeon , thank you so much for doing this. I owe you, I know. How was it? What was she like?” Oh no – here we go, the Soyeon Park Inquisition. 
I struggle to answer her question. What can I say? 
“I’m glad it’s over, and I don’t have to see her again. Shee was rather intimidating, you know.” I shrug. “She’s very focused, intense even – and young. Really young.” 
Soyeon gazes innocently at me. I frown at her. 
“Don’t you look so innocent. Why didn’t you give me a biography? She made me feel like such an idiot for skimping on basic research.” Soyeon clamps a hand to . 
“Jeez, Jiyeon, I’m sorry – I didn’t think.” I huff. “Mostly she was courteous, formal, slightly stuffy – like she’s old before his time. She doesn’t talk like a women of twenty-something. How old is she anyway?” “Twenty-seven. Jeez, Jiyeon, I’m sorry. I should have briefed you, but I was in such a 
panic. Let me have the mini-disc, and I’ll start transcribing the interview.” 
“You look better. Did you eat your soup?” I ask, keen to change the subject. 
“Yes, and it was delicious as usual. I’m feeling much better.” She smiles at me in grati- tude. I check my watch. 
“I have to run. I can still make my shift at The Clayton's ” “Jiyeon, you’ll be exhausted.” “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.” 
I’ve worked at the Clayton's since I started at SNU. It’s the largest independent hardware store in the Seoul area, and over the four years I’ve worked here, I’ve come to know a little bit about most everything we sell – although ironically, I’m crap at any DIY. I leave all that to my dad. I’m much more of a curl-up-with-a-book-in-a-comfy-chair-by-the- fire kind of girl. I’m glad I can make my shift as it gives me something to focus on that isn’t Park Hyomin. We’re busy – it’s the start of the summer season, and folks are redecorating their homes. Mrs. Clayton is pleased to see me. 
“Jiyeon! I thought you weren’t going to make it today.” “My appointment didn’t take as long as I thought. I can do a couple of hours.” “I’m real pleased to see you.” She sends me to the storeroom to start re-stocking shelves, and I’m soon absorbed in 
the task. 
When I arrive home later, Soyeon is wearing headphones and working on her laptop. Her nose is still pink, but she has her teeth into a story, so she’s concentrating and typing furiously. I’m thoroughly drained – exhausted by the long drive, the grueling interview, and by being rushed off my feet at Clayton’s. I slump on to the couch, thinking about the essay I have to finish and all the studying I haven’t done today because I was holed up with... her. 
“You’ve got some good stuff here, Jiyeon. Well done. I can’t believe you didn’t take her up on her offer to show you around. She obviously wanted to spend more time with you.” She gives me a fleeting quizzical look. 
I flush, and my heart rate inexplicably increases. That wasn’t the reason, surely? She just wanted to show me around so I could see that he was lord of all he surveyed. I realize I’m biting my lip, and I hope Soyeon doesn’t notice. But she seems absorbed in her transcription. 
“I hear what you mean about formal. Did you take any notes?” she asks. “Um... no, I didn’t.” “That’s fine. I can still make a fine article with this. Shame we don’t have some original stills. Good-looking son of a , isn’t she?” I flush. 
“I suppose so.” I try hard to sound disinterested, and I think I succeed. 
“Oh come on, Jiyeon – even you can’t be immune to his looks.” She arches a perfect eyebrow at me. 
Crap! I distract her with attery, always a good ploy. 
“You probably would have got a lot more out of her.” 
“I doubt that, Jiyeonnie. Come on – she practically offered you a job. Given that I foisted this on you at the last minute, you did very well.” She glances up at me speculatively. I make a hasty retreat into the kitchen. 
“So what did you really think of her?” Damn, she’s inquisitive. Why can’t she just let this go? Think of something – quick. 
"She’s very driven, controlling, arrogant – scary really, but very charismatic. I can understand the fascination,” I add truthfully, as I peer round the door at her hoping this will shut her up once and for all. 
“You, fascinated by a woman? That’s a first,” she snorts. I start gathering the makings of a sandwich so she can’t see my face. “Why did you want to know if she was a lesbian? Incidentally, that was the most embarrassing question. I was mortified, and she was pissed to be asked too.” I scowl at the memory. “Whenever she’s in the society pages, she never has a date.” “It was embarrassing. The whole thing was embarrassing. I’m glad I’ll never have to 
lay eyes on her again.” “Oh, Jiyeonah, it can’t have been that bad. I think she sounds quite taken with you.” Taken with me? Now Soyeon's being ridiculous. “Would you like a sandwich?” “Please.” 
We talk no more of Park Hyomin that evening, much to my relief. Once we’ve eaten, I’m able to sit at the dining table with Soyeon and, while she works on her article, I work on my essay on Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Damn, but that woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong century. By the time I finish, it’s midnight, and Soyeon has long since gone to bed. I make my way to my room, exhausted, but pleased that I’ve accomplished so much for a Monday. 
I curl up in my white iron bed, wrapping my mother’s quilt around me, close my eyes, and I’m instantly asleep. That night I dream of dark places, bleak white cold oors, and dark eyes. 
For the rest of the week, I throw myself into my studies and my job at Clayton’s. Soyeon is busy too, compiling her last edition of her student magazine before she has to relinquish it to the new editor while also cramming for her nals. By Wednesday, she’s much better, and I no longer have to endure the sight of her pink- annel-with-too-many-rabbits PJs. I call my mom in Busan to check on her, but also so she can wish me luck for my final exams. She proceeds to tell me about her latest venture into kimchi making – my mother is all about new business ventures. Fundamentally she’s bored and wants something to occupy her time, but she has the attention span of a goldfish. It’ll be something new next week. She worries me. I hope she hasn’t mortgaged the house to nance this latest scheme. And I hope that Ken – her relatively new but much older husband – is keeping an eye on her now that I’m no longer there. He does seem a lot more grounded than Husband Number Three. 
“How are things with you, Jiyeon?” For a moment, I hesitate, and I have Mom’s full attention. “I’m fine.” “Jiyeon, Have you met someone?” Wow... how does she do that? The excitement in her 
voice is palpable. “No, Mom, it’s nothing. You’ll be the first to know if I do.” “Jiyeon, you really need to get out more, honey. You worry me.” “Mom, I’m fine. How’s Ken?” As ever, distraction is the best policy. Later that evening, I call jae-Hwa, my stepdad, Mom’s Husband Number Two, the man I 
consider my father, and the man whose name I bear. It’s a brief conversation. In fact, it’s not so much a conversation as a one-sided series of grunts in response to my gentle coaxing. Jae is not a talker. But he’s still alive, he’s still watching soccer on TV, and going bowling and flyfishing or making furniture when he’s not. Jae is a skilled carpenter and the reason I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. All seems well with him. 
Friday night, Soyeon and I are debating what to do with our evening – we want some time out from our studies, from our work, and from student newspapers – when the doorbell rings. Standing on our doorstep is my good friend Eunjung, clutching a bottle of champagne. 
“Eunjung! Great to see you!” I give her a quick hug. “Come in.” 
Eunjung is the first person I met when I