L'Indecis - Sunrise Drive

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“A dream inside a dream might not be a dream."

- Cormac McCarthy, Cities of the Plain

The house is on the very end of Imjeong road but Seulgi's never bothered to learn the name of it. It's a silly little habit of hers but she puts her own names on things. Labels. It's not Imjeong road in Hyochang, just off the corner of the park - not to Seulgi. It's Sunrise Drive, because at the end of the street is an intersection and along the far side of the road the big old oak trees stand like menhirs in their russet coats, and every morning at seven forty on the dot she crests the top of the steep hill and watches the first light of the newborn sun seep in through the gaps in the trees with a smile on her face like no other.

There's someone profoundly beautiful about it. In truth it's like any other sunrise, but there's a real sense of power in the ability to attribute special meaning to certain things - a sort of tangibility that makes us, us. The early morning light on Sunrise Drive is just one of those things for Seulgi. The others are various little idiosyncrasies only she enjoys - the disgusting zesty sweetness of icecream after brushing your teeth, the taste of cough medicine, this one part of her favourite song where the background instrumental drops out and it's just the vocals. Seulgi always sings that bit. Always with a little smile.

It's thirty minutes from her house to the restaurant on the corner of the avenue where she works. It's called The Burger Van - the name's in English - and if she's honest that's a rather terrible name because it's a diner, not a van, and it has never been a van, so why call it The Burger Van? Who knows. Maybe something got lost in translation. But she's like that, is Seulgi. Thinking on the pointless things. Adrift in her daydreams. Wondering, wandering, pondering. Thoughts about thoughts and thoughts about nothing.

On Mondays she's always a couple minutes late for the sun - because Mondays are Mondays, and Mondays are the worst - and on Fridays she's a couple minutes early, so on the whole it sort of balances out. If she's honest for a moment that makes no sense but Seulgi's not one to dwell so she doesn't. The hill is the hardest part of the journey. The rest is pretty flat ground and Seulgi's been riding since she knew how to walk - first with training wheels, then without, then in the skatepark with a couple of her friends from school. Always the tomboy, the outcast, with her black BMX and her gold stuntpegs and her little bunnyhops. Then it was a proper bike. A serious one. For serious people, like Seulgi very much was. Oh yes, so very serious.

When she stops on top of the hill she always takes a mental account of her surroundings. It's something she's trained herself to do, for a reason she has no real explanation for. There are three cars on the left side of the road, opposite where she usually pulls the bike up at the kerb, and six beautiful terraced houses. The grass is always cut to a perfect neatness, so that everything has its place and everything looks like it was made for a movie set or something. The house on the right, though, is the best one. It's the only one there, because it's twice the size of any of the others and around the right side of the house is an empty gravel driveway and a line of trees that keep the heat off of Seulgi's face when she's pedalling her way back in the dry evenings.

It's number thirty-one. It's quite a modern house, with a white porch and a long garden - also neatly cut, of course - and one Kia parked just in front of where Seulgi normally stops and waits in the morning. That's one of those minor mysteries for Seulgi - why doesn't the person that lives there just use the drive? Why the road? Not that it matters, but the way the mind wanders is often a curious little thing unto itself.

The first time she ever spots anyone coming out of that house is on a Tuesday in Spring, and entirely by accident. She's running fifteen minutes later because she forgot to charge her phone and it died in the night and there was no alarm and her body clock is forever stuck in some maladjusted state, incapable of ever embracing early morning starts, but it's okay because she's already rung her boss and told a little lie.

How long?

Half an hour. Sorry.

Which gives her fifteen minutes to sit there and catch her breath and draw idle shapes in the clouds with her finger. That's when she's spotted, but it isn't until she hears a voice asking her if she's alright that she turns and moves her hands away far too quickly to be anything other than quietly hilarious. As if she's been walked in on doing something she shouldn't. Caught red-handed painting the sky with her thumb. Whoopsie.

I'm fine, Seulgi says, smiling brightly. She sees the girl standing on the lawn of number thirty-one in her buttondown polo and she smiles even brighter. She smiles at everyone, does Seulgi. It's one of those little things again. One of those quirks. Smile at the world and eventually the world smiles back. Eventually you're repaid in full.

You looked a little lost there for a minute. Thought I might have to call the ambulance or something.

Oh, no, Seulgi says. I was just, uh, drawing shapes. With my fingers. I dunno. Sorry.

Drawing shapes with your fingers.

In the sky. It's kinda weird when I say it like that, I guess. I just get a bit bored sometimes.

The girl folds her arms in front of her chest and smiles with a sort of simmering curiosity and Seulgi offers a smile in return. Receive and give, give and get back. It's a perfect, harmonious cycle, and it always works. The problem is Seulgi's not much of a talker on anything more than a superficial level and not much of thinker when it comes to pretty girls and the one in front of her is very pretty indeed, in a sort of way that's immediately striking and rather disconcerting. Like something stepped out of an early-morning dream.

