by Young-Ha Kim
"I'm going now. Have a good trip," I told her.
I took off my gloves when I left her apartment. I always wear gloves when I go to a client's place, to make sure my fingerprints aren't discovered. Sometimes there are clients who want sex, but I usually refuse. But if I can't, I use contraception. Not only do I have to be prepared for a possible autopsy, it's also indecent for a new life to awaken in a dead body.
Mimi left with flair. Judith went peacefully. I miss them immensely. Their stories are done, and my novel will be a beautiful fake-flower arrangement that will be placed on their graves. Everyone who reads this will meet me at one point, in Marronniers Park like Judith or in a deserted street like Mimi. I will approach them without warning and ask, "Nothing's changed although you've come a long way, right?" Or, "Wouldn't you like to rest?" When that happens, hold my hand and follow me. Don't look back, even if you don't have the guts to go through with it. Keep going, even if it's painful and wearisome. I don't want too many clients. And now, more than anything, I want to rest. My life is always the same and endlessly wearying, just like these bunches of fake flowers lining my living room.
After I submit this novel, I'm going to leave for Babylon. Will there be someone like Mimi or Judith waiting for me there, like that woman was in Vienna? Why does nothing change, even when you set out for a faraway place?