My Seoul Man

Chapter 1

WARNING: This story contains depictions of racism and mental health crises and references to suicide that may not be suitable for some readers.

Damned pickup truck ran right over the can of whipped cream that dropped out of one of the grocery bags I was wrestling with.

Sent floof just spurting all over the crosswalk and this this elderly couple that had stopped just in time to let the truck fly by.

I went scuttling around trying to grab the other stuff that fell when one of the little handles tore. And when I looked up to find out whose hand had snatched up a can of diced tomatoes that almost rolled down the little incline, I swear I actually gasped.

Cause, I mean, the visual, yo. Dude was like, magazine cover fine.

And hit me with, "Eboni Ames, right?" in a smooth baritone that stole what was left of my breath.

So, I stood there totally dumbfounded, hugging all these cans and boxes and bottles and trying to figure out how somebody that good looking knew my friggin' name.

"Ahn Ji-Yeong," he said, bless his heart. "Ahn, Ames—we sat by each other in school all the time."

And after an embarrassingly loud "Shut the fuck up," I let out a string of equally vehement "nahs." Because he didn't look like anybody I sat by in school. Or who would be hanging out at a Target just outside of East Hell, Arizona.

I'm talking fair, silk smooth skin, delicate features, full "kiss me" lips and longish, blonde hair streaked by somebody who definitely knew how to make that work.

And Lord, the eyes.

The pupils—black with a faint inner ring of gold—seemed larger and shinier than usual. Kind of mesmerized me for a few seconds...

I shouldn't have been so unnerved by all that, though. I'd spent a few years out in LA where you got kind of blasé about "pretty" over time. In fact, I'd had some serious "pretty" at home for a while—too long a story to tell right now. But trust me, pretty can turn ugly real quick when it's only skin deep.

Of course, this wasn't LA. And I wasn't the same woman I'd been in LA, either.

Which is why I'd gone out shopping in some baggy, old overalls with a raggedy blue bandana over the rows—no makeup. Not even lip gloss.

See, we were in really rural Arizona where I could've even gone to church looking like that. But I wanted to find a big old hole in the ground to crawl into right quick when I remembered the "fit" I'd left the house in.

I did manage a passable smile when he said, "Yeah, it's been a minute, huh?" like he either hadn't noticed or didn't care.

"You went to Whitman?"

"Elementary. We moved to Cali when I was in 5th grade. And...well, back to Korea later."

There was some dead air after that because...well the face and the voice...

And then he said, "I'm really bummed about your mom's diner. I've been telling people about her gumbo for years."

And the little pain I felt whenever someone mentioned the diner woke me up some.

So, I started distributing the cans and things among the usable bags still in my shopping cart. "Yeah, she closed it a few years ago."

He handed me the tomatoes. "COVID?"

"That and...well, the town has really changed. Lotta foodies. Fancy cafés."

"I noticed that. It's a wonder our store's still there."