I don't normally see you stop, the girl says.

Seulgi doesn't know what to say to that, so she doesn't.

On your bike, I mean. I see you most mornings when you're riding past. From the window. It's not often you stop, is it?

Oh. Seulgi smiles shyly. This is the way I cycle to work.

Running late?

Something like that. I mean, yeah. Dunno why I said that. I am running late.

The girl laughs a little. It's a pleasant laugh, judgeless and open and warm, the sort of laugh that accompanies campfire talks in cool fields on purple eves. The sort Seulgi enjoys a great deal.

Would you like to come in? she says.

Come in?

For something to drink. Warm you up. It's pretty cold this morning.

It isn't, only Seulgi doesn't say as much. Instead she says: Yeah, sure. I'd like that very much.

The house is even nicer on the inside. There's the staircase right behind the doorway and a hallway to a laundry room in the back and the garden she can see only barely through the window, thin and pale tendrils of that morning sunshine. On the right is a door into a study room. On the left is the kitchen and behind that the livingroom. There's a conservatory door out into the back garden - more neatly cut grass, a small sprinkler at the far end, a classic American-style fenced yard.

The girl leads her into the kitchen. There's a marble countertop island running the middle of the room and the table is of a polished teakwood by the window, so that sitting and waiting for the pot to boil on the hob Seulgi can peer out and see everything she needs to see - the curvature of the road, the hill falling away to the intersection, the faint shadow of the oaks, the pink sunrise, the grass, the birds, the Kia, the opposite side of the pavement. She sits and waits. It takes her a minute before she stands up again and scratches her head and apologises.

What's up?

I totally forgot. I left my bike out there. I'll be back in a minute.

It's the sort of silly thing Seulgi does often, harmless and comical and rather endearing. She wheels her bike up the driveway and leaves it safely by the side of the house and then she lets herself back in and sits with her arms folded on the smooth table surface, just waiting quietly. She doesn't know what to say. The girl looks even prettier out of the light. With her dark hair down neatly about her shoulders and her pale skin and her kind eversmiling eyes. She takes the glass pot off the stove and pours two steaming cups of coffee and puts one in front of Seulgi and sits opposite.

They don't speak for a while. Seulgi watches the moiling of the coffee, the coiling of the heat in the steam. It smells amazing. It smells of nostalgia. It smells like silent bookshops and college library rooms and four AM cram sessions and exam stress and rooftop dates and lonesome Netflix binge-watch sessions. It smells like home away from home.

Seulgi blows and sips. A bitter taste but she likes it all the same. There's something strangely affirming in the bitterness that she can't quite explain. Something almost tangible. The girl watches her for a while over the table and all Seulgi can do is smile awkwardly and scratch at the back of her hand and check her watch.

You look rushed, the girl says.

Sorry. It's just, I've gotta be at work soon.

What time?

Just soon. It's okay. I'm alright for now.

You sure?

She smiles. I'm sure.

They're quiet again. Comfortable or not, Seulgi can't tell. She drinks and coughs into her hand and says: The coffee's good.

I'm a bit of a coffee fiend, really.

Is that why it's good?

Don't know. Maybe. I just thought I'd say it. Everyone always tells me my house always smells like coffeebeans.

Well.

What?

It does.

The girl laughs and it sets Seulgi off. They drink. The girl taps two fingers against the side of her cup, plainwhite ceramic. Where do you work? she says.

Oh, it's just this place down the road. Don't think you'll have heard of it.

Try me.

It's...it doesn't matter.

What's up?

It's just a really bad name, is all.

Is it The Burger Van?

Seulgi looks at her. How did you know?

Really bad name.

Oh my God. I can't believe it. Finally someone that agrees!

Why do they call it that anyway?

I've no idea. I've been working there eighteen months and I still dunno. Nobody does. Not my boss, not the assistant manager. Nobody. It's so stupid!

It's not even a van.

That's what I said!

Has it ever been a van?

Nope!

Maybe something got-

Lost in translation! Yes!

She looks at the girl and coughs again and scratches her hand. That's the ticket right there - the nervous itch. Those momentary idiosyncrasies.

Sorry. I got a little carried away.

It's alright, the girl says, smiling. What's your name? Not to, like, sound too forward or anything.

Seulgi.

Nice to finally meet you, Seulgi. I'm Irene.

Seulgi smiles. You too. I mean, nice to meet you too. Not...you know...you're Irene too. Because that wouldn't make sense. Jesus. Forget it. Ignore me, I'm rambling.

Kinda.

Sorry.

Don't apologise. We all ramble sometimes.

Yeah but, like, I ramble a lot. Like, a lot a lot.

It's fine. You want some more coffee?

Seulgi looks at her watch. It's ten past eight. Her boss wants her in by half past and it's fifteen minutes to The Burger Van. She should go. She passes the cup across the table and smiles softly and politely and says: Yes please.

