One sweltering summer night, I saw my mom in a dream. She spread her arms toward me by the lake. I ran to her, my feet so light, to jump into her arms. But her breasts were as cold as ice. She was made of plastic. When I woke up, soaked in sweat, no one was there. Half-asleep, I played the rubber band game in the dark. There was no rubber band, so I piled up the pillows. I sang a familiar song to myself: “Hopping over the dead bodies of my fellow soldiers, I go forward and forward,” and hopped back and forth over the pillows. But then I slipped on one of the pillows and bumped my head on the corner of the nearby desk. Blood spilled from my forehead. Covered in blood, I crawled into the workshop’s control room. Dad, working late that night, turned pale at the sight of me, picked me up, and rushed to the hospital. His white undershirt quickly turned red. It was a sweltering summer night, but my teeth were chattering. I felt like I was freezing to death. I was so sleepy. And I felt so good. When we were passing the overpass by the public bathhouse, I prayed: I hope the hospital light I see is farther away than it looks. Dear God, please let this overpass collapse.

So now I have a scar on my forehead. I usually cover it with my bangs, but when I feel like shit, I trace the scar, slender like an orchid’s leaf, and retreat into my heart’s garden. In the garden there are trees, songbirds, rose bushes, pots of orchids, and pretty pebbles. A white bird emerges out of a pretty pebble. On the green grass, I drink hot cocoa, and a nude woman sitting next to me touches my cheek. Who is my real mother?

The man returns from the bathroom and asks if he could order an apple mojito. I don’t know what that is. When I squint and tell him we don’t serve food, he smiles, “But an apple mojito isn’t food,” and orders a gin and tonic instead.

I can make a gin and tonic with my eyes closed.

“Do you want a drink?” He doesn’t even touch the shrimp chips that come with the drink. He orders another drink, the same one. There are five or six toothbrushes sticking out of his rat-colored pocket. He must be a toothbrush salesperson. Is he one of those people who loudly profess how amazing the toothbrush is that they’re selling on the subway, trying to coax the passengers into buying one? He glances at the check and gives me twenty thousand won.