High school sweethearts: delusional, fatalistic escapists. Finding solace in skin-to-skin contact. Wearing ice skates on a trip to the lake during Spring Break. “Love’s” season is nestled mid-fall. Not because pubescent teens, acne abundant, emotions bursting, are egocentric. Love consumes the young of purpose; the old are too busy to pay mind to loss of limb. 

Sermons on the subject keep Hyejin Ahn — 27, widow, mother — singing at church every Sunday. Reconstructing prosthetics through a congregation’s validation. “Hwasa, our great mother and savior!” Glory to the young whose hands still belong to them.

Claps timed to echo those gathered in the school’s auditorium, Hwasa kept close eye on her wedding band. Dancing up and down a dainty finger. Daron, five and a half years old, came skipping towards her. Certificate held high. Fellow parents praised the bright child as they passed. “He’s such a good boy.”

Halfway into a story about Gabriel’s “funny face” during the ceremony, Daron tugs on her dangling sleeve. “I’m hungry, Mama.” Hallways later, a sweet smell teases the senses. Pulls the five and a half year old into a nearby classroom.

“Congratulations, Daron! Five cookie limit, little man. You say you’re going to take some to Gabe, but you really mean you’re going to pig out on the drive home — I know your tricks.”

Husband material has a name: Kyungsoo Do. 24. Presumably single. Baking skills to put Solar’s pastry shop to shame. Daron’s kindergarten teacher.

Justifiable endearment kept her watching his stance shift. Posture sag to look her child in his beaming puppy eyes. Respecting innocence in all its naivety. A man like this sacrifices ounce upon ounce of flesh for children. Mere children.

Happenstance leaves the two alone. The adults whisper secrets while the young venture towards self-discovery on the playground. Hwasa slips a pink post-it under his palm, pressed against wood. Demeanor souring, Kyungsoo Do yaps, “Could you not, Ms. Ahn?”

Children scamper about past the windowpanes. “Speak in full sentences, Mr. Do.” Daron waves from atop a red slide. “You’re a public figure in this community.”

Trained to handle problematic parental interactions, Kyungsoo affirms, “I’ve zero interest in the women who, you claim, chase my tail.” 

With a Miss Universe wave, smile plastered on with petroleum jelly, she says, “Admittedly this one’s a bit of a bore, but the man’s affectionate to the bone,” she taps along pink folds. A stranger’s telephone number lay caged within. The third this month.

“ual preferences aside—” 

“Are you religious, Mr. Do?” she interrupts. “Perhaps it’s you the Principal should be awarding certificates to.”  Perfect attendance at Sunday Mass — the horndog was a devout Buddhist. 

Kyungsoo sits. Stands. Sits again. Crumbles her gift and tosses it into the rubbish bin. “Moo Mama’s Bar. Tomorrow. 7pm.” It’s a school night, she reasons. “Humor me.”

“Overconfidence is off-putting.” 

Rumors spread fast in utopia. 27; widow; mother: Hyejin Ahn couldn’t afford to place bets — not even on the Best in Show. When he follows her departing legs, her thighs thick, his tent pitched tight, she commands, “Heel.”

Instinctually stuttering to a stop is Kyungsoo Do: 24; presumably single; kindergarten teacher; carnivore. Queen Bee Hwasa saunters onto the playground. Plucks Daron from the monkey bars. Suggestively wags her hips past the windowpane. “Love” gnaws at his patience, conscience drowning at the bottom of a shot glass the next night.

Sehun Oh contrasted this suburbia’s scenery. In demeanor rather than appearances. His sins included gluttony, lust, greed, sloth. Moonbyul Yi made up for these deficiencies with her own wrath, envy, pride. Comparing evils, he was venom to her open sores. 

A sickness poisoning their collective well of posterity; he bit off hands daring to make wishes.

Hwasa never liked the boy. An absence of loss resulted in an excess of moxie. “Love” was a word to toss around. Seasons bent to match his wily wills. 

Howling at the moon, the (ex-) girlfriend threw wrenches. Knocked over shelves. Kicked nuts and bolts across the concrete floor. Knotted with inescapable heat rushing red against her ears. Neck. Face.

“Honey, talk to me,” Hwasa cooed, maintaining a good distance from the vicious bloodhound. “Vent with your words.” Store fronts lining the block across from Starry’s Auto Shop & Body began to glow — the situation was spiraling out of hand. Rumors are deadlier than garden snakes.

Tires screeched outside the metal shutters. “Miss Yi?” Someone called out, footsteps deliberately slow. The Pomeranian sitting at attention beside Hwasa stood on all fours, barking in anticipation.

“Behave yourself!”

Quiet.

Peaking into the office, front door unlocked, was Detective Zhang. “Miss Yi?” He had impeccable timing. “Ms. Ahn.” Acknowledging the other woman secondary to his purpose, “We received a noise complaint at the station. Is everything alright here?” 

Responding for the now meek Moonbyul, Hwasa guffawed, “I think we can both agree you have eyes, Detective,” gesturing to the surrounding mess with sharp nails. Orange in color. Perfection shining beneath fluorescent lights. Vastly different from a certain bartender’s chipped manicure. 

“Anything I can do to help?” One step closer had her Pomeranian fussing. A single utterance, “Heel,” and the purebred sat on its hind legs. Watching with black, beady eyes. “Such a good boy.” Detective Zhang’s compliment shook in his throat — excitement palpable.

Something was wrong here, and the Detective was willing do anything and everything to discover what. Luckily, the recently dimwitted mechanic came to her senses just in time. “My menses came early this month.” Silver-tongue smiling lips. Demeanor overcoming appearances.

By the morrow, the mid-night hubbub at Starry’s Auto Shop & Body became old news.

A/N: Pay close attention to the message conveyed in the first few paragraphs about "love." Parse each sentence's meaning to figure out what Hwasa believes on the subject.