Watching and waiting. The pot bubbles and boils and is done. Irene passes her another coffee and she shouldn't drink it because knowing her luck she'll need the toilet three or four times as soon as she's clocked in and because it makes taste quite dry and quite quite terrible for the rest of the day but she's too polite to say no to anything. So she drinks, and Irene watches her with a sort of patient smile, as if to pry something out of the silence they share, something workable, mouldable.

This is really good coffee.

Thanks, Irene says.

Did you make it yourself?

Yeah.

Really?

No, I'm kidding. I just bought a big bag of coffeebeans the last time I went shopping. They're these expensive Fair Trade ones from abroad. Pretty good, no?

I'd say so. But I'm no coffee expert.

Well, I am. Kind of. And I'd say they're not bad.

It's so good.

Kind of coffee you could get used to?

Yeah, Seulgi says. They share a shy glance. Seulgi watches the slow turning of the world. Light pouring in, light become more light become everything. The trees no longer capable of hiding the sun anymore. Or perhaps not wanting to. She's never been on Sunrise Drive this long. Never stuck around to wait.

I'm sorry, she says. I've really got to get to work.

It's okay. Thanks for stopping by. Kind of nice to talk to someone in the morning.

Seulgi with a smile again. Yeah. It was.

You're free for coffee any morning. If you want, of course.

She thinks about it for a second. What about tonight? she says.

I probably won't be in. I'll be at work.

I don't finish until eight.

Jesus, you're working twelve hours?

I get half days on Friday to make up for it.

Still.

Seulgi shrugs. It is what it is.

I won't be in at eight. Sorry. I'll still be at the office.

Where do you work?

For a publishing house.

Long hours?

Just irregular ones, which is still strange to me. Why we can't just do the usual nine-to-fives is beyond me. But hey. Not complaining.

What about tomorrow then? Morning, I mean.

Sure, Irene says, with a gentle little tease of a smile. Same time?

How about a bit earlier? I'm kinda already late as it is.

What time do you start normally?

Uh, eight.

So, half seven then? Or a bit before.

Sure, Seulgi says. Sounds like a date. I mean...like a plan. You know. Like a coffee...plan.

A coffee plan, Irene says with a giggle. I look forward to it, Miss...

Kang.

Miss Kang.

Me too, Miss, uh...

Bae.

Miss Bae. She smiles again. A coffee plan it is.

It's not even twenty past seven when she turns up the next morning. The sun hasn't even begun to show yet but for the first time in eighteen months it isn't on Seulgi's mind. Only Irene is, which is strange considering she knows as much about her as, say, somebody she would strike up a conversation with on the bus, or waiting for the subway, or in line at the supermarket, but still. Perhaps in some way it's a subconscious yearning for connection. Or maybe it's just that the coffee really is rather good and she's in the mood for a little pick-me-up.

She knocks and waits. Irene answers the door already laughing.

What?

You. With your bike like that.

What's wrong?

Nothing. It's just...I mean.

What?

Irene stifles a giggle. You look like a girl scout.

I didn't know what else to do with it.

You can just prop it up in the driveway like you did yesterday.

I thought I'd need to ask you first.

To leave your bike there?

Seulgi shrugs meekly. I just felt it was rude of me, you know.

Come on in.

She rests the handlebars of the bike against the side of the house and sits at the table again and waits. It smells of coffee and candy, a nauseating and frankly almost overwhelming combination of bitter and sweet. Drinks and snacks. Coffeebeans and jellybeans. Or whatever else. How she never noticed the sweetness yesterday is a mystery to her.

You're early, Irene says, handing her a scalding cup and blowing on her own.

Sorry.

Don't apologise. It's not like I'm busy.

I just didn't wanna be late for work again, is all. I wanted some time to enjoy the coffee.

Ah, a fellow fan.

It is really good, to be fair. What's that smell?

What smell?

It smells really sweet.

Oh. Irene pushes back her chair. She opens one of the cupboards under the sink and brings out two big glass jars, one filled with red and white candycanes and one filled with liquorice allsorts. Then she takes two more smaller jars and sets them out on the kitchen counter. Fruit pastels, strawberry bonbons.

You want any?

Uh, no. Thank you.

I've got a bit of a sweet tooth, if you couldn't tell.

A sweet tooth.

Uh huh. I'm coocoo for confectionery.

Seulgi laughs. Coocoo for confectionery. I like that.

Pretty good, right? She pops a bonbon into . You sure you don't want one?

No thanks. Is that your collection?

This? No. I've got, like, loads. Thirty-two now, I think.

Jars?

Uh huh.

Do they not go off? Stale. Whatever.

The jars are airtight, so they're fine for ages. Which is good, because I'm not exactly the biggest person in the world. My stomach is like a raisin.

You seem like a bit of a collector. Of sweets, I mean.

