“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“It’s going to be a wreck.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I failed art class in elementary.”

“You can’t fail an art class when you’re six years old, Jongin.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, grinning as I wield a paintbrush, “I might as well have.”

Dohee joshes me on the shoulder, nearly swiping a streak of red paint on my shirt. “Sorry,” she says, her eyes sparkling.

We’re in one of Yonsei’s many art rooms. It’s mid-afternoon, and the sun glares at us through the open window. A breeze is ushered in, whispering to the pages of an open book. Dohee wears her hair in a ponytail today. Her fingers are tainted with smudges of red and green, and spots of white decorate her knees. She leans forward to draw on the canvas, and I catch a scent of jasmine and the tang of paint.

“I know painting seems difficult, but it really isn’t that bad.” Her paintbrush hovers, and then lands on the canvas. “Okay, maybe it is. For beginners.” She laughs at her own joke, and then sweeps the paintbrush so the red paint goes from thick swatches to tendrils of color. She dips her paintbrush in a palette of red.

“What are you making?”

“A rose,” she says, and swivels her wrist again.

“Really? I can’t tell.”

“It’s not done yet, you idiot,” she chastises, cleaning her brush and moving to a wine red. She nods at the paintbrush in my hand. “What are you going to paint?”

“I already told you, it’s going to be a wreck.”

“Oh, please.” She wraps her small hand around mine, and then manipulates my fingers to strike a thick, black line across my own canvas. “There’s your starting point.”

“It’s a line.”

“It’s not just a line. It could be a building. An event. A moment.” She lets go of my hand. “It’s not just a line.”

I stare at the black . Suddenly, I have an idea. Dipping my paintbrush into black paint, I begin my best attempt at painting.

“What did you decide to paint?” She asks me. I turn my chair, as well as the canvas, so she can’t see.

“Can’t say.”

She frowns, but continues to paint her own masterpiece while glancing at me from over the rim of her glasses. I watch her, and then I regard the canvas, hoping my painted imitation will capture the same unpredictable charm that Dohee conveys.

We paint in silence for a long time. The wind is a gentle, welcoming thing as the hours stretch by and my joints ache at being in one place for so long. Dohee’s brows are knitted in concentration. A red smear of paint has found its way on her cheek. I dip my paintbrush, and then I add the finishing touches to my painting.

When I’m done, I wipe my hands on my jeans, not caring that it leaves behind faint stripes of black. Dohee glances up at me, and then pushes up her glasses with a knuckle.

“Are you done?”

“Yes. Do you want to see?”

“Hold on,” she says, her hand moving rapidly. Only a few seconds pass before she announces that she’s finished. “Okay. Let’s flip it at the same time. Ready?”

“Ready,” I say, lifting the canvas from the easel.

She counts. “Three … two … one!”

We flip, and I gaze in awe at Dohee’s painting of a rose. It’s a wondrous collection of red shades, curving and curling to form the subtle bends of a rose’s petals. It seems to bloom right in front of me, the shadows gaping and inviting all at once. I open my mouth to complement Dohee on her painting, but she says something before I can do so.

“What is that?”

I look down at my painting. I only stuck with one color - black - and did my best to make my idea look as realistic as possible. Looking at it from this angle, however, it doesn’t look so believable.

“Is it a hanger?” Dohee looks earnestly curious, as though I’ve painted an abstract painting she can’t understand. “Or … pens? A collection of pens?” I shake my head. “What is it?”

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