by Nicola Yoon
“Nose fetishist,” she says, and then: “What did you tell me?”
I punctuate my words with nose kisses.
“We.”
Kiss.
“Are.”
Kiss.
“Meant.”
Kiss.
“To.”
Kiss.
“Be.”
Kiss.
She pulls away. Her eyes have been replaced by storm clouds, and she untangles her limbs from mine. It’s hard to let her go, like pulling magnets apart. Did I freak her out with my talk of fate? She scoots over on the couch and puts way too much space between us. I don’t want to let the moment go. A few seconds ago I thought it would last forever.
“Want to sing another one?” I ask. My voice rattles and I clear my throat. I look over at the TV. We didn’t get a chance to see her score before we started kissing. It’s 89%, which is terrible. It’s pretty hard to get less than 90% in norebang.
She glances over at the TV too but doesn’t say anything. I can’t fathom what’s happening in her head. Why’s she resisting this thing between us? She touches her hair, pulls on a strand and lets it go, pulls on another and lets it go.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I slide over and close the distance she put between us. Her hands are clasped in her lap.
“What are you sorry for?” I ask.
“For running hot and cold.”
“You weren’t so cold just a minute ago,” I say, making the absolute lamest joke (along with puns, innuendos are the lowest form of humor) I could possibly make in this moment. I even waggle my eyebrows and then wait for her reaction. This could go either way.
A smile overtakes her face. Those storm clouds in her eyes don’t stand a chance. “Wow,” she says, her voice warm around her smile. “You sure have a way with words.”
“And the ladies,” I say, hamming it up even more. I’ll make a fool of myself just to make her laugh.
She laughs some more and leans back on the couch. “You sure you’re qualified to be a poet? That was the worst line I’ve ever heard.”
“You were expecting something—”
“More poetic,” she says.
“Are you kidding? Most poems are about sex.”
She’s skeptical. “Do you have actual data to back that up? I wanna see some numbers.”
“Scientist!” I accuse.
“Poet!” she retorts.
We both smile, delighted and not trying to hide our delight from each other.
“Most poems I’ve seen are about love or sex or the stars. You poets are obsessed with stars. Falling stars. Shooting stars. Dying stars.”
“Stars are important,” I say, laughing.
“Sure, but why not more poems about the sun? The sun is also a star, and it’s our most important one. That alone should be worth a poem or two.”
“Done. I will only write poems about the sun from now on,” I declare.
“Good,” she says.
“Seriously, though? I think most poems are about sex. Robert Herrick wrote a poem called ‘To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.’ ”
She pulls her legs up to lotus position on the couch and doubles over with laughter. “He did not.”
“He did,” I say. “He was basically telling virgins to lose their virginity as soon as possible just in case they died. God forbid you should die a virgin.”
Her laughter fades. “Maybe he was just saying that we should live in the moment. As if today is all we have.”
She’s serious again, and sad, and I don’t know why. She rests the back of her neck against the sofa and looks up at the disco ball.
“Tell me about your dad,” I say.
“I don’t really want to talk about him.”
“I know, but tell me anyway. Why do you say he doesn’t love you?”
She picks her head up to look at me. “You’re relentless,” she says, and flops her head back again.
“Persistent,” I say.
“I dunno how to say it. My dad’s primary emotion is regret. It’s like he made some giant mistake in his past, like he took a wrong turn, and instead of ending up wherever he was supposed to be, he ended up in this life with me and mom and my brother instead.”
Her voice wobbles while she’s saying it, but she doesn’t cry. I reach out and take her hand and we both watch the TV screen. Her dancing score’s been replaced by a soundless ad for Atlantic City casinos.
“My mom makes these beautiful paintings,” I say to her. “Really incredible.”
I can still picture the tears in her eyes when my dad gave her the present. She’d said, “Yeobo, you didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s something only for you,” he said. “You used to paint all the time.”
I was so surprised by that. I thought I knew everything about my mom—about both of them, really—but here was this secret history I didn’t know about. I asked her why she stopped and she waved her hand in the air like she was wiping the years away.
“Long time ago,” she said.
I kiss Natasha’s hand and then confess: “Sometimes I think maybe she made a wrong turn having us.”
“Yes, but does she think that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. And then: “But if I had to guess, I would say I think she’s happy with the way her life turned out.”
“That’s good,” she says. “Can you imagine living your whole life thinking you made a mistake?” She actually shudders as she’s saying it.
I raise her hand to my lips and kiss it. Her breathing changes. I tug her forward, wanting to kiss her, but she stops me.
“Tell me why you want to be a poet,” she says.
I lean back and rub my thumb over her knuckles. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t even know if it’s what I want for a career or anything. I don’t get how I’m supposed to know that already. All I know is I like to do it. I really like to do it. I have thoughts and I need to write them down, and when I write them down they come out as poems. It’s the best I ever feel about myself besides—”
I stop talking, not wanting to freak her out again.
She raises her head from the sofa. “Besides what?” Her eyes are bright. She wants to know the answer.