I guess I am. In fact, I know I am. But there are worse things to spend your time collecting, I think.

Suppose you're right. Thanks for the coffee.

Stop thanking me. Irene laughs. It's a laugh Seulgi thinks she would like to hear more often. And a face to match.

Sorry. I can't help it. I get nervous around new people. Super polite and stuff.

It's okay. That's a good trait to have, really. Politeness.

I suppose. Can I ask you a question?

Sure.

How do you not get fat?

Irene just laughs.

What?

I eat other things, you know? Not just sweets and chocolate. They're treats. For when I've been good. It's more about having them, if that makes sense. So I guess it's less of a sweet tooth and more of a sweet...uh.

Sweet touch?

Wow. That's pretty good, in a sort of abstract way. Can't believe I didn't think of that.

It only kinda works. Like you said, abstract.

Still.

Seulgi steals a quick glance at her watch. The sun's coming up over the oaks and the street looks like an oil painting and the sky is very blue, very clear.

Do you have to go? Irene says.

Seulgi looks at her. She looks at her for a long time - too long, if she's honest, but her mind has a habit of wandering and not thinking and now is absolutely one of those times. Just looking at Irene across the table. Two fingers on the coffeecup, hair swept back out of her face, delicate and tender and much too pretty.

Seulgi?

Uh. No. Sorry. I got distracted.

By me?

By, uh, nothing. I dunno. Coffee's good.

You've said.

Right. Sorry.

Stop apologising.

Sorry. I mean, uh...not sorry? Whatever. Ignore me.

You're funny, Irene says behind genuine laughter. She pops another strawberry bonbon into and and chews absently. Seulgi takes a moment to look around. The kitchen's nice. Sleek and modern, black and white, nice contrasts. It just works. She thinks she'd like to see more of the house. Not that she's an architect or anything, but some designs are meant to just be be admired, really.

After a while she looks at Irene again. Will you be here this evening? she asks.

I'm never back on the evenings, sorry. Never before eight or nine, at least.

I see.

Mornings, though? Mornings are fine. I can do mornings.

Me too. I mean, duh. I mean, like...never mind. How about tomorrow?

Sure, Irene says. She smiles again.

What?

I think this could become a habit, you know?

Me visiting?

Uh huh. I think I could get used to it.

Me too, Seulgi says. Me too.

What's your favourite colour?

Seulgi has to think about it for a second. It's a lot harder than it sounds. But then she answers anyway. Orange.

Ooh, Irene says. Interesting. Quite out there, really.

Why?

Well, most people just pick red. Or yellow, if they're feeling fruity. Orange is smack-bang in the middle. Why orange?

It reminds me of spring.

That's a good answer, Miss Kang. A real good answer.

Seulgi can't help but smile at nothing. Irene's not even sat there. She's stood behind the kitchen counter pouring out their coffees and then she takes something from the cabinet on her left, above the microwave and the two-slot toaster, and brings it to the table with their drinks.

Want some chocolate? It's Fair Trade, if you're worried about that.

You really are a sweet-tooth, aren't you?

Can't help it. She breaks off two little blocks and tastes one and lets out an audible noise that under any other circumstance Seulgi might blush at. But instead she just giggles like a kid.

Enjoying yourself there?

It's so good, seriously.

How much do you spend on sweets?

Honestly? Probably, like, my entire paycheck. No but seriously, quite a pretty penny.

I suppose there could be worse, like you said.

You sure you don't want some?

Seulgi thinks about it for a second. Then she just shrugs. Irene breaks her off a piece of the chocolate and holds it up for her in a way that Seulgi knows is deliberate - too close for her to take without feeling rude about it, an open invitation to eat it out of Irene's fingers. So she does, and Irene was right - it tastes exquisite.

What do they put in this stuff? she says, chewing with a hand in front of .

Oh my God.

What?

You even chew politely. You're so cute.

What am I doing?

With your hand, I mean. That's like, table manners-plus-one.

Sorry.

Please stop apologising. How is it?

The chocolate?

Irene nods.

It's amazing.

Told you. Want another piece?

No. I'd end up eating it all. And I don't like sweet stuff in the morning. Makes my stomach feel off. I dunno why. I'm not, like, lactose intolerant or anything. Or whatever it is.

Whatever it is. Irene laughs.

What about you?

What about me?

What's your favourite colour?

Irene makes an expression with her face that's part close consideration and part amusement. She says: Purple, I think.

Purple. Why purple?

Don't know. It's pretty, though.

Not, I dunno, pink?

Why would it be pink?

Colour of bonbons.

You...have a good point. Wow. But no. Purple's nicer. Want some more coffee?

Please.

She's taken to bringing the glass pot to the table with her when she sits down now. It's become a new habit of hers, to set the pot to boil and to pour them two cups and then to bring it over with her so she doesn't have to stand and waste time fussing about. So she's got a minute more to spend talking to Seulgi.

