When I was fifteen my father told me that I could do anything I wanted. Be whatever I wanted. Go and get the things I wanted. Not in a supportive, encouraging way, but in a way that let me know he had no interest in what I did with my life—and he proved it by kicking me out of the house one week later.

            At the time, I didn’t even want to give him the pleasure of me caring; I was young and rebellious, ornery and self-consumed. Doing the things I wanted, going the places I felt like going, getting the things I needed—this was on my agenda anyway. Hearing his icy admonition only made me that much more determined to have my way, or die trying.

            I loved my father, regardless of his seemingly stern and hard-hearted nature. He wasn’t a tyrant, and he wasn’t a monster. He was simply a single parent who didn’t know what the hell to do with his cantankerous son. You can’t really blame the man, I really was a handful; not that I’d always been that way, but after my mother split on us nearly seven years before, I’d just stopped caring—or, at least, admitting that deep down I really did.

            So, after putting my father through hell, at fifteen I was on my own. At fifteen, I never looked back. Not even once. Not until now—twelve years later…

            The first time I met the man I would come to marry, I thought he was a jerk. Of course, he was hardly a man at that point—just barely nineteen and full of angst. We were the same age but the stress his short life had brought him seemed to etch the evidence in his face—lines of a sort of angry sorrow, I mean; not that he looked old as much as he did weathered. Burdened. He’d been abandoned by his parents, both in different ways, and no matter how he denied this effect on him, I knew right away that it gave him a reason to hold a grudge against the world.

            I, however, had two amazing parents: regardless of my ‘differences,’ my mom and dad were always supportive of everything I did. You couldn’t ask for better folks than mine, and it made me sad that he would never know that kind of blessing. I guess that’s why I did what I did… got all vulnerable and fell in love with the poor bastard. 

            “Kibunnie,” he told me that first time he’d met my family formally—that’s what he called me then, a little pet name of his— “Kibunnie,” he said, “I’m gonna marry you one day. Just watch.”

             “You’d make me watch my own wedding?” I laughed that day. “That’s an thing to say.” I didn’t really believe him, you see. I thought it was more of a big joke. How could we? How could something like that really happen? We’d been dating for a little while, though we never called it that. At the time, we just said we were ‘chingus’ later turned ‘roommates,’ but never boyfriends and certainly not spouses.

            All he did was smile his generous pabo-grin and reply, “You better be on time, Kibunnie. Don’t keep me waiting.”

            Don’t keep you waiting… don’t keep you waiting. For some reason, at the time he said this I felt a strange sensation run down my spine. We were on our way to the subway, pace slow and leisurely down the crowded streets where the few people who seemed to notice us gave us temporarily confused glances before resuming their business. We didn’t draw much attention normally; just two men walking side-by-side, talking and laughing like any other pair of people. To look at us, you couldn’t tell anything was different; we looked the same as everyone else.

            Charged by this mysterious force, I quickly grabbed his hand and laced our fingers together almost desperately. “Jjongie,” I said then, “I don’t want to be alone. Promise you’ll never leave me alone…”

            He chuckled. “Alone? You couldn’t last five minutes without me. You’d get bored.”

            “I’m serious,” I answered, squeezing his fingers tighter.

            “Hm? What’s wrong?”

            “I don’t know… I just—just promise me, okay?”

            “Sure, Bum. I promise,” he grinned. “I’d be a fool to ever want to leave you anyway. The only way I ever would—”

            I didn’t want him to finish the thought. I knew what he was going to say. And that was exactly what I was afraid of. 

            When I met the love of my life it was hardly the way I expected. Hell, I didn’t even really believe in the whole ‘love of my life’ thing. I wanted to, but it was hard for a kid who lost the love of two parents—people who were supposed to love you most in this world—to believe that such a thing really existed.

            Kibum always said I was a hopeless romantic trapped in an ’s body. That was his way of saying that he liked me. Funny guy… he was a mystery from the first minute I met him. Every time I thought I understood him, could speak his language, had him all figured out—that was the exact moment that he changed the game on me. He was too complex to be predicable, too smart and clever for someone like me to fully understand.  

