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We wait at the subway station, waiting for the train to arrive. It’s a hot and muggy day, (isn’t it always?) and my brothers gaze longingly at the vending machine, with its rows of colorful aluminum cans filled with liquid contentment.
A woman passes by, her back hunched slightly from years of hard work. The lettuce in her grocery bags are slightly wilted from the heat (so is everyone) and the garish fabrics that she wears look as if they are from forgotten riches of the past, remnants from so long ago.
The amber light filters through the glass windows, which are hot to the touch. I look outside at the buildings below, at the people walking by. They have no idea that they’re being watched right now.
Or maybe they do. Maybe they say every word with careful deliberation, smile widely, say “No, it’s okay,” because they think know that every single word has the potential to will go back and ruin everything. One wrong misstep, and the books they dropped right in front of the cute girl in Physics will continue to haunt their thoughts a day later.
I read into things too much.
I shake off my thoughts like an unwanted cloak of dust on the furniture, and turn to my dad. The dreaded question is asked: “When is the train coming?”
God, I sound like such a kid.
He sighs, weariness lining the corners of his eyes and settling into the wrinkles on his face. “I don’t know. I’m sure the train will come soon. Sit tight for a bit, okay?” He has stubbornly offered to carry my mother’s bags as well. He shoulders the heavy backpack with determination, saying nothing that will reveal his discomfort.
“조금만더 참아,” my mother says. Wait for a little bit more. She has mastered the art of waiting. I have not.
My gaze passes over the few people around me, guessing their story and personality with confidence. The twenty-something young man with his eyes closed and leaning on his equally tired friend? They are still hungover from a night of drinking and partying at the club because they’re 22, and have not yet learned responsibility.
They shimmer in the heat.
The man in the sharp business suit is an honest entrepreneur, helping people in his line of work faithfully. He straightens his tie, gives a disapproving look to the boys from before. He says something to them, and places a gentle hand on one boy’s shoulder. The boy shakes it off rudely and gives the man a dirty look.
The warm wind blows away what he was saying earlier.
There’s a young woman, old enough to be my mother. She conceals her face behind her hands, careful not to smudge her heavy makeup. Her lips are swollen and puffy; she must have come back from the plastic surgery center that I can see from here.
I try and hide a small frown of disapproval. You already look pretty as you are. She sees me and looks as if she’s going to say something, then turns away.
I can’t see her expression clearly because of the harsh light from the dying sun shining directly into my eyes.
(This story is incomplete, but please tell me what you think!)
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