Do you live here alone? Seulgi says.

Yeah.

It's such a nice place. I mean, from what I've seen of it.

I make do.

How old are you?

Irene doesn't say anything. Seulgi realises only a moment later she's been looking down at her coffee and not really at Irene and she doesn't know why. Oh my God, she stutters. I'm sorry. That sounded really rude. Like I was prying or something. I didn't...I mean. Sorry.

But then Irene giggles, and all is right again in her little snowglobe universe.

It's okay. I'm twenty-seven. What about you?

Twenty-four. You look good for twenty-seven. Not that twenty-seven's old or anything. I mean...I just meant, like...I mean you look younger. You look twenty. Not that there would be anything wrong with looking twenty-seven either. I just, like...you know what? Ignore me, please.

You really do ramble, don't you?

Kinda. Sorry.

That giggle again. Then: It's fine. Keep going. And thank you, I guess. For the, uh, compliment. Or whatever it was.

It was meant to be a compliment. I'm just awful at them.

Seulgi looks about. The coffee's already going cold in her hands. She's been there half an hour and it's only ten past seven.

How long have you been living here?

A couple years now. I moved here when I was twenty-four. Wanted to get out of the city a little, which is kind of stupid when you think about it because we're still in the city, just a couple minutes away from the big stuff, but still. I couldn't pass up an opportunity on a place like this.

I don't blame you. Have you always lived here alone?

Irene looks at her a moment, amused. Always that smirk of amusement on her lips. As if there's something inherent in the way that Seulgi is that makes her laugh, makes her day a little brighter. Or perhaps it's just all of Seulgi, and not merely some divisible attribute that can be properly and rightfully quantified. The smile, the roundness of her face, the pure dichotomy of her - beauty and innocence, brilliant and gentle. A balm for wounds not easily seen. The soul's prime elixir is fullness and nothing but.

Sorry, Seulgi says again, for absolutely no reason other than to be overly polite.

If you're asking if I'm single, yes.

I, uh.

That's why I live alone.

I'm sorry.

For me being single?

No, I meant...like, for asking. For being rude. There's nothing wrong with being single. I'm single. I mean, not that me being single means there's nothing wrong with being single or...what am I even saying?

I don't know but I like the sound of it.

Can I have some more of that, please? It's so good.

Irene breaks off two pieces of the chocolate and passes them to Seulgi.

Sorry, Seulgi says, hand over , chewing again. I'm such a glutton.

It's just chocolate.

Yeah but like, this stuff? God, it must have so many calories.

Eh. Live a little, I say. You've got some on you.

What?

Hold still. You've got some on your lip.

Seulgi sits still. Irene runs a thumb delicate and tender over her wet lips and wipes away the residual chocolate with a sort of languidness that seems almost rehearsed, so soft and calm and everything but that for Seulgi. Just sitting there thinking of nothing good or interesting or funny at all. Just: Wow.

It's a game she begins out of the blue one day and it's a while before Irene catches on, or perhaps she caught on the first time Seulgi did it and she's much smarter than Seulgi would like to believe and she's just playing along for the sake of it. But it doesn't matter either way. What matters is she's not complaining, and neither is Seulgi.

You've got a bit on the corner there, Irene says. And Seulgi leans forward ever so slightly - as if inviting her - and pouts like a kid while Irene wets her thumb and dabs away the chocolate from the corner of . Sometimes from her lips. It's maybe two weeks before she mentions it at all.

You know, she says one Tuesday morning, it seems an awful lot like you're doing this on purpose.

Doing what?

Getting chocolate on your lips and pretending you don't know so I'll wipe it off for you.

I, uh...I mean, like...

No?

Seulgi scratches the back of her hand. She doesn't think Irene's noticed that about her yet - the constant nervous scratching, the inevitable tics - but Irene is very perceptive, much more than she knows. She's blushing, too, though she doesn't realise it, and Irene thinks it's the most adorable thing in the world.

That would be childish of me, Seulgi admits.

Maybe a little.

Very silly.

Sure, Irene says, smiling. But we all need a little silliness in our lives every now and again.

Yeah?

Yeah. Keeps us grounded, I think. Reminds us of who are we are at heart. Just big naive kids, out there in the world.

Seulgi looks at her. There's something in her eyes that is indescribable but it puts Seulgi at ease no matter what. A healing salve in that windowlit glimmer. They're silent for what feels like hours, days, decades.

Hey, Seulgi says, shy and reserved and so adorably Seulgi.

What?

Can I have some more chocolate? And some coffee too, please.

She's sat in the corner seat of the coffee shop on the avenue of Saehyung street when the thought first comes to her, almost like a lightning-in-a-bottle realisation, and it's quite strange and not like Seulgi at all and she doesn't quite know how to handle it. She's used to association of all sorts because that's what she does. It's a part of those little idiosyncratic activities that only she enjoys, putting shapes and words and colours and smells to certain things. Places, people, memories.

