Chapter 13: I Want To Sleep With You

 

I walk home.

Jin kook is in.

He stares at me.

I walk past him, and go into my bedroom.

I shut the door.

I lie down on my bed.

"I don't want you to be bad. I'm afraid that you will go astray."

"Are you really going to take that job?"

"If you say no, then I won't."

"Promise me that you'll be a good person."

"Teach me."

I recall everything that we said, and I feel a rush of relief, of happiness.

In the morning, I wake up feeling refreshed, and light. I get ready for work.

Jin kook is waiting for me outside the gate.

"I'll give you a ride to work," he says.

We don't talk in the car.

"The aircon in the car is really bad," he starts grumbling after a few minutes of silence. "It's freezing cold."

We start arguing.

The tension lifts, and the ice between us thaws.

"You should be thankful that I'm taking you to work," he gripes. "If you'd been a minute late, I'd have left."

I grin.

He's lying.

He'd have waited for me even if I'd been an hour late. Or two hours. Or three.

"What are you doing next Thursday?" he asks.

"Oh, right...it's November next week," I exclaim. "Time really flies."

"Would you like to have a gimbap picnic with me?" he asks.

"Ooooh," I exclaim. "Gimbap! Oppa, your gimbaps are the best! Sure, let's have a gimbap picnic!"

He smiles at my enthusiasm.

I turn to him.

"And, oppa, you should really get new hiking boots," I say. "Yours are way too old."

I smile at him, and he smiles back, but his smile is half-hearted, as if he's thinking about something.

He stops at my workplace, and turns to me.

"I went too far yesterday," he says, looking shame-faced. "You're a grown up. I trust you. You can take care of yourself."

He smiles at me.

There's so much love in his eyes that it fills me up.

"I won't into your affairs anymore, okay?" he says.

"Okay," I smile.

So yeon and I make coffee in the break room. Ms. Hwang comes in, and I pass her a steaming hot cup.

She takes it gratefully.

"Thanks," she says, and takes a sip.

"Jang Se ran majored in Art in college," she says.

She turns to me.

"Jin kang, we need to find out about Kim Min young's preferences," she says excitedly. "After all, he's the guy who'll be running the new pub."

"Er, I heard that he won't be taking the job," I say awkwardly.

"What?" Ms. Hwang and So yeon are open-mouthed in shock.

"Um, I kind of ran into him on the street yesterday, and I asked him, and he said no, he's not taking the job," my voice trails off.

"Wait a sec," Ms. Hwang says. "He's really not taking the job?" She looks crestfallen.

"Yes," I say, and I can't help it, my lips curve into a smile. "He's really not doing it."

"Did you just smile?" Ms. Hwang growls. "You're actually smiling?"

"No, no," I stutter. "I'm like so sad, I'm like really, really sad. I smile when I'm sad."

So yeon turns to Ms. Hwang.

"She's acting really weird today," she says. "She's been humming ever since she walked in this morning...hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm, she's been going on for hours."

They stare at me, as if I've gone mad.

Am I really so transparent? 

I colour, and brush past them, mumbling something about getting back to work.

The day passes in a blur, but it's a happy blur. I beam at everyone, and they stare at me in shock. Last week, I had been so glum. Never mind, they'd probably nod knowingly to one another, and say, "It's THAT time of the month."

I'm regaining my sense of humour.

I must be feeling happy.

I'm about to leave my workplace when I get a text.

It's from Moo young.

TEXT: LET'S TAKE THE BUS

My heart starts pounding madly.

I want to do a happy dance, or burst out into song, like Aladdin on the magic carpet, warbling:

Unbelievable sights 

Indescribable feeling

Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling,

Through JIN KANGGGGGGGG"

Huh?

Ms. Hwang and So yeon are calling me.

"Are you coming?" So yeon says. "We've been calling you for ages."

I take my bag, and give my phone a little squeeze, smiling secretly to myself. I keep my phone in my bag, and think of the text message, and a warm glow spreads through me.

I walk out with Ms. Hwang and So yeon. I want to run, but I can't, so I walk staidly, and make meaningless chit-chat, all the while thinking, hello, can't you guys walk faster????

I can see the bus stop from where I am. I see Moo young ducking around the corner. Haha. He must have seen Ms. Hwang and So yeon.

