I held my breath for as long as I could, then lifted my head.
You must’ve been a fish in a past life.
Gyu-ho said that to me once because I would take a bath in every motel we went to that had a tub.
You do realize that someone has probably pissed and shit in there at some point.
When I suggested he join me, Gyu-ho would refuse, like I’d offered him a soak in a sewer. Unfazed, I would fill the tub to the brim and submerge completely to the top of my head. Submerging my head brought my knees out, and made me want to buy a tub as big as a swimming pool when I made a lot of money someday.
I dumped an entire mini bottle of that Le Labo body cleanser from the amenity tray into the water jet, which immediately made mountains of foam leap up like whipped cream. I closed my eyes, wishing I could suffocate in the foam.
?
That day, we eventually ended up at an unfamiliar guesthouse.
In Bangkok, taxis would magically stop in front of us when we so much as raised an arm, just like in television dramas, but not that day. It rained so heavily that the water came up to our ankles, and I couldn’t see any taxis on the road. We held hands and walked through the mazelike alleys of private residences, looking for a place we could sit down to rest for a bit. That’s how we came upon a sign that said: GUESTHOUSE. We entered right away.
It was about 50,000 won for a room with no bathroom and a ceiling fan instead of air-conditioning. Considering Bangkok prices and the shabby state of the building, we were clearly being ripped off, but we were in no position to haggle. We burst out laughing when we saw the room—its only piece of furniture was a single mattress that almost completely filled up the space, making it more of a coffin than a room. Gyu-ho and I took turns in the communal shower (a euphemism for what was actually just a separate space down the hall with a showerhead and drain), where we washed ourselves with lukewarm water, then spread the bath towels the front desk had given us over the mattress and lay down next to each other. The large steel ceiling fan spun overhead with a tapping sound, and I made a stupid comment—“If that thing falls on us, we’re mincemeat”—to which Gyu-ho obligingly replied, “Let’s be hamburger patties together forever,” as he stretched his arm toward me. His shorter-than-average arm wasn’t a good fit for my larger-than-average head, but we pretended to be comfortable as we lay still like that. I have no idea who started kissing whom first. Our damp bodies came together and Gyu-ho got on top of me.
—Do you have it?
The only “it” we had in Gyu-ho’s fanny pack on the floor were two packets of lube, crumpled from age. We must’ve used up the condoms.
—What do we do . . . ? Do you think it’s OK?
Looking at Gyu-ho’s worried face, I ripped open the lube packet with my teeth.
We had sex. For the first time in the two years we had been a couple, we had unprotected sex.
I gazed at Gyu-ho crushing my body, feeling his mass. His heat, his breath, the gaze of his large, black pupils. What was once a part of him flowed into me and became me.
After we had sex, I closed my eyes to rest for a moment. But when I opened them again, it was already dim around us. It was impossible to tell if it was night or day, but the rain had finally ceased. Gyu-ho’s face was near mine. He was asleep. I stared at him for a long time. I wiped the droplets of sweat on his nose, gazed up at the whirling ceiling fan above, and wished the universe would pause in that moment.
?
I still sometimes think that if I just reach out, I could touch the bridge of his nose.
That was only an illusion. The reality before me was my swollen, wrinkled hand. Gaining weight made my fingers and even fingertips ugly. I had to get rid of the habit of falling asleep wherever I was. It was after four o’clock by the time I got out of the bath. Habibi had dozed off. When had he fallen asleep? Had he been drunk enough to leave me in the bath? He might’ve been awake for the fireworks, but I had a feeling he hadn’t been. I gently swept his hair from his sleeping face. Hair flecked with gray. Wrinkles that were deeper beneath the light of the lamp.
Why had he brought me here? Had he simply wanted someone to be waiting for him when he came back to the room? For someone to turn the lights on, to mess up the room a bit, to speak into the silence even in an unfamiliar language? Because he traveled so much for business. Because he knew the coldness of a pillow he’d lain on once before, or the texture of starched sheets, sharp enough to wound. Or because of all these things. Then why was I here with him? I looked down at the shattered screen of his phone on the floor.
There was no way of knowing whether there’d been fireworks or not. Everything seemed to have passed by in the blink of an eye. At some point, my life had turned into one dimly remembered night after another.
I lowered the lights slightly and left the room. Once I closed the door behind me, strangely enough, I ceased to remember Habibi’s face.
?
On the first day of the year, Gyu-ho and I went on a trip to Wolmido Island. We ate hot dogs wrapped in thick, fried dough, and braved a Viking-themed ride on which the safety bar wobbled as if it would give way any minute. In our competition to outscream each other, my voice went hoarse in ten seconds. Right next to the theme park was a coin-op noraebang, where we sang breakup ballads that went up to pitches we couldn’t reach, as well as the usual joyous dance-idol songs. After about ten songs, it was time for the sunrise. Hoping to catch it, we walked to the beach. Despite my padded jacket, I was cold, and I slipped my hands into his armpits.
—What’s the meaning of this, Kumakichi!
I laughed and hugged him from behind. Intertwined, we waddled toward the sand. People were gathered at the shore. As the merciless winds whipped across my face, I wondered if Gyu-ho’s childhood winters by the sea were like this.
There was a crowd near the giant tetrapod breakwaters, which we approached. A woman with red lipstick, an upswept hairdo, and a gentle smile was passing out lanterns and markers to the people gathered. She handed us lanterns and markers as well, and said that if we wrote a wish inside, she would light the lantern for us to send it floating into the sky. Gyu-ho whispered:
—She must be Chinese.
I nodded, and the lady said:
—In China, we have a tradition where we write our wishes inside a lantern and send it up into the sky on the first day of the year.