one; Transition

Theme - Huiden Ko - As flowers bloom and fall

×

It’s only a moment that she closes her eyes.

Not so far away, there’s a sizzle of oil in a pan, the aroma of baked chicken wafting through the air and the taste of wine trudging along with it. She expects a crash of dishware and a heave of curses afterwards, but nothing comes.

Balance, in a fleeting moment, it hangs in the air.

A singleton moment.

“Number three for table six!” She hears with the chiming ding! of the bell, eyes opening to the dimly lit kitchen as she removes her hands from the counter and moves to take the plate, cautious not to bump into others when she walks to the designated table.

There’s a warning—watch your step—just outside the kitchen door, Irene tries her best not to startle at the fall of porcelain to the floor, ignoring the shrill voice that threatens to have someone’s entire job to ashes in their hands.

She’s careful to catch up with the rest of the world, considering the chaos and imbalance with great regard, trying her best not to fall behind and let the chaos wither her to dust.

She pours a glass of Chateau Petrus to a table of one—or perhaps an awaiting half and before her careful glissade back into equilibrium, she’s interrupted by her manager’s voice.

“Irene, do you have a moment?”

She puts down the wine at the table at the woman’s request, turning to her manager and following him to a more secluded area. “What is it?”

“Since you're not coming in this weekend, I'm going to have to cut your pay for two days. Things are a little tight around the restaurant with the budget cuts…you understand, right?” He says as he offers a sympathetic smile while his head tilts to the left, a subtle indication to say he won't take no for an answer.

She contemplates the two sides of a dilemma at once. Irene knows she has to miss work this week to avoid disturbing a relationship that treads dangerously close to tipping its scales in the wrong direction but she also knows she’ll fall out of the world she immerses herself in, a struggle on Monday to get back in its flow. “Yeah, I understand. I promise I'll be back first thing Monday morning.”

“Great! You're a lifesaver, Irene.”

To others, maybe. She can’t tell if she is to herself.

After a complimentary cake to a newly engaged couple and a birthday song to a newly turned seven-year-old, Irene looks up to see the sky once she’s out of the restaurant.

It’s nearly six, so hues of pink and orange cover the sky; almost picturesque with few clouds obstructing its beauty.

In a hassle down the sidewalk, it's the same crowd as everyday—software employees, school students, a scattered population of the elderly and the middle class—just people trying to scrape by, make a living off of whatever they strive for. She manages to reach the bus stop on time—or maybe the driver was waiting for a familiar face to get on, she doesn’t know. The ride home she gets a window seat way back in the bus, looking out to see a system of skyscrapers and buildings falling into place, the sun rays reflected off their glass seep slightly into the bus and the smallest fraction into her skin.

She rests her head against the window; tempted to close her eyes, but she doesn't.

Her stop is somewhere along Tehran Boulevard and the huge mall that presides over there, but Irene gets down a block early to pay a visit to the incomplete construction that’s going on beside Fleurir Dans Mon Coeur.

“It’s still not done? Wow, it’s been like, months!”

Seungwan flinches when she hears her voice, her writing messed up in the slightest way before she puts the pen down and looks behind her back, “What in the actual are you doing here?” she says in an offhand tone.

“Gosh, language—and why shouldn’t I come here? I want to be part of that Seoul Food success story in six months!”

Seungwan rolls her eyes. “Tch. Pressurizing me much? And why do you think I’d even let you be in the success meet?”

Irene takes a seat in one of the few booths that lie in the café across the owner. “Uh, because I’m the one you call when it all gets a little too much?”

She contemplates for a second.

“You got me there, unfortunately. Remind me to find someone else, please.”

“I don’t think anyone else is willing to take the position.” She doesn’t let Seungwan cut in, heading straight to the point. “Anyways, why isn’t the building done yet? It started in January, I think?”

The girl sighs, fiddling around with the coffee in her hands. “We must’ve fallen out of schedule sometime, I can’t really remember. My contractor says it’s gonna be done by this month.”

“Soul food in July, with the rain pouring out and people embracing the warmth inside. I can hear the kaching of the cash register already.”

“Stop setting up all these expectations on me, for the love of god.”

She complies.

In the silence left hanging in the air, off into the distance, Irene hears a repeated hammering and with the slightest concentration, Wendy’s writing syncing with it to form a melody she’s never been subjected to before. Maybe if she had paid just a bit more attention, she would’ve heard a car zooming past by and the slightest rumble of thunder, almost as if they were concluding the melody with a low buzz.

Somewhere between the rhythm of the hammering and ink staining the book across her, a message she forgets she’s supposed to get is sent while she rests her head against the window, gazing out into the street.

“, I have to go. See you later, Wan!”

Irene leaves in a rush with a silent ‘bye!’. Once again, the symphony starts. A beat perfectly in sync with the tone and rhythm, possibly a masterpiece to be discovered yet, it falls on deaf ears—ears accustomed to stop listening—no one seems to have the time to acknowledge it.

×

“Dad is going to kill you when he finds out you’re still working there.”

