I was riding the bus home when I heard students talking about math.
I was riding the bus home when I heard students talking about math.
We sat down at a Nakseongdae restaurant, mixing soju with beer.
It’s 6:30 p.m. Dinnertime is 7, but tabby Bert struts around the room . . .
Today I’m ready to purge my closet.
We watched the bouncing headlights as they crawled across the frozen arctic landscape.
Shaking on the stone slab she has been ordered to sit on, her eyes catch mine.
I remember, for my first 18 years, I couldn’t fathom kissing.
A shiver wakes me up.
"People with POTS don't run," says the cardiologist as she reviews the data from my running watch.
In high school, I dated a girl I didn’t really like because she was pretty.
Backyard, trampoline, large heavy raindrops drip down my face, I spit them off to breathe.
The sky is green and roaring like a freight train, almost louder than the siren, as a patter of hail pummels the siding.
More than four years ago my puppy arrived, a baby so small it could fit in my little hands.
At first, I resisted and pulled away.
“Guess what’s in my hand?” he said, emerging from the Mong Kok train station bathroom at the end of our date.
I watch her from across the café.
Dong dong. I get up from the bed, put on my pants, trip over the coffee table, and open the door, revealing the landlord in her pajamas.
Her knees, grazing the handlebars as she sits. We’re here again at her favourite ride.
The first thing I do when I get on the ice is ask.
After the stop-and-fix baths, my father enters the kitchen. In his hand, an eight-by-ten black-and white photo, dripping.