            Kim Kibum was from a moderately wealthy family. They had a small chain of stores that brought in imported goods from America and sold them to locals who couldn’t get enough of Western snacks, accessories, and novelties. They also sold American liquor, cigarettes, and condoms, of all things. items, things that only people who were already into that kind of stuff would really appreciate. If it had English on it and came from the States, chances were the Kim family sold it.

           As a result, their only son also had a thing for Western culture—though he was much more picky about the things he gravitated to. For Kibum, his eyes sparkled over all things designer and chic, anything that suggested high class and the leisurely privilege of world travel—this was what he loved the most in life. He was a dreamer with expensive taste. And he had the fashion sense—and the attitude—to prove it.

            This was how I met him: a simple trip for some cheap food at the convenience store around the corner, that’s all it was supposed to be, but it ended up as so much more. I had very little money; all I could afford on my buser’s allowance was quick and low-quality snacks, packaged bowls of day-old curry that you had to have heated up for you in the clerk’s microwave behind the counter, five-and-dime sushi in a plastic tin with faded letters up and down the sides. I didn’t have a lot but I also didn’t need a lot. I worked as many hours as I could get; without school getting in the way, this was fairly easy. Being emancipated from my family at so young an age wasn’t half bad and, even if it got lonely at times, I still had two roommates that I could hang out with when our schedules overlapped.

            Anyway, I’d had every intention of going in that store around the corner like I did almost every night when I noticed a sign on the door and darkened windows—We’re Sorry, We’re Closed, it said, followed by the simple words Family Funeral.

            “Family funeral?” I scoffed at the note. I remember thinking it kind of a joke then—I was a stupid kid that had yet to mature through long-lasting resentments. Like, was the whole family dead? Did the employees get a holiday, or were they family too? It was weird for me to think about a family all going together this way; I was sure it didn’t mean that but still, I got caught up in thinking about it: a family dying together, all at once, leaving a void in the world that affected a handful of strangers on their way to by second-rate food. I was sure it meant that someone had died and that the owners, who doubled as clerks apparently, were too deep in mourning to open shop that day. And then I wondered on how nice it would be to have the kind of financial freedom to take such a hit—closing your business for a full day like this meant a big loss of income. That, or the loss itself meant more to them than my measly won could ever add up to. For some reason, the whole thing irritated me, but made me sad also.

            My stomach was growling. I looked around a little until I saw the glowing lights in one of the windows nearby, a strange and eccentric looking shop not too far from my usual spot. It had an American flag in the logo, a British one too. It was easy to tell from that what kind of stuff that they sold. And I could bet that it would be expensive. Typically these types of specialty shops charged extra for things. But I was hungry, real hungry, so I decided to check it out anyway, on the half chance that I could find something to satisfy my need.

            The store was interesting but impossible to navigate. I made my way through the aisles like a sailor lost as sea; I had no idea what I was looking for much less looking at. Most everything was in English, a lanauage I could not read, and the things that I could read were not very helpful, especially the won sign on each over-marked package. They definitely hiked up the prices. Lucky for them they were in a good area, or else I doubted the business would do as well as it was. 

            Smile, You’re On Camera read a sign nearby, in fancy script and hung in an expensive frame. I must have stared at it a little longer than normal because I heard someone clearing their throat just then, followed by the words: “Condoms are that way, mister.”

            I was so confused by this that at first I didn’t respond, just stared at the kid behind the counter who said this, and apparently to me. “Excuse me?” I finally asked, dumbfounded. 

            “I said, condoms are that way.” He was pointing now.

            “Did you call me ‘mister’?”

            “You look like a greasy guy to me. Why else would you be in here?”

            I wasn’t even a month over nineteen and here this kid was calling me an old dirty man. “Uh… you got the wrong idea I think—”

            He shrugged. “Do I? That’s fine.”

