He never wrote back, but why would he? My message was a threat more than anything, not an apology.
If I haven't killed you by the first of January…
I wanted to send something after that.'Please come back,'or'I'll try to be less of a dick,'but my pride wouldn’t allow it. Every time I typed the words out I could feel the same heat that was there when I yelled at him. When I backed him up against the wall. When I could smell him.
I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me. I should be grateful he isn’t here instead of questioning everything I’ve done since he walked into the shop last week as a virtual stranger to me. I was in the seventh grade when he was born, then at five his parents took him to California and left Eden behind. I’ve met him sporadically over the years, but I don’tknowhim.
And what will happen if he does show up?
Will he have the balls to say anything?
Will he look at me the same?
Will he treat me like I’m the biggest idiot in the world?
Or will he just glide in and get to work like before, humming an unfamiliar tune, always there, closer than I wanted but never close enough—
Fuck.I hate that I want him around.
I hate myself for being the reason he left in the first place.
I want to believe that I don’t care if he comes back or not, but I know it's a fucking delusion.
I start opening drawers, relying on the universe to throw something at me. Anything.
I spot my sketch book and flick past a jellyfish smoking weed and half-naked zombie girls to the refined Dick-Shark art. A small smile stretches my lips and I shake my head. So stupid.
This book is pure brain rot. It's perfect.
I take out a fine-tipped marker and turn to the next blank page.
I start with a female leopard, instead of realistic spots I give it an overlapping pattern of blackwork hexagons like I did on Reeze’s thighs last summer. I give her large eyelashes, a seductive snarl, and tag it with the phrase 'Pussy’s out of your league’.
I think it’s funny.
I check my phone again; seven-thirty.
Looking up, I can see through the condensation on the front windows, the sun is just starting to make an appearance over the top of the Emerald Dragon.
My feet take me to the break room and I make a too-strong Americano on autopilot.
Coffee in one hand and the pen in the other, I draw a demon; an amalgamation of a western looking devil and a Dokkaebi from Korean folklore.
Then, inspired by stories my Halmae told me as a kid when I’d spend my summer breaks from school in Seoul, I start outlining a Jeoseung Saja. Similar to the Grim Reaper, except they don’tbring death, they transport souls to the afterlife. Tall and slim, they dress in traditional black Hanbok robes, and wear a Gat on their head—its brim wide and almost perfectly flat. I spend longer on this drawing, adding extra details, and finishing it off with a long string of Gatkkeun beads strung from the Gat that hang from above his temples to the middle of his chest before looping back up again.
I sign near the bottom out of habit, like I always do, and put the pen down.
The floor is due to be mopped, but I can push it another day.
I stare at the computer screen and the open tabs.
Clicking on the shop's Instagram, I spot a DM from Brooklyn right at the top.‘LMK if u need someone who knows the shop.’It was from two days ago, and she shall continue to be ignored.
Looking outside again, I see Main Street flooded with morning sun and know I should move. So I take a towel from the back room and wipe the condensation from the windows.
For a second I swear I see a shadow move behind me. My pulse jumps on reflex, but it’s just the empty rack where the after care kits should be but we sold out and new stock isn’t arriving till next month.
In a huff I snatch up the rack and walk it to the back room, forcing it as far into the corner as I can get it. Right beside Reeze’s discarded table.
