Read Online I Have the Right to Destroy Myself by Young-Ha Kim - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Young-Ha Kim
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seemed more and more real. He felt her absence infiltrating his life, though he hadn't thought about her in months. He burrowed into the sofa and tried to remember Judith. But he couldn't remember anything specific, not even her face. Instead, images of the North Pole, Chupa Chups, a snowball, and dull sex circled in his head.
The phone rang about five times before the answering machine picked up. He heard Mimi's voice as he was lathering his face with shaving cream.
"Are you there? I'm coming up now."
The razor nicked his chin. Blood turned the white foam pink. He kept shaving. He slapped on some Old Spice, whose bottle had a picture of a ship departing in search of
spices. The cut stung. He went into his bedroom and put on some clothes, and the bell rang.
Instead of saying hello, Mimi pushed her nose into his cheek and sniffed. She nodded, about what he didn't know, and pulled off her tall boots. She sank into the sofa and hugged her knees to her chest.
"Coffee," she slowly whispered, as if imparting an important secret.
"I don't have any ground coffee ... Would you like some lemon tea instead?"
She shook her head. "Grind some now, I'll wait."
C went into the kitchen to grind some coffee beans. She hummed while he transformed the beans into a fine powder. She often crooned tunes he couldn't place. He put the grounds in a strainer and made coffee while she kept humming, not budging from the sofa. C poured the coffee into a blue mug and handed it to her. Mimi didn't touch it. She just stared blankly at the balcony and beyond.
"Are we working today?" she asked, still gazing toward the balcony.
"Today?"
She nodded. "I want to work today." She stood up and started taking off her skirt.
He grabbed her wrist. "You don't have to take it off right now. Have some coffee first."
But she slipped off both her skirt and sweater. "Doesn't mean I have to have them on. Just get me a robe."
He brought her his robe, which was big on her. Only
after she shrugged into the robe did she pick up her mug and relax.
"Good coffee," she commented. Holding the mug in her right hand, she reached behind her head and unclipped the pin holding her hair in place. Her brown hair danced down her shoulders like it would fill the entire room, and he felt slightly dizzy. She shook her head a few times to smooth out her tousled hair. The scent of soap enveloped him, and he burned the roof of his mouth with coffee.
Three months before, C sat in a café on Daehak Street, early in the morning. Another café was across the alley, which was so narrow that two cars passed one another only by scraping their side-view mirrors. He was waiting for a friend to talk about an exhibit. The friend was an hour late. Even though C knew his friend was always late, he always went to meet him on time. He cherished the time he spent waiting for someone to show up. During that time, he wasn't obligated to do anything. He could read a book or people watch. This was the only time he didn't suffer from a sense of debt to himself. He was free from the compulsion to be productive. On the other hand, making someone wait is unpleasant. Being late makes you impatient and servile. That's why C was always the one waiting.
The big windows of the café provided a pleasant view. The café across the street did the same. C felt like he was looking at a mirror. He sat by the window, looking at the café across the street, where a man in a gray suit glanced at
him, drinking coffee. Sometimes their eyes met, which made him feel uncomfortable. Each time he looked away, focusing instead on the people walking by. Some of them looked into the café, and their eyes met his on more than one occasion. The windows were like a screen. He was an actor drinking coffee and the people walking by were the audience. Or it could be the other way around: The pedestrians were the actors. Passerby 1, Passerby 2, Passerby 3 ... Most walked without looking at him, performing their parts
The phone rang about five times before the answering machine picked up. He heard Mimi's voice as he was lathering his face with shaving cream.
"Are you there? I'm coming up now."
The razor nicked his chin. Blood turned the white foam pink. He kept shaving. He slapped on some Old Spice, whose bottle had a picture of a ship departing in search of
spices. The cut stung. He went into his bedroom and put on some clothes, and the bell rang.
Instead of saying hello, Mimi pushed her nose into his cheek and sniffed. She nodded, about what he didn't know, and pulled off her tall boots. She sank into the sofa and hugged her knees to her chest.
"Coffee," she slowly whispered, as if imparting an important secret.
"I don't have any ground coffee ... Would you like some lemon tea instead?"
She shook her head. "Grind some now, I'll wait."
C went into the kitchen to grind some coffee beans. She hummed while he transformed the beans into a fine powder. She often crooned tunes he couldn't place. He put the grounds in a strainer and made coffee while she kept humming, not budging from the sofa. C poured the coffee into a blue mug and handed it to her. Mimi didn't touch it. She just stared blankly at the balcony and beyond.
"Are we working today?" she asked, still gazing toward the balcony.
"Today?"
She nodded. "I want to work today." She stood up and started taking off her skirt.
He grabbed her wrist. "You don't have to take it off right now. Have some coffee first."
But she slipped off both her skirt and sweater. "Doesn't mean I have to have them on. Just get me a robe."
He brought her his robe, which was big on her. Only
after she shrugged into the robe did she pick up her mug and relax.
"Good coffee," she commented. Holding the mug in her right hand, she reached behind her head and unclipped the pin holding her hair in place. Her brown hair danced down her shoulders like it would fill the entire room, and he felt slightly dizzy. She shook her head a few times to smooth out her tousled hair. The scent of soap enveloped him, and he burned the roof of his mouth with coffee.
Three months before, C sat in a café on Daehak Street, early in the morning. Another café was across the alley, which was so narrow that two cars passed one another only by scraping their side-view mirrors. He was waiting for a friend to talk about an exhibit. The friend was an hour late. Even though C knew his friend was always late, he always went to meet him on time. He cherished the time he spent waiting for someone to show up. During that time, he wasn't obligated to do anything. He could read a book or people watch. This was the only time he didn't suffer from a sense of debt to himself. He was free from the compulsion to be productive. On the other hand, making someone wait is unpleasant. Being late makes you impatient and servile. That's why C was always the one waiting.
The big windows of the café provided a pleasant view. The café across the street did the same. C felt like he was looking at a mirror. He sat by the window, looking at the café across the street, where a man in a gray suit glanced at
him, drinking coffee. Sometimes their eyes met, which made him feel uncomfortable. Each time he looked away, focusing instead on the people walking by. Some of them looked into the café, and their eyes met his on more than one occasion. The windows were like a screen. He was an actor drinking coffee and the people walking by were the audience. Or it could be the other way around: The pedestrians were the actors. Passerby 1, Passerby 2, Passerby 3 ... Most walked without looking at him, performing their parts
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