            I continued to stare at him blankly. He looked so much different than any other person I’d seen before: in head-to-toe designer, all mix-matched and odd patterns, his fashion sense was as bizarre as it was sophisticated; he wore a lot of rings, some larger than others, had a long pendant necklace draped around his neck and about five earrings, if not more. He wore a decorative hat on his multi-color hair and an otherwise simple apron that he’d decorated with patches and pins; his black leather boots were laced high above his shins, which he wore over knee-high socks, and it was easy to tell from his face that he knew how to apply makeup since he’d charcoaled his eyes, accentuating his already narrow feline eye-shape. I’d never seen a guy dress like this before, not ever.

            “Look, man, I’m just looking for some chow. Have anything cheap that tastes good?”

            “Cheap and good? Kind of an oxymoron, isn’t it?”

            “An oxy-what?”

            “I mean, usually anything worth putting in your mouth isn’t cheap.”

            For some reason this made me blush a little; I surprised even myself by this reaction. I was really at a loss how to take his words. I’d never met anyone like this before and had a feeling, very quickly, that I never would again. “Uh… yeah, well, I’m on a poor man’s salary, ya know? Quik-Stop’s closed—”

            The clerk rolled his eyes at this. Apparently they’d got a lot of their neighbor’s customers that day. You’d think they’d be happy about the spike in business but to him it seemed more of an inconvenience. “This isn’t a gas station. We don’t have cheap stuff here.”

            I was still glancing over some of the price tags. “I can see that… ₩127000 for a pair of gloves?”

            “Those are Ralph Lauren gloves. Deerskin with cashmere lining. Do you know anything?”

            “Still seems pretty expensive. I bet you could find those in the States for less than that.” I honestly had no clue. I just wanted to argue with him. I could see that his face was getting flustered.

            “Pabo, if we sold it at retail we wouldn’t make any money. We’re not in the States, now are we?”

            “Do you always talk to your customers like that?”

            “Only ones who come in looking for -wrappers.”

            “Jeez, what happened to you? Boyfriend break up with you, or something?” I meant it as an insult but noticed quickly that it stung more than I imagined it would. The clerk’s face went red and his eyes, angry. But instead of insulting me back, he just turned around and went back to work. I didn’t expect this so I added, in a much softer tone: “Er—sorry. I’m just looking for something to eat, all right? Can you recommend something? I don’t know what any of this is.”

            The kid with the intriguing fashion sense then picked up a bag of overpriced crackers with some fancy logo on it and said, “Sure.”

            “Anything a little more… substantial? I’m hungry and I’ve got, like, ₩5000 to my name. Help a guy out?”

            “Nothing you can afford apparently. Aren’t you a little old to be living like a teenager? Lose your job, or something?”

            “I’m not even twenty yet…”

            His eyes grew large. “Are you serious? You look like you’re twenty-five, or something. I thought you were a bum.”

            “So, you pegged me as a erted homeless twenty-five year old? Your judgment of people is way off…”

            We both started chuckling a little. This guy was kinda cute when he smiled; it looked much better on him than the scowl he gave me before. “That’s better,” I said, without thinking. “You seem much nicer when you smile. Less intimidating.”

            “I don’t care if I intimidate you,” was his response, though he was less than convincing now that I could tell he felt a little bad about his judgment error. In fact, he must have felt more bad than I realized because he surprised me then by saying: “Tell you what: your money’s not gonna get you far in this shop. How ’bout we go out and get some real food? The raymun shop down the street makes real good noodles—”

            Is he asking me out on a date? It was a weird thought that came to me all of a sudden. Why I jumped to that conclusion instead of many other, more normal ones, was beyond me. Even weirder: that I kind of liked it. That, and I was hungry as hell.

            “I can’t afford that,” I said.

            “Pabo,” he shook his head. “That’s why I’m offering.”

            ‘Offering’? Offering to buy me dinner…? I blushed. “Er—I can’t let you do that.”

            He shrugged again. “Okay. Fine by me.”

            I didn’t expect his indifference. It only made me want to accept that much more. Aware that the words came out more excitedly than expected I said, “Well, but I mean, if you’re really offering—”

            “I said I was, didn’t I?”

            “I don’t even know your name…”

            “Does it matter?”

            “I’d like to know who I need to pay back—”

            “You don’t need to pay me back,” he grinned, “but for the record… you can call me Key.”

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