“I’m practicing,” Meena said.
She went to the kitchen and thought about what she would say to Sam as a first text. “Happy New Year” felt a little too late. She chopped carrots and let herself think about him. His face was kind. She could hear the deep timbre of his voice. She thought of how sometimes he wore glasses, square black frames, and other times nothing blocked the deep-brown eyes. He touched easily, a gentle palm on top of her hand, the warmth of his skin on her arms as he tried to comfort her.
She didn’t deserve him. He was meant for someone as uncomplicated as he was. Not the internal mess Meena had made of her life. She put the chopped veggies in a bowl and cut a lemon in half. It was best to keep moving, to put him in a slot as a casual friend. Seoul was next, and she wouldn’t think beyond that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Seoul. It was a young city built atop ancient culture. The city was uniform, organized with precision without sacrificing the past. Tall, gleaming structures sat alongside Buddhist temples. Hypertechnology was the marrow that allowed this city to overperform in education and conformity without sacrificing its traditions. It was a city of contrasts that fed off one another, the tensions not obvious.
It was the middle of the night, the bass thumping heavy under techno pop, giving the crowd on the dance floor a beat. Multicolored laser lights flashed in rhythm to the music as DJ Tyno mixed on a platform overseeing the party scene. Club NB was ranked one of the best clubs in the world. Located in the exclusive neighborhood of Gangnam, it was the mecca for K-pop fans around the world.
Meena snapped a few shots of women in tight dresses and shirtless men who switched from dancing to downing shots. Then she headed back to a table in the VIP section.
“This is where I feel most at home.” Kini, a woman with pink extensions, raised her glass of champagne. “It’s expensive, but I save up for nights like tonight.”
Meena took another photo of the group around the table. Five women from Chicago, LA, and San Diego had moved to Seoul recently. Their jobs were remote. They’d known each other for three years after meeting online as fans of the K-pop band BTS.
“Some people say we’re Koreaboo, like we’re too obsessed with Korean culture in a negative way.” Jennifer touched up her dark purple lipstick. “But it’s not like that. We’re fans of Korea, especially BTS, but we’re expats who want to be a part of this culture.”
Lauren, a paralegal, said with a thick Chicago accent, “I still vote in the US, and my family is there.”
Kini and Jada worked for Google; Jennifer and Tasha were in website development.
“OMG,” Jennifer screamed. She ran from the table to the railing to dance in her red heels and sleeveless white dress. “This is my favorite song.”
“She’s a V fan,” Kini explained. “He’s in BTS.”
Meena nodded and took photos of Jennifer singing into an imaginary mike. “Do you understand Korean?”
“I’m conversational in it.” Jada stopped singing to respond. “I started learning it a few years ago, as soon as I discovered K-pop. Living here, it’s gotten a lot better.”
Meena took notes along with photos. This was her last shoot for her Rolling Stone assignment on American women living in Korea, motivated by their love of K-pop. She’d been with these five women for a week, in their homes, at their workplaces, on dates with their Korean boyfriends, and out in clubs. In their late thirties, these women had found something they’d been missing. Permission.
“We’re not embarrassed or ashamed that we like a boy band,” Tasha said. “We own it. Like, who decided we had to outgrow our teenage selves? And let’s be clear, I’m not chasing boys. I love their music, yes, of course I find them sexy, but not in a way that’s icky. I have an age-appropriate boyfriend. And part of me is like, This is what I want to do, and you can suck it if you don’t like it. It’s like BTS gave me this confidence where I live on my own terms.”
It was four in the morning by the time Meena left the club and headed back to her hotel. She’d wrapped up what she’d needed, and after a few hours of sleep, she would edit and caption her best images before sending the whole set to the photo editor. She would also let the writer of the piece know she’d filed her pictures. Then she would find a place to stay and be on the lookout for more work. As she packed away her camera, she scanned her phone. Tanvi continued to text regularly, and while Meena’s texts back had been sporadic at first, the woman had worn her down. Tanvi had a lot of questions and wanted to live vicariously. So Meena had sent short videos of Korean street food, which Uma had taken up as a challenge to re-create it. Now Tanvi was asking about the club.
Meena sent a short video of the dance floor and the maniacal strobe lights and hit send. In the cab ride back to her hotel, she rewatched the last video from Tanvi, who had recorded Wally chewing up one of Sabina’s slippers. The attached text said, He’s such a good boy. Meena missed the little puppy.
And Sam. She wanted to text him, talk to him. Instead of letting him fade from her memory, each day that passed without contact, she missed him more. The longer she put it off, the more overwhelming the need became. She hadn’t stayed in touch. She didn’t know if the aunties gave him updates on her. And in a way it would be worse if they did. She didn’t know why she was acting this way. Sam was no different from Tanvi. You can’t lie to yourself.
Once in her room, Meena brushed her teeth, washed her face, and applied moisturizer before climbing into the small bed. This was her life again. Prioritizing her work above everything else. The new was becoming old. Even after a few months off, she was already tired.