(Not marking it but this is a little M for GD's potty mouth.)

One
 

"Remember those walls I built?
Well, baby they're tumbling down..."
-Halo, Beyonce

I really don’t know why my mother would name me after a flower. Azalea. Or why my arms are shorter than the average. Or why don’t I get at least a little more flab no matter how much I binge on chocolate cake. But the truth is, I have never really complained about these things since today, as I tap my right foot against the wooden floor at the front porch of Mr. Kwon’s house.

So I was bored. Who wouldn’t be? I’d been standing here for 20 minutes, waiting for him to open the door up.

I wish I could just deduce that the guy wasn’t home—in his new home, smaller and a bit shabbier (he sold his million-dollar condo, by the way)—but I could hear One Of A Kind playing in his music player. Actually, it was loud I bet I could cover my ears and I would still hear every line to the song clearly. The point was, he’s obviously home. Unless ghosts roam inside his house and decided to hit some music.

Not having any fun with waiting anymore, I decided I’d go in. I gingerly toyed with the doorknob, checking if it’s locked or not. Lo and behold, it was not. And it would have made me happy had my concern for Mr. Kwon’s safety didn’t get the best of me. Didn’t he get the memo? That when you play loud music, to make sure your doors are locked?

Anyway, I made it in. I specifically marched to the living room, assuming since that’s where I heard the sound was coming from then he must be there.

And I was right. Mr. Kwon was at the living room, sitting on the floor with the side of his head plopped on a futon. Eyes closed, he looked worn out like he just gotten beat up by a bunch of UFC fighters.

Well, he didn’t have bruises so it’s a big relief that my analogy will stay an analogy. I peeped closely at his arms and face that’s why I knew. That said, it also explained why I literally jumped back and knocked over a wooden figurine. Because Mr. Kwon suddenly opened his bloodshot eyes. You know, like that scene from suspense movies that make you jolt or jump on your seat and then curse for making you do so?

While I mentally thanked fate for not taking my life away yet from what could appeared to have been a heart attack, Mr. Kwon slowly held his head up, massaging his forehead with the fingers of his right hand. Judging from the cans of beer lying on the ground, I could very well construe that he had been drinking. Not that it was recent news. As what he had made tremendously clear, drinking had become his new best friend.

Face scrunched, Mr. Kwon turned to me, sizing me up. “Are you the cleaner from the agency?” He asked in a slurred voice.

I looked around. Well, his house was in dire need of cleaning up, no doubt about that. Underfed rats and cockroaches could definitely make a comfortable living out of this place.

It’s a shame that Mr. Kwon had just moved here and this was what had already become of his home—a breeding site for a new strain of bacteria or virus that could potentially kill millions of people.

Marvelous.

By the time I brought my gaze back to him, he was already sitting on the couch, the back of his head propped up to the rear.

“I…I’m not the cleaner, Mr. Kwon,” I answered, deciding whether or not I should take a seat myself. I opt to remain standing though, tugging the strap of my brown knitted bag which was dangling across my body.

“What did you say?” he asked, tilting his head a little to the side to show one of his ears. “I can’t hear you.”

Of course. The loud sound. I walked up to the music player, realizing that it was now playing Heartbreaker. His song. Such a wonderful anthem for bitter heartbroken people. Like the very one who sang it.

 I turned the volume down, thereafter turning back to him and repeating what I said. “I’m not the cleaner.”

“Are you one of those dirty pigs then who I would love to throw my crap on just so they’d know what real is?”

It took me half a minute to fully digest that sentence. “Uhh, no, I’m not from the press either.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a homeless bum and you’re here to solicit donation?” He made sure to sound as discriminatory as possible, which I must admit quite offended me.

I ran my eyes over at my appearance. I was wearing a green long-sleeved knitted cardigan, blue denim knee-length skirt, and hazelnut brown boots. So this wasn’t probably the best ensemble to wear during the summer, but matching it up with a pink beanie on my head, I thought I looked cute. Definitely, not homeless.

Then he waved his hand, as though swatting a fly away from his proximity. “Go away. I don’t have money to give. And if you don’t mind, turn the volume up on your way out.”

He leaned his head at the head rest again and closed his eyes.

“I am not a homeless bum, Mr. Kwon,” I sort of whined. “But do I really look like one? No, wait. Don’t answer that question.” Then I cleared my throat, straightening my back up. “My name is Azalea Han and I’m here to offer you a job.”

He darted me a straight face right away. “A job?” He scanned me from head to toe before gazing into my eyes with a mocking snort. “What, like your fashion consultant?”

I fought the urge to recoil. Usually, when some people poke fun at the way I dress myself up, I just ignore them. But with Mr. Kwon, it’s kinda hard to do that. And now it sort of stung.

Well, he sure knew ‘fashion’ probably more than Cesar Millan knew about dogs. So when he says I needed a fashion consultant, that was it, regardless of whether the insulting part in it was included or not. Sometimes I wish I didn’t live in a country that believes trendy clothes are the next to godliness. Or that big, shiny buckles are as valuable as a pearl. Whatever happened to simplicity? To comfort? Didn’t Jesse J said that it’s not about the cha-ching, cha-ching? Or the ba-bling, ba-bling?

“That’s not it, actually,” I pointed out. “I—”

“Ugh!” He suddenly groaned, interrupting me. “I’m having the worst ing headache. Do you have a pain killer? I badly need one right now.”

I fumbled inside my bag. The second I got hold of my little pill box, I handed a Tylenol at him. Mr. Kwon took it and then crawled over to the cans of beer sitting or lying on the floor, searching for presumably one that still contained a few gulps in it.

I raised an eyebrow at that, as if to say he was insane. Or pathetic. But that was the very least of my concerns at that moment. “Well, this looks like a bad time to talk business so I’m just going to leave my card.” I laid the mentioned item I took out from my wallet on the center table whilst Mr. Kwon settled himself contentedly on the floor, holding on to his chest an empty Budweiser like it was a teddy bear. “Hopefully, you’ll be sober tomorrow and give me a call. I can assure you that your involvement in my project will benefit us both to a massive degree.”

I was really hoping for an answer, an affirmative one at that. But unlucky me, all I got was a snore. Mr. Kwon had already fallen fast asleep.

~*~