12. Monroe #2
“Women can’t do that! It’d get everywhere.”
“Sounds like it’s option one then.”
They’re his parting words as he walks out the door and the lock clicks into place.
On day two, I ask if I can pick up a few personal items like tampons, face wash, a hairbrush and other items like hairpins, ties, and moisturizers so I can at least care for myself.
He doesn’t respond right away, focused on his phone. “I’ll pick up what you need. Write it all down on a piece of paper.”
He’s gone for longer that afternoon. He could be genuinely busy, but something tells me he’s trying to avoid being stuck home for long stretches of time now that I’m here. The petty part of me finds it hilarious I’ve driven him from his apartment.
I giggle imagining him wandering the aisles of some drugstore, trying to pick out the difference between regular and heavy flow tampons, a scowl fixed onto his face.
That night, it’s dark out before he makes it home. I’m so bored, I’ve raided his book collection. It’s an impressive one, including both classic English titles as well as traditional Korean literature. White Shadow by Yi Sang catches my eye, and I prop it open.
I’m curled up on the futon couch when the apartment door swings open and Jin steps through looking as intimidating as ever in his tattoos and leather. He shakes some hair from his brow and fails to hide the surprise in his expression.
“You read Hangugeo?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “I can speak it, but read and write it as well. Obviously not as good as a native speaker, but I’m pretty fluent.
My father was in the Air Force and he was stationed here when I was a child.
He was at Osan Air Base for three years.
I’ve always had a thing for languages, so wherever we went, I tried to learn them. ”
He steps toward me, closing the gap between us. His hand grazes my ankle as he undoes the cuff, sending a hot shiver jolting up my spine. I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from giving any kind of reaction, but then his gaze lifts to mine and I recognize the glint in his eyes.
He’d had the same look in the seconds before he kissed me. Both times.
He’s close enough now that he could if he wanted to. I’d admittedly let him.
The heat lingers between us like a flickering flame that refuses to go out.
Then he draws back and stands up straight. “Impressive. What other languages do you know?”
“Beside English and Hangugeo, I know German, Italian, and Spanish. My dad was also stationed at Ramstein in Germany, then Aviano in Italy. Ironically enough, I learned the Spanish in America when we finally moved back my junior year in high school.”
He nods, his expression likely impassive to some. But tweaked enough that I can pick up some subtle distinctions. The bend of his brows, the set of his jaw and shape of his mouth—he’s genuinely impressed.
“Is that why you became an English teacher?” he asks. “You enjoy language and you wanted to teach others?”
A slow smile comes to my face. “No one has ever made the connection that quickly. But yeah… that’s a big part of it.
I had a lot of fond memories of South Korea from when I was a kid.
I had an amazing tutor who taught me to speak Hangugeo.
I guess I wanted to give that back by teaching others English. ”
He nods again, then turns to move away. I find myself blurting out the first thing that comes to mind, like I’m desperate to keep the conversation going.
“You like Yi Sang?” I ask. “His work is dark. Poetic. Kind of genius.”
Jin hesitates before casting me another unreadable glance. “He was… ahead of his time.”
“You read a lot?”
“When I can.”
It’s the end of our conversation. Jin walks away for good this time, as if deciding we’ve hit a maximum character limit and exchanged enough words.
For the rest of the night, he stays inside his bedroom, and I’m left alone on the futon.
Day three rolls around, rainier and wetter than the others. The humidity even seeps indoors, drifting from the ocean that borders the small fishing village.
Jin cranks up the AC and even turns on the standing fan. He mentions he’ll be gone ’til late and then leaves a few minutes later.
I’m so sick of doing nothing that I find things to keep myself busy. I watch an old Korean romantic fantasy drama from the year 2000 called Il Mare . It’s a beautiful movie about two people living in the same house at different times, exchanging letters through a mysterious mailbox.
It reminds me of the American movie The Lake House starring Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves. If I had a phone to Google, I’d check if Il Mare was the inspiration for it.
But, of course, no smart devices allowed.
Still, it doesn’t change the fact that the movie is shot beautifully. It highlights themes like isolation and longing for one another.
I can’t help but think about Jin as I watch the male and female lead pine for each other through their difficult circumstances.
Some would say the circumstances Jin and I are in are just as difficult.
There’s an undeniable mutual attraction between us. But the mark on the inside of my wrist means I must die. He must kill me.
…except he can’t seem to bring himself to do it.
When the ending credits roll, I take it upon myself to reorganize Jin’s books by color. It amuses me wondering how long it’ll take him to notice.
It’s evening before I finally raid the kitchen cabinets, sick of the bags of fish chips I’ve been snacking on most of the day.
His cabinets are about as barren and empty as I suspected.
No wonder he seems to rely on take out or fresh sashimi, often called hoe in Korean, from the fish market downstairs.
He doesn’t do traditional grocery shopping.
I find a packet of ramen, a carton of eggs, and some leftover garlic.
Jin returns as I’m at the stove, checking on the noodles. I look up and freeze like he has by the door. But for different reasons—he’s surprised to see me cooking, even if it’s just ramen, and I’m startled by the spots of blood on his shirt.
I swallow against the lump in my throat. “Um… I made enough for two if you want some.”
He says nothing, his eyes dark and mysterious. He walks over and drops a plastic bag onto the kitchen counter, then retreats into his room. I wait until the door thuds shut before I go over and look at what’s inside.
It’s all of the personal items I’ve requested. The exact ones I’d asked for, nothing missing or the wrong brand.
The tampons, the face wash and cream, the hairpins and ties, a loofah with body wash, even the haircare products specific for my curl type that I requested.
There’s no way the drugstore around the block had the shea butter moisturizer I like. I usually purchase that from the African hair shops in South Korea.
Which means he must’ve gone through some great lengths to get all of this for me.
Only to immediately retreat into his bedroom and avoid me the rest of the night once he’s home.
I’m not sure whether to be grateful or to feel like a burden. I’m not sure about anything when it comes to Jin. He’s a complex puzzle that I don’t know if I’ll ever solve…