"I can give you a lift home," Ms. Hwang says to me.

"Er...it's okay," I say. "I'll just walk. Exercise is good. I've been sitting around too much..."

My voice trails off lamely.

"You can give me a lift," So yeon beams at Ms. Hwang.

Ms. Hwang glares at her.

"I'm not going your way," she says.

"Bye," I say hurriedly, and walk away.

"Hey, wait up," So yeon calls. Noooo. "I'll walk with you. I'll take the subway."

We reach the bus stop.

He's sitting there, right at the edge of the bench.

"Hm, I think that I'll take the bus, instead," So yeon says.

Oh, no.

I text him.

TEXT: SHE'S TAKING THE BUS.

Moo young gets up and leaves the bench.

"You know what, I think that I'll take the subway, instead," So yeon says. "Bye, Jin kang."

She walks off.

I text Moo young frantically.

TEXT: SHE'S TAKING THE SUBWAY.

I look up, and he appears from behind the bus stop shelter.

The bus comes.

I get onto the bus first, and pick a seat by a window.

He comes up a short while later, and sits down beside me.

We don't talk.

He shows me his phone.

I'd made a typo on my text message.

He laughs, and I laugh, as well.

Moo young and I stop at a cafe.

We're sitting across each other.

He's grilling meaty chunks of beef. They smell heavenly.

"Did you take the job?" I ask.

He grins wickedly, and narrows his eyes.

"What do you think I said?" he smiles.

"No!" I yell, and laugh.

I'm so happy.

I'm delirious with happiness, sitting across him, watching him turn the meats, the light catch his hair, watching the smile on his face, the laughter in his eyes.

I want to hold on to this moment forever.

"My boss wanted you to take the job, because it'd mean that we could get more projects," I say. "I feel so bad."

"I'd 100% have picked your company for sure, if I'd taken the job," he says, grinning.

"Why didn't you want me to take it?" he asks. "It'd pay a lot. Don't you like money?"

"I love money, everyone loves money " I say. "You should make a lot, heaps of money."

I look at him seriously.

"It's just that," I say haltingly, "just that I don't want you to get too close to those people."

Involuntarily, I shiver.

"People like those - they're capable of doing anything," I mutter.

I don't want to talk about them anymore. I don't want to think about them anymore.

I lean forward.

"You promised me that I could ask you anything I want," I say. "I have lots of questions to ask you, but I don't want to ask them now."

We look at each other across the table.

"Whenever I saw you, whenever I met you," I say, struggling to find the right words to tell him how I feel, "I was always angry, I was always sad, I was always worried."

I look at my hands, then lift my eyes to his.

"I made up my mind not to see you anymore," I whisper. "I never smiled at you. So now...so now, I just want to smile at you, keep smiling at you, and never stop.."

My voice trails off.

He leans forward, and places both of his hands over mine.

They feel so warm, so comforting.

"But you smiled; you did," he says softly. "Don't you remember? We were at the noodles shop, opposite the laundromat. I rode your bike across the intersection, and you followed me, all the way; we sat inside the shop, and we ate two bowls of noodles, and I said that I wanted more, and you ordered some more; and we talked, and you told me about your childhood, and I told you about mine; and you sat across me, and you smiled, and you laughed, and I was so happy, because you were smiling at me, you were laughing with me."

He's smiling at me, and his eyes are lit up, remembering.

He leans back, and his eyes shift to wicked and mischievous.

"Okay, quit smiling," he grimaces, giving a mock shudder. "You're scaring me."

I laugh.

"That's even scarier," he shivers, and makes as if to run.

I'm laughing so hard. I haven't laughed so hard since forever.

We walk home slowly at night.

"Can we walk down that alley?" I pull at his arm. "I don't want my brother to worry about me."

He smiles, and we walk down the alley, away from the street.

"You know that my brother's keeping tabs on you, right?" I say, and my voice sounds sad.

"Yes, I know," he says.

He doesn't seem to mind, though. His voice is calm, unruffled.

Our hands brush against each other, and instinctively, naturally, they reach out for each other.

Holding hands, walking down a dark alley, him by my side - it's so surreal, and so wonderful, that I don't ever want our walk to end.