She brushes off the few droplets of water off her skin, the sun hangs barely at the end of the horizon and from her apartment, she can’t hope to see a rainbow so she settles for the vivid colours facing her that glaringly beg for her attention the longer she avoids them.

“I told Mom, she probably told him so it shouldn’t come as a surprise anyway,” she tells Yerim as she sets her keys on the counter, settling down into the pullout couch while her sister rummages through the bare contents of her refrigerator.

“Shouldn’t you be in college?”

“Unnie, it’s a family trip, and as far as I checked, I’m still part of this family.”

Yerim falls to her side with an ungracious thud, a red bean ice cream in hand—she doesn’t know why she bothered searching for another flavour—and sighs, reflecting the sound of the rain outside.

“Ugh, I hate building family relations. Even worse, we’re staying with Aunt Jinyoung—her husband is a total freak, I swear! Like, who’d even want to live in a remote village with like, zero amenities? Why couldn’t we have gone to Uncle Hyunsik’s, at least they know what a Wi-Fi is,”

Irene can hear the annoyance ooze out of her tone, and to be completely honest, she’d agree with Yerim. But, this is probably the only way she can mend the bond her father made crystal clear he didn’t want anything to do with.

“All of us are going.” He said when it was her mother’s birthday three weeks ago, so much finality in his tone that she wouldn’t dare to defy it.

If he’s willing to try, so is she.

“Well, we still are going, so such your trap and please tell me you brought your luggage. There’s no way in hell I’m seeing you flirt with the entirety of your college again.”

She grumbles and says she’s just a sociable person, not my fault and points to the pink suitcase that for some reason matches the colour scheme of her shirt.

Irene hums in acknowledgement and looks to the beige of her ceiling, engraving the colour in the depths of her mind before she sees all black.

It's barely a minute later she opens her eyes to drink in the very beige again.

“We should get going soon.”

Irene looks to her watch, unbothered by the 7:17 that begs her to leave right away, slowly rising and just above a whisper, she replies, “Yeah.”

Her suitcase reflects the sky, a fading blue that lacks the luster of the sky she's grown to love so much, (it's a sky Irene fails to appreciate, she can't see past her favourite skies of scenic views with clouds scattered in the colour painted across the blue) she takes it out and double checks if she has everything she needs for this weekend—it’s a long list of mosquito repellents, a handbook of self-defense against wild animals and the DSLR she bought back in college she never uses amongst other things—and makes sure Yerim does the same after much resistance.

They hail a cab to the railway station.

It's a dull night, save for the incessant honking that plagues the traffic of Seoul and the blinding lights of the cars passing by and she tries her best to block out the senses.

Irene doesn't exactly succeed—she reaches the station with an oncoming headache. Their seats are lost in the middle of the rows and columns behind an elderly couple who are either on the verge of an argument or are just speaking like all old people do, with their voices loud enough to fill up the entire train.

Yerim places their luggage in the overhead bin before taking the window seat and sighing in relief, leaving here the aisle.

“Oh, d’you wanna sit here?”

Irene utters a soft no, reclining the green seat backwards and takes a look at her watch.

8:07 is what it's supposed to be, but Irene blinks for a moment and the minute hand changes the slightest degree.

8:08.

The train starts ten minutes later. She abstains from using her phone unlike her sister, trying to formulate her thoughts and organize them in a perfect system—she has to talk to her dad, see the sunrise in Daegu, maybe spend some time with her cousins and roam around the town for a while, actually feel like she’s accomplished something—she wants the weekend to be well spent. The couple's voices die down when half an hour has passed and almost like some mutual agreement of sorts, a child starts wailing with all of its might.

The incandescent lights intensify her headache, she wills a silent wish for the pain to go away.

Another quarter of contemplation of the strangest of things is gone, the lights dim and Irene looks to her side to find Yerim asleep with headphones stuck in her ears, a playlist of her favourite artiste’s ballads continue with no active attention towards them. She takes her phone and switches it off, remaining on her side to gaze at the void that passes by as the train bids those forgotten places adieu.

Her mother calls once they cross Osan. “Hyun-ah, did you guys leave Suwon?”

“Yes, we’re going to reach Pyeongtaek in a while.”

“What’s Yerim doing? Have you eaten yet?”

The girl stirs slightly at the mention of her name. “She’s sleeping. It’s probably going to be 10 by the time we arrive, I don’t think we’ll have dinner, so don’t bother cooking for us.”

She knows they’ll be forced to eat anyway, but still, it doesn’t hurt to try, right?

“Yah, you should’ve told me that before. Your dad kept pestering me to make Jjajangmyeon for you two and now if you don’t eat it’s going to go to waste. You’re eating and that’s final.”

She sighs. The slightest hints of amusement dance on her lips.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Why did I even bother,” she says in a whisper.

“What was that?”

“Nothing! Anyway, we’ll be there by midnight. I’ll call you when we reach Daegu.”

“Okay, be safe.”