The smell of dust after rain - petrichor, they call it - and suddenly she's thinking of a day when she was thirteen where she was raking the leaves in the back garden with her dad after the rain had finally settled, the first time she remembers that smell, a sort of tenderness to it in her mind.

The first shine of the new day - well, that's easy. It's got to be daybreak on Sunrise Drive. What else could it be, really?

The sound of a car horn: That was when they were going to the seaside when Seulgi was a kid and they got stuck in traffic because it had been raining all night and an accident had closed off the main road, and her dad kept pressing on the horn and telling them to Get a move on or get out of the way! Only not that nicely. And not that quietly.

The colour orange: That was spring - blooming, new, exciting. That was being a kid and sliding down the hills behind her grandma's house with their little cousins and playing in the mud in their wellies and knocking the sludge from their feet before they came back into the house for dinner.

And now, sitting in the corner of some unknown and unremarkable coffee shop, smelling the coffeebeans, listening to the dim rattle of ceramic and tins and glass pots, sniffing out the faint and yet instantly recognisable scent of dark chocolate in the air, Seulgi sits there and thinks: That's Irene. That's Irene's house, at 31 Sunrise Drive. That's my sweet, sweet coffee girl.

She stirs three times and then puts the spoon on the little ceramic plate. But not before she taps the side of the cup. Just once, unless she's messed up her rhythm on the stirs. In which case, it's twice. The fact that Seulgi knows this is perhaps in itself a little worrying, but she doesn't care. And neither does Irene. She sits and sits and drinks and smiles and Seulgi smiles and drinks and asks questions about nothing. It's at the point where she's cresting Sunrise Drive at six thirty in the morning just to get a full seventy-five minutes with Irene. And she doesn't seem to mind that, either.

How's the publishing coming along? Seulgi says.

The publishing?

Uh huh.

I mean, it's alright. Nothing too exciting. Why'd you ask?

Dunno. Just wanted to ask you something, is all. Sorry.

For what.

Dunno that either.

Irene giggles. It's a laugh Seulgi can extract from her almost at will by now, a sort of learned response to almost anything Seulgi does or says. Sometimes she sits there with that great dozy grin on her face until Seulgi asks her what's so funny and all Irene can say is: You. You're so funny. You're just the cutest. And now you're blushing. And it's even cuter. God, how are you this cute?

Ad infinitum.

They've graduated from strawberry bonbons and liquorice allsorts to gummy worms and hardboiled sticks of rock - or at least Irene has, and every now again Seulgi samples some of the goods and grimaces and fights back a cough while Irene laughs and eats and sips her piping hot coffee.

I like this, Irene says. It's a Thursday morning, seven fourteen, no sun yet.

Like what?

This. Just this.

Me too, Seulgi says.

I like your company.

I like yours.

I like you, Seulgi.

I like you, Miss Bae.

That smile again. She doesn't even have to earn it anymore. It just comes whenever she opens . Like clockwork. Like beautiful, time-harnessed clockwork. The silence they share is comfortable, so much so that Seulgi would almost describe it as refreshing. She watches Irene watch the world. The ripening of the pink day. She takes a block of the dark chocolate - the same chocolate Irene's got boxes and boxes of - and eats it in such a way that there's absolutely no chance some of it doesn't go on her lips. And then it does. And Irene reaches across the table and wipes it away with her thumb and they're both silently satisfied, like two repressed nuns unable to act or voice what it is they want, both smiling like giddy schoolkids in a playground.

You want some more coffee?

Please.

Do you always say please?

I'm just polite. Sorry.

Irene laughs.

Sorry for saying sorry.

Do you ever take cream? In your coffee, I mean.

No. I hate it.

What? Why?

It's too...what's the word? Rich?

That earns her another giggle. Maybe one day she'll begin to tally them. See how many she can get in a week. See if her maths is reliable at numbers that high.

I dunno, she says. Rich is all I could think of. I guess maybe I'm weird or something like that?

Maybe. You don't like candycanes either. So...yeah. Sorry.

Nothing's sweeter than candy and nothing's richer than cream. I think I heard that in a movie somewhere. But it's true, right?

I guess, Irene says. They're just acquired tastes. The richest and the sweetest.

Suppose so. Maybe I'm just a pleb.

Maybe.

They're quiet. Unassuming. Then Irene says, with a sort of practiced nonchalance: I've got the day off tomorrow.

Really?

What?

Nothing. I mean, no offence, but it seems you just work...a lot.

I do. But tomorrow's a day off. I booked it ages ago. Not for any real reason. I just figured I needed a break, you know?

Yeah.

Irene looks at her over the rim of her coffeecup. Maybe I'll get some housework done, she says. I've always loved housework.

