“Do you want to be in my wedding party?” she asks me on Friday night.
My supervisor, C, sits down with me on the curb, clutching her drink with both hands. I’d exited the beer house after my eyes had dried out from the smoke.
It’s a hot night in the capital and I’m lightheaded from soju. I personally don’t care for this particular Korean drink because it’s difficult to swallow, although I will gladly take it with orange juice or a bowl of fruit.
I nurse a cool mug of beer in my hands and take a long sip. Considering C and I were at each other’s throats only a few months ago, I feel uncomfortable participating in her wedding–but I feel worse about refusing her offer.
“You don’t have to say yes,” she quickly adds, her tongue heavy with alcohol. “Think about it.”
“How are the preparations going?”
“I’m too busy. But it will be a military-style wedding, so little prepare.” C’s fiancé is an officer in the Korean military.
“How exciting for you,” I mumble, unable to to conjure any enthusiasm. I stare into my drink lamely. Do not cry in front of the boss.
I hear her clear her throat. She rests a hand on my forearm, her fingers stiff, hesitant. “Are you tired, Pia?”
“No. I’m having fun. Your friends are nice. Thanks for inviting me.”
“They like you. I think my friend has little crush on you. Maybe you can see him later this weekend. No stress.”
“Maybe,” I mumble, choking up. I turn away from her.
“Do you want to go home?”
“No. I’m sorry, I know I’ve been a real joykill these past few days.”
“It’s okay.” Pause. She releases me. “I know this feeling. You know, in university, I have German boyfriend in London.”
I nod. She’d mentioned him once, when I told her I could speak a little Deutsch. But she didn’t talk about her life outside the office too often, so I didn’t know too much about him–or her.
“We are still friends. He says, maybe I should not marry my boyfriend.”
“And what did you say?”
“He is still in Europe. What to do. Anyway,” she adds breezily, “he is my old boyfriend, and I will stop talking to him after I am married.”
This irritates me for some reason. “Why should you have to give him up? If he’s just your friend, this shouldn’t bother your husband.”
“No, it’s okay for him. My boyfriend is not like many Korean men–he thinks freedom is very good for me. But maybe if I am a wife, and I talk to my old boyfriend, I will be a little sad.”
We lean back on our palms, watching a drunken group leave a kareoke bar. I finish my beer and wipe my mouth with the length of my forearm.
“Was it hard to have a long distance relationship?” I ask her.
“I break up with him before I go back to Korea. Very difficult for me. More difficult for him. I think he might still love me, but anyway! . . . My parents would not like me to date a man who is not Korean. I’m thirty, it’s time for me to marry.”
“As long as you’re happy.”
“Yes. Anyway, I think maybe dating is difficult when we are from different countries. Even if you share English, maybe it is hard to say what you think.”
I turn to her and she her lips are pressed tight, like she’s fighting to tell me something.
“C? Is something wrong?”
“I think we are a little similar. But you are American, and you think the Western way, so different.
“Maybe that is why you like your Sabunim. He is different, but you share Taekwondo and that is amazing! You know, when I first read your resume, I thought you were a little strange, to know too much Taekwondo, because you are an adult woman. You are the only woman I know who studies a martial art.
“And then I see you, and you are so small and I can’t see you in Taekwondo uniform. But you love it, do you? I see you with your Taekwondo flashcards and your Taekwondo books and your Taekwondo keychain and you talk about it and smile so big! That is why you like Korea, yes? Taekwondo is your big dream.”
“Maybe when I was a kid,” I tell her, but my eyes begin to water. I shut them and steady myself. “It was a hobby. I’m not even that good at it. Nothing serious.”
“You know your Sabunim told me to tell you to stay at his school? We talked about it, maybe thirty minutes? He has strong feeling about you. He says that he wants you to have your black belt. If you don’t finish, no other academy will recognize your studies.”
“That’s not important to me. I’m not in it for the black belt.”
“It’s okay. I told him you would not come back. I think he will understand. Anyway, he used to call me many times before, to talk about your progress. I feel little like your mother.” She laughs, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry about that, C.”
“He would talk and talk and I thought you were so strange! Then you tell me you have little feeling for him and that is funny, because you are American and he is this Taekwondo teacher!”
I bite my tongue briefly. “Yes, it is a little funny.”
“How? How do you have this feeling? And then I think of my German boyfriend, and we speak English but sometimes I don’t understand him. And I still think about him, and he still loves me, I think.
“And maybe I know your feeling. And you are still strange, even with no Taekwondo. I think maybe, you are strange, for giving up your big dream.”
We look up at the sky, and there are no stars, as usual.
When I turn back to her, she’s watching me.
“Everyone needs this strange dream, Pia,” she says.
Musings from the Orchards 