“Besides you. You make me feel good about myself too.”
She pulls her hand out of mine. I think she’s going into retreat mode again, but no. She leans forward and kisses me instead.
I KISS HIM TO GET him to stop talking. If he keeps talking I will love him, and I don’t want to love him. I really don’t. As strategies go, it’s not my finest. Kissing is just another way of talking except without the words.
ONE DAY I WILL WRITE AN ODE about kissing. I will call it “Ode to a Kiss.”
It will be epic.
WE’D PROBABLY STILL BE KISSING if our cranky waitress hadn’t returned to demand to know if we wanted anything else to eat. We didn’t, and it was time to go anyway. I still want to take him to the Museum of Natural History, my favorite place in New York. I tell him that and we walk outside.
After the dark of the norebang, the sun seems too bright. And not just the sun—everything seems too much. The city is much too loud and much too crowded.
For a few seconds, I’m disoriented by the businesses stacked high on top of each other with Korean signage until I remember that we’re in Koreatown. This section of the city is supposed to look like Seoul. I wonder if it does. I squint against the sun and contemplate going back inside. I’m not ready for the rowdy, bustling reality of New York to reassert itself yet.
That’s the thought that brings me to my senses: Reality. This is reality. The smell of rubber and exhaust, the sound of too many cars going nowhere, the taste of ozone in the air. This is reality. In the norebang we could pretend, but not out here. It’s one of the things I like most about New York City. It deflects any attempts you make to lie to yourself.
We turn to each other at the same time. We’re holding hands, but even that fee
ls like pretend now. I tug my hand from his to adjust my backpack. He waits for me to give it back but I’m not quite ready yet.
Area Boy Incapable of Leaving Well Enough Alone
We’re sitting side by side on the train, and even though it keeps jostling us together, I can feel her slipping away. No one is seated across from us; we watch each other in the window. My eyes slide to her face as she looks away. Her eyes slide to mine as I do the same. Her backpack’s in her lap and she’s hugging it to her chest like it might get up and walk away at any second.
I could reach out and take her hand, force the issue, but I want her to be the one to do it this time. I want her to acknowledge this thing between us out loud. I can’t leave well enough alone. I want her to say the words. We’re meant to be. Something. Anything. I need to hear them. To know that I’m not alone in this.
I should let it go.
I am going to let it go.
“What are you so afraid of?” I ask, not letting it go at all.
I HATE PRETENSE, BUT HERE I AM pretending. “What are you talking about?” I say to his reflection in the subway window instead of to him.
I ALMOST BELIEVE THAT SHE doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Our eyes meet in the window like it’s the only place we can look at each other.
“We’re meant to be,” I insist. It comes out all wrong—bossy and scolding and pleading all at the same time. “I know you feel it too.”
She doesn’t say a word, just gets up and goes to stand by the train doors. If anger were like heat, I’d be able to see the waves radiating from her body.
Part of me wants to go to her and apologize. Part of me wants to demand to know just what her problem is anyway. I make myself remain seated for the two stops left until the train finally screeches into the Eighty-First Street station.
The doors open. She pushes her way through the crowd and runs up the stairs. As soon as we’re at the top, she shunts us to the side and swings around to face me.
“Don’t you tell me what to feel,” she whisper-shouts. She’s going to say something else but decides against it. Instead, she walks away from me.
She’s frustrated, but now I am too. I catch up with her.
“What’s your problem?” I actually throw my hands up in the air as I say it.
I don’t want to be fighting with her. Central Park is just across the street. The trees are lush and beautiful in their fall colors. I want to wander through the park with her and write poems in my notebook. I want her to make fun of me for writing poems in my notebook. I want her to educate me on the how and why the leaves change color. I’m sure she knows the exact science of it.
She swings her backpack onto both shoulders and crosses her arms in front of her body. “Meant-to-be doesn’t exist,” she says.
I don’t want to have a philosophical discussion, so I concede. “Okay, but if it did, then—”
She cuts me off. “No. Enough. It just doesn’t. And even if it did, we are definitely not.”
“How can you say that?” I know I’m being unreasonable and irrational and probably lots of other things I shouldn’t be. This is not something you can fight with another person about.
You can’t persuade someone to love you.
A small breeze rustles the leaves around us. It’s colder now than it’s been all day.
“Because it’s true. We’re not meant to be, Daniel. I’m an undocumented immigrant. I’m being deported. Today is my last day in America. Tomorrow I’ll be gone.”
Maybe there’s another way to interpret her words. My brain picks out the most important ones and rearranges them, hoping for a different meaning. I even try to compose a quick poem, but the words won’t cooperate. They just sit there, too heavy for me to pick up.
Last.
Undocumented.
America.
Gone.
ORDINARILY SOMETHING like this—fighting in public—would embarrass me, but I barely even notice anyone except Daniel. If I’m honest with myself, it’s been like this all day.