Her phone still remains the centre of her attention long after her mother says her byes, scrolling through her social media accounts aimlessly, stopping once in a while to catch the sight of the lives outside when the train stops at some remote towns’ stations.

She thinks she’s the only one awake on the bus by now, her headache long gone and she doesn’t dwell on the fact as to not rouse it up again.

Silence drapes over the entire cabin like a cozy quilt and she’s tempted to slip under the cover and lose herself to time, but she stays awake on the pretenses of missing their stop; ignoring the fact it is basically a Seoul to Daegu ride. Maybe it’s because she’s afraid she’ll miss out on something for falling asleep, like if she were to rest just for a second, the world would move on without her.

She settles to her playlist she listens to when she’s plagued with fatigue. It’s mostly those upbeat songs she hears on the radio every other hour, the composers of the song seem to have only a single purpose while writing them during this season—to cheer people up from the overlying gloom of monsoon.

Bittersweet love is what the season faces. The rain is the best time to drown out your sorrows, they say, yet to others, it is a time that brings joy. To those who anticipate for clouds to blacken the sky, it’s a perfectly written sonata, the sound of rain blending in with the surroundings of how strings complement the notes of a piano, as if it was meant to be.

Three songs later, Irene finds herself bobbing her head to the beat, humming out whatever coherent lyrics she can salvage out of the song without a care to breaking the zen amongst the passengers.

Yerim awakes at the bridge of Shake It.

“What time is it..?” She mumbles while rubbing her eyes and shifting in her seat.

“9: 50.”

“We’re going to be there soon,”

“Yeah.”

As she promised, Irene calls her mother after a hustle getting down from the train; they're out of the station and catch a taxi to their house.

Is it nostalgia that hangs in the air, Irene asks herself watching the streets she knew like the back of her hand pass by, is it this sense of familiarity that I've been yearning for? Do the trees long to see me again, does my sky think of days I would spend only in its presence? Would flowers bloom solely because I am here?

Does this town miss me as much as I missed it?

×

Yerim suppresses a shiver that threatens to travel down her spine as yet another cold burst of wind strikes the two.

“Oh my god, are they seriously asleep? There's no way, since when do they sleep so early?” She says as she rings the bell once again with a substantial increase in her hand’s strength. Irene takes a look through the cracks of the windows left unclosed haphazardly, barely being able to see anything but she's able to make out the figure of her father slouching on their sofa.

Irene reaches out to her phone and a few seconds later, she hears JYP’s Honey and to be honest, she would’ve jammed a little to the saxophone that manages to leave the confines of their house but she isn’t really up to dancing after a tiring train ride and standing in temperatures that barely cross 10°C.

Once her mother answers the call, she cuts it short and prompts Yerim to ring the bell again.

“Yah, get up.” She hears in a not so silent whisper from the house before they’re rushed inside and engulfed in a hug.

“How long have you been outside?”

She bows to her father at his sight and exasperates an answer.

“If we stayed any longer, I think we’d get frostbite.”

Her mother rolls her eyes.

“Why were you guys sleeping anyway? It’s not even eleven yet.” Yerim asks while settling herself down on the worn out couch, propping her feet up on the table in front before their father scolds her to put them back down.

“These days it's so cold, it's hard to stay awake when all you just want to do is snuggle up in your blanket.”

“Or maybe it's just because you've been up all night cleaning the basement.”

Irene looks to her father quizzically.

“Basement? Why the basement?”

“I don't know, I wasn't the one who suddenly took a diversion to memory lane.”

“Yah, Jaejong, as if you didn't get all nostalgic at that photo of us at the beach.”

The man scoffs defiantly, but wavers when the portrait stands centre on his table not so far away from the living room.

“It's a nice picture, okay.”

Irene lets out the lightest stifle of laughter she can manage, amused at the antics that once used to be everyday for her.

It feels like ages ago, moments lost in the passage of time.

The ivory of the showcase, marble on the floor, the painting of the seaside that hangs right above her head, they all seemed to have moved on into the future, forgetting her like the dust settled upon them. Maybe it was the other way around, she doesn't know, but it feels different.

Her home has aged, and she wasn't there to witness it.

She traces the hallways with the tips of her fingers whilst engraving this cinematic moment in the depths of her mind with all the emotions she feels.

“I couldn't help the melancholy at it! That was such a nice day.” She comes back to reality from whatever trance she was in at her father's voice defending himself after his wife kept teasing at him.

She smiles.

It doesn't take much to convince her mother she is not going to eat dinner, the way she almost passes out at the sight of her old bed speaks louder than she could ever express. Irene lugs her bags down the hall humming an old melody after she bids her family a good night.

Her thoughts aren't coherent the more she finds herself losing to sleep, they're all over the place and she can't fixate on any of them. They leave, fleeting, just as they came.

She closes her eyes.

A moment was once defined as ninety seconds—the time it takes for Irene's thoughts to slowly fade, entering a state where she loses active control of her thoughts and lets them pass by with no effort to concentrate on them.

Time gives in to her, stopping just this once for her, and Irene feels completely at rest.