"I like ajusshi," he says, smiling. "No, like's the wrong word...he's fun. Whenever I see him, I want to , play with him; I act like a kid around him."

"My brother's funny," I laugh.

"Remember when we were walking back that night, and I was pushing your bike, and you were walking beside me, and you asked me what the cat's name was, and I said, 'Kang, Jin kang', and you said that that was silly, and you smiled three seconds later after saying that," he says softly, as if speaking to himself. "Exactly three seconds later after saying that, you smiled. And that's when you said, 'I think that I'll continue to hate you.' And I said, 'All the best' ."

He looks down at me, and smiles.

"And you looked so beautiful, standing there, smiling at me, and then you turned into your street, and I turned into mine; and I wanted so much to run back to you, to hold you in my arms, and keep you with me, and never let you go."

I smile at him through my tears.

"Do you remember all that?" I ask.

"Yes," he says, his voice low, soft. "Everything, every word you speak, every word you utter, I remember everything, everything about you."

"What happened to the cat anyway?" I ask. "Did you ever find it?"

"I got a text message from him the other day," he smiles. "He's found a cute girlfriend, and he's moved on. He told me not to worry."

"Oh, you!" I punch his arm. "I'll continue to hate you, that's for sure."

We laugh.

"Isn't that a new flower shop?" I point at the little pots of pretty yellow crysanthemum flowers dotting the front of the shop.

I run over, pulling him behind me, and squat down to smell the flowers.

The next morning, I walk out of my front door, and Jin kook's watering the flowers in the pot.

"Aren't they pretty?" I say. "I bought them to brighten up the house."

"Oppa, can you send me to work?" I wheedle, putting on my most persuasive face.

"Sure," he says.

"I may have to work late " I say. "I've got tons of work piled up. You'll have to go shopping for gimbap ingredients alone."

At work, it's already night, and I still haven't finished my work.

I get a call from Jin kook.

"Where are you?" he asks, his voice tight, taut.

"I'm at work, of course," I yell. "Where else would I be?"

He doesn't say anything.

"I told you that I'd be working late," I say. "We're really busy right now."

I hurry over to So yeon's desk. "So yeon, give me that document."

I'm rustling through the documents, as So yeon talks to me.

"Oppa," I say distractedly. "I really can't talk right now."

"Okay, okay," he says, sounding relieved. "Sure. Bye."

The next day, I'm at Moo young's place.

He called me and told me to look under the flower pot. He bought a pot of crysanthemums, exactly like mine, that night that we were at the flower shop.

I lift up the pot of flowers, and I see the key underneath.

It's the key to his door.

I open the door, and go in.

Moo young's sleeping, but he's thrashing about, mumbling something.

"Kim Moo young!" I shake him. "Kim Moo young!"

He opens his eyes with an effort, and they're filled with terror.

He reaches out his arms, like a drowning man, and hugs me to him tightly, desperately.

He's breathing heavily, trembling, his shirt drenched in sweat.

I go to the fridge to pour him a drink, but there aren't any cups.

"It's okay," he says. "I'll drink straight from the bottle."

I sit beside him on his bed and watch him worriedly as he takes a big gulp from the bottle of cold water.

"What happened?" I ask. "Were you having a nightmare?"

"Yes," he nods. "I dreamt of my father dying. I've been having the same dream five times. Somebody fires a gun at him, and he bleeds to death on the floor."

He looks at me, and his eyes are agonized, reliving the nightmare.

"Have you been dreaming the same dream over and over?" I ask.

"It's getting clearer and clearer each time," he says. "It's like -  like my memory surfacing."

"What's the dream?" I ask gently.

"It starts happily," he says, looking unseeingly into the distance. "I'm very happy, I'm about four, maybe five years old, and I'm playing with a toy with my younger sibling - I think that it's my younger sibling - in the woods."

He passes a hand shakily over his damp forehead.

"Then I'm at home, and I see my father there, sitting at the table, and I'm so happy. I call out to him, 'Father!' and I want to run to him, but then I hear the sound of water boiling, and I see a kettle, steaming, and the steam rises up like a cloud of smoke, and that's when I see the gun; the smoke parts, and I see the gun."

He looks at me, his face pale, agitated, and his dry lips.

