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During his times of stress long ago they had often seemed to Sang Huin as so aesthetic that one could wish to slip within them for an hour or a bit of the day; and surely after having done it one might instantaneously wish for the freedom of whatever was beyond the fence. Maybe, he had thought to himself, something like this was how Yang Lin felt.
"Koreans North Koreans or South Koreans?" asked Sang Huin as he propped part of his upper body with the use of his elbows. "South Koreans, of course." Sang Huin didn't say anything. "Everyone wants to talk to you in English." "But I don't want to," said Sang Huin kindly. "I'm tired of saying little things and hearing little things. I don't mean to be rude."
"And you take classes?" asked Sang Huin. "Sometimes," said Saeng Sob. "Maybe we can get something to eat after the performance if you aren't busy," said Sang Huin. "Maybe. They're probably ready to start." Sang Huin and the blind Saeng Seob returned to their seats. Then, after the performance, he cornered him in the ambiguity of a "maybe" which a strong will could distort to affirmation.
Sang Huin was labeled as dirty a few nights ago: the way he walked on the floor with his shoes instead of taking them off at the door; the half open window that allowed any insect an easy passage; the fact that he didn't have any rubbing alcohol to cleanse the mosquito bites that his friend gained while sleeping in Sang Huin's room; the fattening mess of pancakes with half burnt ridges in place of rice which Sang Huin prepared for him despite the criticism; and then came questions about the nature of his relationship with Sung Ki.
Sang Huin placed money in the can and went away. Then he began to question himself. Maybe it was loneliness that had compelled him to do that. After all, the action was undoubtedly bizarre in the sense that no one else did such things. He was not wearing a monk's robe. Another man's fate was none of his business. This type of action just was not done; and yet, he was not the same as others.
Just as Sang Huin, the boy, had skipped around the kindergarten teacher's desk, sat down to drink his chocolate milk with his Graham crackers, and found himself a grown man listening to a university professor's lecture on biology, so the sunlight of this day's slight 2:00 descent vaporized the people he had been witnessing no differently than it had vaporized the dinosaurs myriad afternoons of myriad centuries ago or the body of his sister that had decomposed in a park.
There would be no transfer of a wife's affections to the children; and not having shared property, lackadaisical rose, shrub, and tree plantings and the conversations thereof would not bury him alive in a landslide of the mundane. One night in particular Sang Huin was bored with love making toward his friend.
One could remove the glass fragments from the exploding glass house of family, bandage wounded childhood, and could at last distance oneself from memories of the guardians of hell. The ride would be that of a new family and beginning, a type of forgetfulness. All this time had gone by and still Sang Huin woke up from nightmares with a sweat glazing his forehead.
"I'm Korean but I've lived most of my life in the states." "A gringo?" "Mas or menos." "Want a towel, amigo?" Sang Huin sat up in the bed and looked toward the man that was animation and illumination in his doorway. "How much?" "Depends," he said. "Were you looking for Mexican pussy out there?" "No." "Are you a gay?" "Yeah," "You suck my dick." "Yeah, maybe." "Towel is free, then."
You really should not be lying in the dirt like this. I know you don't know me but that is my advice." Then he smiled ingenuously. Sang Huin knew the man's snobbishness showed that he was ignorant of suffering and deliberately ignored the dirt from whence all carbon molecules spring into life.
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