“Sorry, sorry.” I get to my feet, rubbing the pins and needles out of my arm. “I have no excuse for that.”
“You’ve had an exhausting time.” He doesn’t seem to take my nap as a commentary on how interesting I found his conversation. “It happens to my friends and I often. Are you hungry?”
“Very.” This is a welcome escape from my chickpeas. When I stumble into the kitchen, pots are bubbling, and his hands move confidently to give one a stir and another a shake. I check the time. I’ve slept for an hour.
“Good, because I made too much.” He brushes his hair back, and it immediately falls into his eyes again. “I’m used to cooking for five.”
“I thought you only had one roommate.”
He pauses. “Our friends are over a lot.”
He spins around and grabs a bottle of red wine, giving a pan a liberal splash before pouring more into a glass and handing it to me. I take it and go into my room to change so my work clothes won’t smell of cooking. I unravel my hair from its bun before giving my scalp a quick massage with my fingertips. I have a headache from lying on it as I slept, and having it loose sometimes helps.
Back in the kitchen, I perch on a chair to watch Jihoon workbecause it’s soothing to have him cook for me. Neither Hana nor I are creative gourmets, since I strive for efficiency and she for convenience, but Jihoon seems to take real pleasure as he slices and stirs.
Jihoon’s hand halts over the saltshaker. “Your hair.”
I glance down and run my hand through to check it over. It feels fine, no knots or kinks. “What about it?”
His eyes follow to where the ends fall at my waist. “I’ve never seen it loose before.”
I pull it behind my shoulders. “I need to wear it up for work, so it’s become a habit.” My hair contravenes one of the office’s many unspoken rules: Thou Shall Not Stand Out in Thine Appearance. It’s one I’m already pushing by being visibly Asian, and I don’t like to add to it by having my hair on display. One of the partners referred to it as my geisha look when I wore it down at a holiday party.
“It has waves as dark as the memory of a night river.”
Jihoon throws off the compliment casually, like it’s no big deal, and grabs the shaker. At least I think it’s a compliment. I’ve never had a man say something like that to me before. “Thank you?”
He smiles and checks the rice cooker. It’s a boring Canadian one since I refused to get the expensive imported version that chirped, “Your rice is done!” in Korean. Hana had pouted for three days. I sip the wine to cover my confusion as he spoons rice into a sizzling pan.
My phone rings, and I glance at it. “Work.”
I deal with a last-minute update on one of my due-diligence projects. It’s late for a call, and although I do my best to be professional, when I end it, my jaw aches from trying to keep my voice calm. One of my law profs told us to keep the expression we wanted in our voice on calls, and it’s harder than it sounds.
Jihoon glances at me when I’m done. “You sound different at work.”
“Yeah?” I nibble on a chive. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Harder, almost. Severe.”
I roll my head over to look at him. “Makes sense. I need to be those things so people don’t take advantage of me. Can you imagine a soft lawyer? People would think I’m a pushover.”
“All the time?”
I rub my temples. “It depends on what people expect from me. With others, I need to be peppier. More keen and positive.”
He tilts his head. “You’re not like either of those at home.”
“I mean, I can be, if you prefer,” I say stiffly. I feel like I’ve been caught out in something.
“I like that you’re like this with me. It seems more like the real you.”
I want to scoff at him because he’s known me, what, days? But he’s a little right. I always feel like I’m playing a role in my job. “I guess it is,” I say.
He smiles at the rice. “Good. I like this Ari.”
I don’t know what to say—cultural differences mean I can’t tell if he’s only being polite—so I watch Jihoon arrange the food with delicate fingers and an expression of intense concentration. He even snipped chives for a garnish. I would never bother doing that, but it looks as pretty as it smells delicious. Japchae shares space on the table with braised tofu, fried rice, and salad.
“No meat,” he says. “Hana says you’re vegetarian.”
