I fall stiffly on top of the mattress. The woman who lived here before me left behind a few things, including several bloodstains on the mattress—from what, a nosebleed? Her period? Something else?—and a red cord. The cord is for hanging laundry and spans the distance between the walls.

I’d hung my towels, socks, and underwear after washing them, but two pairs of underwear are missing now. Did someone come in while I was away? But then I never know where my mind is. I can’t trust myself. The gloves I’d been wearing when I left home are gone now too. I might have left them by the river, or in the bus, or at Sol’s place. I have no recollection of what’s been happening, as if some device has been jammed into my head to prevent me remembering. Everything feels like it happened last night or eons ago. At this rate, after washing my face one day, I may ask my reflection, “Who are you?” If that day comes … well, that doesn’t sound too bad.

My room is cold. I think it’s colder in the room than outside. Where’re my cigarettes? Oh right, Sol confiscated them. She’s probably getting yelled at by her parents. We let her stay over, and she took off without even saying goodbye? She has no manners! She brought bad luck to us. Why else would the electric blanket catch fire? I feel like I can hear it. I throw the blanket over my head and plug my ears, but I cannot sleep. Please, please, please. Gurgle. I hate these hunger-bugs in my stomach, I can’t help them. I guess I’ll make some ramen.

* * *

“Yeoul, when did you get here?” The café owner is so happy to see me that she claps at the sight of me. The café was closed during the holidays, and today it reopened. Even so, why is she here so early? She starts chattering, telling me all the things I didn’t ask about. I went to your apartment with New Year’s rice-cake soup, and you weren’t there. Where were you? She dances like a girl trying out her favorite pink shoes. She spins. “What do you think? I’m wearing this for the wedding rehearsal.” The purple dress she is wearing has a plunging neckline and is trimmed with fur from shoulders to chest.

“It’s too form-fitting for my taste … But, Ajumma,5 you’ll wear it if you like it, so …”

“It’s a fault of yours that you can’t lie. This is an expensive dress! Can’t you just say it’s beautiful? And Ajumma? Don’t call me Ajumma. I told you to call me Unni! Okay. Let’s try it again. Call me Unni!”