She rings and waits. She's biting her nails without even realising it. That's her phone tic - she can't scratch her hand on the phone and she can't play with her hair or bite her lip because she's speaking so instead she chews her nails right down as far as they'll go. She waits. The first time it goes to answerphone and she hangs up immediately. The second time her boss picks up on the first ring.

Hey, I just wanted to ring to let you know I won't be coming in tomorrow. Yeah, I'm sorry. I'm really sick. Been feeling really under the weather these past few days. I've got, uh, diarrhoea. Yeah, it's stomach troubles. I'll see you on Friday. Oh, Monday? No, that's fine! That's fine. See you then. Okay. Bye.

The little paper bag is awkward in her pocket because it doesn't fit right and even more awkward when she's cycling back the four miles she rode to buy them in the cool afternoon soak of the sun. It's a lovely day, clear and warm and hanging on in there. As if the sun refuses to sleep any longer than it absolutely must. She stands by the door, knocks, waits. Then when Irene answers she puts the bike around the side of the house. Never before, even when Irene tells her it's okay. It's just something she does. One of those idiosyncrasies again. The curse of niceness, maybe. The blessing.

I thought you were at work, Irene says when she's back.

I got a half day, she lies. Figured I'd just pop in. If that's okay. Since, you know...you said you had the day off.

No, it's fine. Come in.

I got you a little something.

What?

A present, I guess. Not much.

Irene looks at her with curiosity. She takes the paper bag from her pocket and hands it over. They're gobstoppers. Sour apple ones.

Oh my God, where'd you get these?

Just some place.

You have to show me where. I haven't had these in years!

They sit and pop a gobstopper in each and and chew for a long time. They laugh at how ridiculous they look. They talk most of the evening away about nothing. Seulgi's supposed to have diarrhoea. She's not meant to be in until Monday but that's fine. She's got Irene to keep her company until then. It's almost eight in the evening when Irene offers her something to eat that isn't candy. All she can do is say yes. Yes please.

It's just toast, and it's got the everpresent smell of coffee and chocolate lingering on it, but it's Irene's toast, and somehow she's buttered it just how Seulgi likes. As if she's telepathic or something. When they're finished Seulgi sits back and says meekly: Do you want to go for a walk?

A walk?

Yeah. Like, you know, around the neighbourhood or something.

It doesn't take Irene even a moment to answer. Yeah. Let me grab my coat.

They walk headlong into a setting sun like pilgrims in the last of the pale light, side by side, quietly humming to themselves. It smells of freshly cut grass and lavender and spring days. It smells of Irene and Irene's coffee. It smells of sweetness, of sour gobstoppers, of days long gone and days yet to come. They brush hands but they never go further. They just tease, titillate, the briefest of caresses against bare skin in the cold, fingers playing for forbidden positions.

Seulgi thinks about Irene. She doesn't know what Irene's thinking about but Irene's thinking about her. They brush hands again. In the park on the corner they sit on one of the benches and soak up the last of the sun in silent harmony, two of a perfect pair. There are kids laughing in the street. A bird picking at the blossomtrees. Petals on the path, rainwater in the gravel. Seulgi can smell Irene. She can almost feel her without even being close, this fleeting tangible force set to expire.

She looks painfully beautiful even in minimal makeup and a winter coat. It's not cold enough for that coat but she wears it anyway. She looks at Seulgi and Seulgi thinks for a moment her heart might not be physically fit enough to cope with the stress it's putting on itself, racing like the body electric in her chest. Her hands are numb to the touch. Irene's breath is so clear in the cool she can almost taste it. She thinks about asking it and then thinks against it and then thinks one more time that the worst that could happen is a simple No, so where's the harm?

Can I-

Yeah, Irene says. You can.

You didn't even let me finish.

You were going to ask if you could kiss me.

Seulgi just looks at her.

You don't need to ask, but I appreciate it. You're like a teenager. It's so cute. So cute.

Sorry.

Seulgi.

Yeah?

Kiss me.

And there on that park bench, in that solitary pinchbeck dusk, she does.

It's Monday and it's a long one, but the burgers aren't going to flip themselves and her bills aren't going to disappear anytime soon. By midday her apron's covered in grease. Her boss asks her how she's feeling and she says better and technically - technically - it's not a lie. She does feel better. Better than the already great she felt a week before. Better than ever.

She clocks out for lunchtime break just before one and takes her apron off and balls it for a Kobe toss into the corner of the cloakroom. She's alone for a couple minutes, thinking about nothing much - that's a lie, thinking about Irene - and then Wendy comes in with a long and thin paperwrapped box in her hands.

What's that?

It's a parcel.

For who?

For you.

What?

Wendy hands it over to her. She shakes it about. Lifts it up and puts her ear to it for some stupid reason and shakes it again. It sounds like food, she thinks. Then Wendy says: It sounds like food.

Who's it from?

Doesn't say. You gonna open it?

