Page 47 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

“They’re better than mine,” I tell him. “Was it better the second time around?”

“Much. I didn’t stutter anymore and I even thought about staying and working there, but my appa”—he pauses and there’s something that he decides against sharing—“and my eomma needed help. Eomma is ‘mother’ in Korean. She’s technically my stepmother but we’re very close. She helped me get over my stutter.” He smiles fondly. “And when she took over our company, she made changes, some of which were very unpopular, but it helped so many people, particularly disadvantaged people.” He speaks of his stepmother with a great deal of pride and affection. “Ah, enough of that. Have you been to LA?” He changes the subject.

“No. I went to DC on a class trip when I was in seventh grade and my mom took me to Chicago a couple of times. It’s fairly close, relatively speaking.”

“You mean in America terms.”

“We do have a different standard of measurement when it comes to geography,” I agree. Korea is roughly the size of Indiana but has eight times the people, so six hours can take you across the country here, whereas back in America, it takes you to the state’s border. “Anyway, I’m uncultured. I admit it.”

It’s not a great feeling, either. I don’t know why I haven’t traveled more. There was the opportunity to travel to Spain with my Spanish class my sophomore year of high school, but I ended up staying home after getting into a fight with my then best friend, Sophie. One day at lunch she told everyone at our table that my refrigerator smelled like dirty socks. My mom had tried to make some kimchi but it didn’t quite work out, and yeah, the house did smell bad, but it took me back to when I was in elementary school and kids made stupid—but surprisingly cruel—comments about stinky Asians. Sophie apologized and said it was a joke, but I hadn’t wanted to spend ten days with her after that. I spent spring break baking apple pies and Mom stopped making Korean dishes.

“America has different standards of measurement for everything. Who measures things in feet?” Yujun serves me the cooked meat and I refill the grill. We get down a good system of cooking and serving. The meat is melt-in-your-mouth tender. Hanwoo, Yujun explains, is a special Korean beef that isn’t allowed for export because the government wants to keep the best for its own citizens. “How long are you here for?”

“Two weeks. I guess a week and a half now.” Four days have already passed. It feels longer. The time at the funeral seemed endless at moments.

“We’ll have to stuff a whole fish while you’re here.”

I don’t need an internet search to tell me what this Korean idiom means. We are going to try to do as much as we can in a short time.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

The whole experience is lovely. The restaurant is another small one with what appears to be only one server, but he bustles about delivering banchan to newcomers followed by platters of meat and sometimes vegetables for roasting. I eat way too much but I don’t want the dinner to end. A glow of warmth spreads as we talk and eat and drink. The whole dinner is like sitting in the sunshine with the rays warming me from my bones out. He’s animated when he speaks—his eyes sparkle, his hands move, his right dimple pops in and out.

At times, I stop eating to lean my chin on my hand and enjoy the moment. I’ve never been good at that. It’s always been a race to achieve one goal after another, whether it was the spelling bee or the science fair or premium marks on the SATs or graduating with honors.

“I’m talking too much,” he says.

“No.” That could never happen. Never in a million years could I imagine not wanting to hear him talk. Granted this is our first date, but sometimes you know things are true. Like when I look up and see that the sky is blue and down at my feet and see that the grass is green. Those immutable facts that don’t change even when the grass sinks back to its seed to prepare for the first freeze and the skies turn stormy gray. “I want to know everything.”

* * *

• • •

THE GIFT WAS a small box of chocolates. Yujun had said it was my dessert. I felt relieved it wasn’t something more extravagant. When we saw each other again, I’d be prepared with my own chocolate. No, something that lasts. Not that I’d expect him to put a gift of mine on his desk, but something that lasts more than a day, more than a moment. I’ll be gone, but I want there to be something that he comes across six months from now or two years from now that makes him smile with fondness—or something more. I’m not sure what.

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