Starry Night

five

That was all my dad and I said to each other before he apologized to Eomma for making a scene at work. Then he made a pit stop in his office and jogged out the door again. Like nothing had happened. A couple of hours later, he's still gone, phoning to tell us to eat lunch without him. he claims her's playing racquetball with a client. Only, I'm not sure I believe that's what he's really doing.

I may not believe anything he says anymore.

Eomma closed the clinic for lunch, and after nibbling on veggie tacos at her favorite vegetarian restauarant, we are walking back home through the main street shopping district.

Apart from food and coffee, the district has nothing anyone really needs, but everything you want. Specialty shops selling European toothbrushes, craft sake, exotic hand puppets, and clothes made from recycled clothes. And all along the sidewalks in front of these shops, moms and tattooed street punks share benches as they listen to a student jazz ensembles that plays for donations outside Sooji's Coffee shop.

"You barely said anything in the restaurant," Eomma points out, eating the leftovers from our meal in a white plastic bag. "I know it was busy and loud in there, but you usually get in at least one joke about vegetarians."

It's easy to do. Tacos should have meat. That place goes against nature. Half of the people whoe at there are in need of good iron supplement.

"Just thinking about the trip," I lied.

"The trip . . . or your dad making an idiot out of himself in front of Jungkook?"

"Maybe both?" I admit, slanting my eyes toward hers. "Diamond Daniel went a little crazy."

"Diamond Daniel can get carried away by his emotions sometimes." She sighs deeply, l=pulling on the diagonal seam of her top. "I've never agreed with how he's treated Jungkook. If the Jeons ever treated you that way -"

"But they don't."

She nods. "I know. And it's not much of an excuse, but you father is really stressed out right now about the business. He's lost so many massage clients. We're bleeding fairly profusely now, and I'm not sure how to stanch the wound until the business bounces back."

I consider this for a moment. "You could call Halabeoji. He'd loan you money."

Halabeoji is eomma's dad; he's the nicest guy in the world. Her parents own a shipping company, Bae Imports and Exports - our family used eomma's last name instead of dad's - that ships machinery from South Korea. The Baes aren't wealthy, but they're doing all right. Halabeoji's the one who bought me all of my astronomy gear. I text him my best constellation photos every month, and he texts me back in nothing but repeated, enthusiastic emojis. He used to send only smiley faces, but lately he's been branching out to thumbs-up and stars.

"No, we're not asking my parents for any more money," Eomma says firmly. "They've already done enough."

We walk in silence for a few steps, and then I think about something she said. "Why aren't you losing acupuncture clients?"

"Hmm?"

"If the Jeons' sex shop is pushing away Da's massage clients, then why are most of your clients still around?"

She shrugs. "Who knows? Maybe because there are more massage therapists in Daegu than acupuncturists. I'm a rare commodity."

"Maybe Dad should take up acupuncture too."

"Believe, your father and I have considered a dozen options. We've analyzed the business to pieces over the last few months."

When we get to the end of the block, a woman dripping with beaded jewelry wants to tell us about the benefits of psychoneuroimmunolgy while a man in a suit across the sidewalk tried to hand us a pamphlet about salvation. I wave both of them away. "Can I ask you a question?" I say after we cross the street. "Are you happy with Dad?"