The wrapping is so neat it looks done with a machine. She unties the two little silk bows and pulls it all away and drops it to the floor. It's a white box of Belgian chocolates, all carefully selected and laid out, two layers of them, truffles and white chocolate creams and crunchy hazelnut.

Now that's the expensive stuff, Wendy says. Seems like you've got a secret admirer.

Not so secret.

Uh huh. That right? What's that say?

What?

That.

She points to a yellow post-it note fallen among the discarded wrapping. Seulgi's already smiling like an idiot. She puts the box aside and bends down and takes the post-it note and reads it and giggles and smiles.

What's it say?

Oh, Seulgi says, nothing interesting. Just something silly, is all.

Something silly?

Uh huh.

And forty minutes later, she's still smiling.

She's not bold enough to do or say anything upfront, because that's not the way Seulgi rolls. She's always been a little nervous. Anxious. Jittery. She doesn't like confrontations or arguments and never has. They make her clam up. Maybe it's naive to expect everyone to always get along but Seulgi likes to live her life thinking as much because it's simpler that way, and perhaps less cynical, and that, she thinks, is what the world needs. A good healthy dosing of innocence.

So when they're sat by the window again, and this time it's a quarter to seven in the morning - which she swears her body's adapted to now, as if it were waiting for Irene all along - and there's a big bar of dark chocolate on the table between them, and two French bagels on a little plate with a helping of cream in a saucer, and the coffee smells so good, she just sits there wondering if she should say something or not.

Irene smiles, laughs.

What?

You're thinking of something.

Everyone's thinking of something, Seulgi says.

Yeah but, like, you get this little frown of concentration when you're thinking hard. It's adorable.

It's nothing.

What's up?

Nothing's up. I mean...you know.

Well.

Seulgi just looks at her. She's not good with her words but maybe she doesn't need to be. She checks her watch. Ten to seven now, so she's got about an hour again, and she swears that her cycling's gotten much faster since the first time they met. Which, when she thinks about it, makes a whole lot of sense, in a sort of silly and loveable way. Ten to seven means they've got time to talk about a great deal but they never do because they never need to. They're rationed on speech, hampered by a sort of gentle childlike awkwardness that both enjoy the company of, but two things that are never in short supply are smiles and laughter, and that does Seulgi just fine.

Seulgi.

What?

You going to talk or just sit there gawping?

Can I ask a question?

Sure.

Why do you park your car out there on the street? Why not in the driveway?

Don't know. I just do. No real reason.

And Seulgi knows what that means, knows it all too well - it's one of those habits. Those idiosyncrasies.

Any more questions?

Can I have some chocolate?

A giggle. You don't need to keep asking.

You said do I have any questions.

Yeah, but not that.

Sorry.

You don't need to keep saying sorry either.

It's just part of me. Sorry.

Yeah, I've kind of figured that bit out by now. Yes, you can have some chocolate.

She takes a piece and holds it in her palm and just thinks. Maybe she should say something now but the chances of the words coming out in the right order and the right cadence are slim at best, hilariously pathetic at worst. But does it matter? Irene already knows what she's going to say. It's this unspoken coda they're both aware of. Three words on the tip of her tongue, tap tap tap on the palate of the teeth, one touch on the second word and then a pursing of the mouth. Eight letters.

Except she's not the best thinker - not in front of pretty girls, of course, and Irene is the prettiest of girls - so instead she take another two pieces of the chocolate and makes a rather childish display of eating them, making sure she's smeared enough of it on her lips that Irene will have to use both her thumbs, or one thumb twice. It's almost , in a sort of strangely comical New-Wave French cinema kind of way. Irene just looks at her.

Have I got some on my lips? Seulgi says.

There's no reply.

Irene?

You're such an idiot, Irene says, and she breaks into a little giggle that Seulgi for all the world wishes she could bottle.

She's hesitant a little, waiting for Irene to wet her thumb and reach out as she's done so many times before - it's their little game now, one of their shared idiosyncrasies, one of their personal little nothings - but instead she leans as far as she can across the table and cups Seulgi's face in her pale and gentle hands and kisses her, and all Seulgi can do is sit there and smell the floral tang of her early-morning perfume and indulge in the feeling of fingers against her tender skin and smile into the kiss like she's never smiled before. When Irene pulls back she's messy with chocolate, messy with Seulgi, and she looks across the thin membrane of space that is the table and picks up one of the bagels and smirks.

Have I got some on my lips? she says.

Uh...just a little.

Irene doesn't say anything else. She giggles to herself and eats, and Seulgi in response can only pick up her coffeecup very gently, careful that her trembling fingers don't turn Irene's nice teakwood table into a mess of broken crockery and hot coffee, sip once, twice, three times, and laugh to herself shyly. She's gone red. Very red.

What? Irene says.

Seulgi just laughs to herself.

What is it?

Man, she says at last.

What?

I never knew coffee could be so sweet.