He presses his forehead into his hands and his hair forms a curtain around his face. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or do now. I want to take the words back. I want to keep pretending. It’s my fault that things went so far. I should’ve told him from the beginning, but I didn’t think we’d get to this point. I didn’t think I would feel this much.
“I POSTPONED MY APPOINTMENT because of you.” My voice is so quiet that I don’t know if I mean for her to hear me, but she does.
Her eyes widen. She starts to say three different things before settling on: “Wait. This is my fault?”
I’m definitely accusing her of something. I’m not sure what. A bike courier hops onto the sidewalk a little too close to us. Someone yells at him to use the street. I want to yell at him too. Follow the rules, I want to say.
“You could’ve warned me,” I say. “You could’ve told me you were leaving.”
“I did warn you,” she says, defensive now.
“Not enough. You didn’t say you’d be living in another country in less than twenty-four hours.”
“I didn’t know that we’d—”
I interrupt her. “You knew when we met what was going on with you.”
“It wasn’t your business then.”
“And it is now?” Even though the situation is hopeless, just hearing her say it’s my business now gives me some hope.
“I tried to warn you,” she insists again.
“Not hard enough. Here’s how you do it. You open your mouth and you say the truth. None of this crap about not believing in love and poetry. ‘Daniel, I’m leaving,’ you say. ‘Daniel, don’t fall in love with me,’ you say.”
“I did say those things.” She’s not yelling, but she’s not being quiet either.
A very fashionable toddler in a peacoat gives us wide eyes and tugs on her father’s hand. A tyranny of tourists (complete with guidebooks) checks us out like we’re on display.
I lower my voice. “Yes, but I didn’t think you meant them.”
“Whose fault is that?” she demands.
I don’t have anything to say to that, and we just stare at each other.
“You can’t really be falling for me,” she says, quieter now. Her voice is somewhere between distress and disbelief.
Again I don’t have anything to say. Even I’m surprised by how much I’ve been feeling for her all day. The thing about falling is you don’t have any control on your way down.
I try to calm the air between us. “Why can’t I be falling for you?” I ask.
She tugs hard on the straps of her backpack. “Because that’s stupid. I told you not to—”
And now I’ve had enough. My heart’s been on my sleeve all day, and it’s pretty bruised up now.
“Just great. You don’t feel anything? Was I kissing myself back there?”
“You think a few kisses mean forever?”
“I think those kisses did.”
She closes her eyes. When she opens them again, I think I see pity there. “Daniel—” she begins.
I cut her off. I don’t want pity. “No. Whatever. I don’t want to hear it. I get it. You don’t feel the same. You’re leaving. Have a nice life.”
I take all of two steps before she says, “You’re just like my father.”
“I don’t even know your father,” I say while putting my jacket on. It feels tighter somehow.
She folds her arms across her chest. “Doesn’t matter. You’re just like him. Selfish.”
“I am not.” Now I’m defensive.
“Yes you are. You think the entire world revolves around you. Your feelings. Your dreams.”
I throw my hands up. “There is nothing wrong with having dreams. I may be a stupid dreamer, but at least I have them.”
“Why is that a virtue?” she demands. “All you dreamer types think the universe exists just for you and your passion.”
“Better than not having any at all.”
; She narrows her eyes at me, ready to debate. “Really? Why?”
I can’t believe I have to explain this. “That’s what we’re put on earth to do.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “We’re put here to evolve and survive. That’s it.”
I knew she’d bring science into it. She can’t really believe that. “You don’t believe that,” I say.
“You don’t know me well enough to say that,” she says. “Besides, dreaming is a luxury and not everyone has it.”
“Yes, but you do. You’re afraid of becoming your dad. You don’t want to choose the wrong thing, so you don’t choose anything at all.” I know there’s a better way for me to tell her this, but I’m not feeling like my best self right now.
“I already know what I want to be,” she says.
I can’t stop myself from scoffing. “A data scientist or whatever? That’s not a passion. It’s just a job. Having dreams never killed anybody.”
“Not true,” she says. “How can you be this naïve?”
“Well, I’d rather be naïve than whatever it is you are. You only see things that are right in front of your face.”
“Better than seeing things that aren’t there.”
And now we’re at an impasse.
The sun hides behind a cloud and a cool breeze blows over us from across Central Park. We watch each other for a little while. She looks different out of the sunlight. I imagine I do too. She thinks I’m naïve. More than that, she thinks I’m ridiculous.
Maybe it’s better to end things this way. Better to have a tragic and sudden end than to have a long, drawn-out one where we realize that we’re just too different, and that love alone is not enough to bind us.
I think all these things. I believe none of them.
The wind picks up again. It stirs her hair a little. I can picture it with pink tips so clearly. I would’ve liked to see it.
“YOU SHOULD GO,” I TELL HIM.
“So that’s it?” he asks.
I’m glad he’s being a jerk. It makes things easier. “Are you thinking at all about me? I wonder how Natasha’s feeling. How did she get to be an undocumented immigrant? Does she want to go live in a country she doesn’t know at all? Is she completely devastated by what’s happening to her life?”