“I’ve no interest in your excuses, Kim Jueunsshi.  There are many responsibilities in my job description, but not one of them detail enabling your…continued incompetence.  If forwarding payroll data once a month is so taxing on your mental economy, maybe you should consider writing yourself a little note…perhaps create a recurring appointment in your calendar for the system to remind yourself, since the act of remembering seems beyond your current intellectual capacity.  Do you think that you could do that?  Do you have that ability?”  Awkward silence rang as you paused in the middle of the sidewalk, tapping your foot impatiently while waiting for your coworker’s response.  People rushed by on their way to their respective homes after their own interminable work days, not giving you another glance as you tried to keep from throwing a temper tantrum in public.  With a sigh, you held the phone from your ear, mentally counting to ten before returning to say, “Go to the bottom of your screen in your email and click on Tasks…”

Twenty minutes later, and a great deal of pacing back and forth, you had finally guided Kim Jueun through the process of creating a calendar reminder, though you were about one blood pressure point away from a .  Hanging up the phone in satisfaction, it was halfway through sailing its way into your purse when it once more began to ring.  Your eye twitched.  Snatching it, you swiped right, growling, “What could you possibly want, now?”

A small pause. 

Your blood chilled.  You recognized that particular brand of icy silence, and it was then that you realized…you messed up. 

A languid inhale, and then, softly, dulcetly, “Do you think that is an appropriate way to talk to your mother?”

Trying to answer, you realized that your jaw was clenched so tightly that you were in danger of losing a bicuspid.  You took a moment to relax, eyes rolling to the heavens in silent supplication.  “Omoni.  I apologize.  I thought that you were someone else.”

“And who else would be calling you from my phone?”

“I…just hung up from a long call.  I didn’t look at the phone before answering.”

“Unacceptable.  I could have been anyone.  Your boss, one of Abeoji’s clients, a minist—“

“Yes, Omoni, I take the point.  You’re right.  May I ask to what I owe the pleasure of your call?”

She huffed lightly, fully cognizant of the fact that you were just trying to rush her off the phone.  “What are you wearing?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t be coy, dear, it’s tiresome.”

“I’m coming home from work—I’m in work clothes.”

“I don’t have all day, Areum.  Specify.”

Looking around, as if asking for strength from nearby scenery, you answered.  “Black leather flats, black high-waisted pencil skirt, pink silk button down blouse, black wool bolero, and that black overcoat that you gave me last year.”

Your mother sighed, long suffering.  “I suppose that will have to do.  Are you even wearing any jewelry?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“What a pity.  Where are you?”

Looking around, you realized that you were halfway home--smack dab in the middle of the dining and retail district.

“I’m by that consignment store in Downtown.”

“Ah, that should work nicely.”

Patience thinning, you snapped.  “May I be invited to the conversation that you seem to be having with yourself?”

“Tone, dear.”

“I’m sorry, Omoni,” you gritted through clenched teeth.  “I’m on my way home from a particularly long day at work, so please tell me how I can best assist you.”

“I’ve set up a matsun with the Chief Executive’s son.  About four blocks away from where you are, at that little French-themed café.  It’s supposed to be, oh,” a pause while she checked the time, “about ten minutes from now.”

Dumbfounded, you froze, jaw slack.

“Close your mouth, dear.”

Looking around apprehensively, you shut your mouth with a snap.  “Are you watching me?“

“I know my daughter.  You’re very predictable.”

“That’s not true! I do things!”

Silence.

“Sometimes.  You expect me to drop everything to go meet some strange man in ten minutes?  For all you knew, I could have been at home already—“

“But you’re not, so this study in histrionics is entirely unnecessary.  Besides, aside from work, you go nowhere, and see no one.” 

That stung.

She continued, “And before you uselessly start down another path of pointless protesting, I called your work to make sure that you weren’t staying late.”

“I can’t believe this,” you muttered.

“Nine minutes,” she said coolly.  “It wouldn’t do to keep him waiting.”