"A gun?" I whisper.

"Yes, a gun," he turns to me, and I see the horror in his eyes. "Someone is trying to shoot my father...I can't see his face, but I see his hand, and the gun...he's clutching the gun, and I want to call out to my father, but I hear the shot, it's so loud, and my father's on the ground, lying still, bleeding, and there's so much blood under him, and it's spreading..."

He rubs his trembling hands over his eyes.

"I want to wake up at this point, but I can't, I'm forcing myself to wake up, and that's when I hear your voice... , " he whispers.

"My voice?" I ask.

"Yes, your voice," he looks at me. "Kim Moo young. You call my name. I thought that I was dreaming, but I woke up and you're here."

"When did you first start having this dream?" I ask. 

I hold his hands. They're icy cold.

"When I was in the car accident," he says slowly. "I heard your voice then."

"How did you know that it was my voice?"

"It was your voice," he says. "I'm sure of it."

"Maybe it's not a dream," he says. "Maybe it's my past."

His eyes are bewildered, confused.

"I lost my past," he says. "I don't have any memories before five. I don't know whether I was five or not, but I don't have any memories before that."

"What's your first memory of your childhood?" I ask.

"I was walking somewhere. My legs hurt, and I was hungry," he says. "I don't know where I was. But I kept looking back, as if I had left someone important behind, as if someone was waiting for me. But I couldn't stop. I just kept walking."

"Who was that someone?" I ask. "Could it have been your mother?"

He gets up, and goes to the fridge. He opens it, and takes out a folded piece of paper. It's browning at the edges, and some parts have turned yellowish.

He opens it and sits down beside me on the bed.

"I think that I drew this when I was little," he says.

There are four figures in the drawing, each standing next to the other. Everyone is smiling happily. In the background, on the upper right edge, an angel with two wings perches, coloured in gold. 

He points to each figure drawn on the paper.

"Father, Mother, me and my sibling," he says, concentrating on the figures, a frown between his brows. "This is the only clue that I have of my past."

"What happened to you after that?" I ask.

"An elderly lady found me wandering the streets, took me home, and raised me for a year. When she died, an ajumma took me to an orphanage. They found the drawing in my pocket at the orphanage. I've kept it all these years."

"So what do you think?"

I look at the drawing.

"Everyone seems to be very, very happy in the drawing," I say. "You even have an angel here."

He points at the father figure.

"Do you think that he was a policeman?" he says. "He's wearing a purple hat."

His eyes crinkle, looking wistful.

"I always thought that my father was a policeman," he says softly, musingly. "In my imagination, he's still searching for me, somewhere out there."

"I'm a lost son, not an abandoned child," he says ruefully. "I'm just a lost child. It's childish, isn't it?"

"No," I say softly. "It's not childish."

I reach out for his hand, and lace my fingers through his. I hold our interlocked hands to my face.

"How many times have you thought about this?" I ask.

"Many, many times," he answers. "How do you know about how I feel?"

"I know," I answer.

"How?" he asks.

"I just know," I answer.

"Your family looks so happy here," I say, touching the drawing gently, running my fingers gently over the figures. "If I had been you, I would have thought that I was a lost child, too."

"Really?" he says.

"Did you ever try to find them, your family?" I ask.

"Yes, I did," he says. "Twice; once, when I was eight, and the second time, when I was twenty."

"Do you want to look for them again?" I ask.

"No," he says.

"Are you afraid that the dream is true?" I ask.

He doesn't say anything.

I hug him tight and he hugs me back. We stay like that, locked in each other's arms for a long time.

I go home.

Jin kook's making gimbap. 

"Gimbap!" I yell.

I sit and eat it.

"You always loved eating the ends of the kimbab," he says, looking at me indulgently as I wolf down the gimbap, "just like a little bird."

"It's still the most delicious part to me," I say.

"Eat up," he says. "And take a nap before we go to the temple. We can always leave later."

He gets up.

I look up at him.

"I don't think that I'll be able to go, oppa," I say.

"Why?" he asks. "Are you too busy with work?"

"We've got a presentation coming up next week," I say. "I told my boss that I won't be there, but I feel bad, so I think that I'll be going after all."

Moo young and I are sitting in a bus.

"I'm amazed at myself," I say. "I can lie so well. I must have learnt it from you."

He laughs.

"We shouldn't lie anymore, okay?" I say.

He smiles.

We feed each other the gimbap that Jin kook made.

"This is so good," Moo young says. "He should open a gimbap store."

"He used to pack gimbap for all my school events," I say, "for spring picnics, and fall field trips."

"Why do you go to the temple on November 1st?" he asks. "Why today?"

"I never thought about it," I say. "I just thought that it was a special outing for Oppa and me every year, like an Oppa and me event. I looked forward to it more eagerly than to a school event."

I call So jung on my phone.

"Eunnie," I say, "Date Oppa for me today, will you? Take care of him and have a great time."

We're in Haesang, our hometown.

"Everything looks different. I haven't been back since we moved to Seoul." 

"When I was very small, Oppa moved to Seoul," I explain. "But, later, when I grew up, I thought that it didn't make much sense, that he moved from Haesang to Seoul for me."

"Was he a policeman in Haesang?" Moo young asks.

"He's been a policeman since he was 22," I say, "so, of course, he was a policeman in Haesang, as well."

Moo young looks far away, lost in thought.

"Hey," I say. "What are you thinking?"

I smile at him.

"Nothing," he says, and smiles back.

We hold hands and stroll through the streets

We take a taxi to the orphanage.

We get out at a rise, the start of a little wooded path that dips, and leads down to the orphanage.

We walk hand-in-hand; it's November, and the leaves and petals lie brown and crinkled on the ground. The moist, solid carpet of leaves and petals and twigs crackle under the crunch of our shoes, and I can smell the moss, green and ancient, and the earth, rich and deep. A bird runs swiftly across the blanket of leaves, stopping every now and then to peck at the earth peeping out between them, and a cluster of butterflies flit over, and hover above a blossoming patch of snowy-white, perfect little mushrooms that have sprung up on a gnarled branch that has broken off and lies on the ground, defying, and rejoicing in the chill of the approaching winter. 

He smiles at me, and holds my hand a little tighter, and I smile back, a little breathlessly.

I'm in an enchanted world; I had not imagined that it would be so beautiful.

We come to a clearing in the bend, and I see a patch of sky; in a moment, the trees have thinned, and I see the orphanage in front of me.

I rest my head on Moo young's shoulder as we watch the children at play outside.

I look at him, as he looks on, watching the children laugh, and run, and chase one another,  kicking a ball toward, and away from one another. He looks at them unsmilingly, his eyes far away.

Had he stood at the side, once upon a time, a long, long time ago, watching the others play? Had he stood in the shadows, withdrawn from the rest of the world, and let his eyes wander beyond them, to the wooded path, searching for a phantom of his past, a shadowy figure in a purple hat, willing him to emerge from the woods, and stride along the path, each step bringing him nearer and nearer to him, and to stop, and stand in front of him, hold out his arms, and say, "I am your father. I lost you, but now I have found you. I have come to take you home. You will never be alone again, my son."

Had he held onto that dream day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year?

Had the dream been crushed slowly, gradually, as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, and the months turned into years, as it dawned on him gradually, inevitably, that the man in the purple hat would never appear, and would remain a phantom, conjured from the lonely yearning of a child's heart?

The bell rings and all the children run into the chapel for choir practice.

We go into the chapel, and stand at the back, and listen to them sing. They're singing a song about love, and their voices soar like angels, pure and young and strong. I am enthralled. Halfway through their singing, I turn my head and Moo young's looking at me. His eyes are so warm and tender that I fill my heart swell with love.

The song comes to an end, and we clap. The sister turns at the sound of our applause, and her eyes widen in surprise and joy when she sees Moo young. She hurries over to us, her arms outstretched in welcome.

I play with the children outside as Moo young talks to the sister.

I'm exploring the woods.

"Behind the orphanage, there's a lake. In the middle of the walking pass, there's a rock. That's my special place."

"What did you do there?"

"I just sat there."

"What did you do, sitting there?"

"I just watched people fishing and dating."

The lake stretches before me, calm and placid; a slight wind blows, and stirs the tall, long grass at the edges, and the sun shines on the water, lapping gently at the rocks that dot the fringes of the lake.