“I’m not-“

“Run along, dear.  You wouldn’t want to disappoint Abeoji.”

The defiance died on your tongue.  She always knew how to twist the knife.  While your relationship with your mother was polite at best, she knew that you would rather die than disappoint your father who was the one who raised you while she was out gallivanting, sparkling, and networking, ostensibly for the purpose of making connections for your father’s business, but really just because she thrived on the attention, esteem, and praise that came along with being such an important man’s wife.  Hardly a month in your childhood went by when she wasn’t jetting off to Prague, Ontario, Madrid, Copenhagen, Dubai, London, Paris--and yes, those trips always ended beneficially for your father’s business--but it was hard seeing your father grow grey and sallow with loneliness while his wife twinkled her way across the globe. 

So you always did your hardest to be the best daughter that he could ever want.  And though, inwardly, you railed against the outdated idea of having your parents choose a husband for you, just the thought of seeing your father’s disappointed eyes made you sigh, decision already made.  Besides, it’s not as if he would make you marry someone that you couldn’t stand.  You would just get this over with, and then go home, climb into bed, and forget that this wretched day ever happened. 

“I can’t hear movement--are you walking, or internally monologuing, dear?  Six minutes.”

With a start, you headed toward the café.  “I’m on my way, happy?”

“Very.  Try not to mess it up like last time.”

Intense heat suffused your face.  “Jongdae was already in love with someone else,” you snapped.  “That’s not my fault!”

“If you say so, dear.”

Call me dear…one more time, you said, but internally, because as much as your mother got under your skin, you weren’t crazy enough to disrespect her.  Out loud, anyway.  Small, but formidable, she was a terror when upset, and despite your frustrations with work, incompetent coworkers, and overly-expectant bosses, you weren’t ready to meet your maker, just yet.

“Are you there?”

“Considering the fact that I cannot teleport, no.”

“Defiance is so declassé.  I raised you to be better than that.”

You hardly raised me at all, you said.  Well, thought.  “Well, I’m so glad we had this time together.  I should let you go.  You probably have important things to do.”

“That attempt to rush me off of the phone was inept, at best, but I do, in fact have other business to which I must attend, so I’ll allow it.”

“As always, a pleasure, Omoni.”

“Likewise, and remember, dear—“

Your dentist was going to have a field day with the nubs you were going to present on your next appointment.

“Oemma loves you.”

“You, too.”  Grudgingly.

Upon reaching the café, you took a moment to compose yourself, wipe the annoyance from your expression, and mold it into a semblance of something approaching pleasant.  Opening the door, you grimaced when your phone dinged with a text.  What now?! It was from your mother and was fortunately, for once, simple. 

Oemonster:  His name is Do Kyungsoo, and he’ll be sitting in the back, behind the lavender plant.

Flushing with the realization that you had no idea what he looked like, you looked around, discomfited, until you found the oversized potted lavender plant.  Starting forward, you looked just behind it, when your eyes locked with the man sitting in one of the hand-carved, high-backed café chairs. 

He had obviously spotted you some time before you had found him, his gaze intense, penetrating, his large eyes dark and fine, set in a face that would make a sculptor weep.  His brows were black and thick, a dominant, but not unattractive frame to his almost luminescent chocolate eyes.  His cheeks still had the roundness of boyhood, though his jawline was sharp enough to cut, and his mouth--

You faltered before quickly recovering and continuing toward him, setting a mask of politeness on your face to cover your brief discomposure.  “Do Kyungsoosshi?”

He rose smoothly at your approach, an almost sotto voce annyeonghasaeyo caressing your ear like velvet as he bowed before holding out a hand, the other tucked politely over his ribs. 

Mirroring his greeting, you shook his hand, your grasp businesslike, but your stomach flipped as his hand easily wrapped around yours, squeezed lightly.  His grip felt firm, but careful, like that of great power being held in perfect check, but still thrumming just under the surface. 

Looking down, he turned your