I stand there, hushed and still, and I see the little boy, sitting alone on the rock, looking out to the lake, staring into the great emptiness, the aching loneliness, that stretched, yawning endlessly, like an ocean of eternity before him.

I'm aware of sadness, of loss.

I hear a treadfall behind me, and I turn.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I was watching you," I say, "watching the little boy that you were."

How many times had he sat there, alone on that lonely rock, staring at the people who belonged to another world, people with families, with loved ones, with homes?

How lonely, how alone, must that little boy have felt, sitting on that rock, staring at a world that he could never be a part of?

"Did you find out anything?" I ask.

"Not much," he answers.

We walk in the woods along the river.

"I thought about the orphanage a lot when I was small," I say. "I wondered what it was like living there."

"Is that because you'd have grown up there if your brother hadn't taken care of you?" he asks.

"Yes, I didn't think about it at the time, but when I was in middle school, it all came together, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle," I say. "Why didn't I have any baby pictures? Why was I born in 1990 when my father had died in 1988? My sister went to America and do you know what she said to my brother before she left?"

"What did she say?"

"Your sister isn't her, it's me, that's what she said," I say. "My brother is my real brother, but I'm not his real sister."

"It's not that weird, actually," I say. "I thought that I'd not be able to tell anyone until the day I die. I already feel apologetic to oppa for just thinking about all this."

"You'd surely have a lot of questions," he says. "You can't ask him because you're too apologetic to him?"

"I thought about it a lot, being an abandoned child, a lost child," I say. "I always thought that I was abandoned. Who are my parents? Why did they abandon me? Why did oppa have to take care of me?"

"The saddest thing is that I can't say thank you to him...thank you for raising me even though we're not related. I want to tell him that, but I can't."

I'm crying.

Moo young wraps his arms tightly, comfortingly around me.

I smile through my tears, snug and safe in his arms.

"I hope that oppa is happy," I say.

"That policeman's a great guy," Moo young says.

"He isn't that great," I say.

We stay locked in embrace for a long, long time.

We sit on his rock, side by side, our bodies pressed against each other.

"I wish that I have a time machine," I say, leaning my head against his shoulder, "so that I could go back in time and hug you."

"It's not too late," he smiles.

I laugh.

He turns, and looks down into my face. Our lips are almost touching.

"I want to sleep with you," he says, and his eyes are fierce, hot, demanding.

"Me, too," I breathe.

We move even closer, so that we can feel the warmth of our breaths and our bodies against each other.

We're in the hotel room.

We're sitting on the bed, facing each other, our legs folded, tucked under our knees.

I raise my arms high, and he pulls up my shirt slowly.

He raises his arms, and I pull his shirt up, and over his head.

We're laughing, and giggling, like children, and then suddenly, we fall silent.

We sit there, and stare at each other's faces, and run our eyes down each other's bodies.

I reach out my hand and lay it, palm up, against his cheek, against the softness and the warmth of his cheek, and he lays his hand over mine.

I cradle his face with both of my hands and trace the slight stubble running along his chin with my thumbs, feeling the roughness prick my skin.

We kiss softly.

He lowers me gently onto the bed, and lies on top of me, looking down at me.

I reach up, and pull him down to me, and when he kisses me, gently, softly, tenderly, the world goes oddly quiet, time stands still, and there's a moment of silence, of stillness, like a lull before the storm.  He kisses me again, deeper, harder, and my heart explodes into a hundred million fragments of joy. It isn't gentleness that I want, not this time, and I knot my fists in his hair, and pull him harder against me. "Jin kang," he whispers. "Jin kang," and his breath is lost against my mouth. He groans softly, low in his throat, and then his arms encircle me, gathering me, all of me, against him, all of him, and I kiss him back, clinging to him, drowning in him, in the sureness and hardness of him as the world blurs to nothingness, and nothing, and no one else exists, except him and me, and the ghosts of the past and the monsters of the future that nibble at the edges of my present dim into insignificance, and evaporate, and matter no longer.

I want to bottle up this moment, this memory, like a scent, so that it'd never fade, never go stale, and uncork it, whenever I want, and inhale, breathe it in, exult in it, drown in it, and live the moment, this moment most precious for all time, live and relive it all over again.