This Endless Game

XIII

“I know your secret, Irene.”

They are nestled underneath a tree overlooking a vast sunflower field. Irene was leaning against the trunk, occupied with braiding Seulgi’s hair, her wife having drifted off into a fitful doze, head pillowed on her lap. She had giggled as she braided another blade of grass into her hair, unaware that it caused her wife to wake from slumber.

Irene looks at Seulgi in surprise, brown eyes blinking slowly, and mouth turned downwards in a solemn expression. She strokes Seulgi’s forehead, finding the sight too adorable, as if willing her to fall back into sleep. Irene coos, “And what might that be?” with a light heart—the fluttering feeling blooming within her; it seems to be a common occurrence these days. (These days, Seulgi holds her hand a lot more often than necessary. Smiles to her. And of recent, has been taking her along on her trips down on earth; at first, on a pretense of insisting that Irene mustn’t let the air of earth, during the occasions that she has to appear down below, weigh her, insisting that she has to get attuned to being “earth-lagged.”)

(Irene knows better. Seulgi brings her to turbulent seas, peaceful mountains; shows her the brilliant orange of a sun sinking on the ocean, and Irene wonders if, as Junmyeon says, it is really love within her.)

But this feeling, that Seulgi can easily bring out with merely a tiny smile or a tug of her hand, she too, can easily quell with a simple frown, or even with the right combination of words.

“I know about you and Junmyeon,” and Irene’s smile fades, her stomach clenches, and her spirits sink lower than it has ever been.

The shock silences her, and she offers no resistance when Seulgi sits up, grass tumbling down to her shoulders and arms, and if it were any other moment, Irene would have laughed outright—if the guilt did not consume her so.

“I…” the apology lies on the tip of her tongue, as Irene stares into Seulgi’s warm eyes, flecked with gold, much like the petals of a sunflower. She wonders what would Seulgi do. She has heard, of course, of estranged spouses stemming from a variety of reasons: infidelity, illegitimate children—a norm, perhaps, in their society (and their marriage) but Irene wonders what would pure, flighty Seulgi’s next move be.

Irene watches Seulgi’s hands—deft and elegant—pluck a wildflower off its roots. With a few twists and turns, she fashions it into a clip, and reaches out to pin a lock of Irene’s hair to the side. Today, Seulgi’s hair is brown, symbolizing the warm sunbaked earth. and Irene longs to thread her fingers around its locks, once again.

“You don’t have to apologize.” Seulgi smiles, a tiny grin, and Irene’s heart thumps wildly in her chest. “I have known for a while; and, well, I too, have my share of faults.” 

“Then… why do you speak of it?”

Irene doesn’t admit to the truth yet, curious as to what Seulgi has to say, and overwhelmed with the onslaught of emotions assaulting her. Relief and joy, mingled with a shadow of doubt and disappointment at her wife admitting to her own infidel.    

“Ah…” A flush spreads throughout Seulgi’s cheeks, and Irene warms at the sheer emotion in her eyes. Seulgi shuffles closer, and Irene clasps both of her hands in anticipation. When Seulgi speaks, it feels like a balm to the turmoil in Irene’s heart.

“I just thought that you should know,” Seulgi takes Irene’s clasped hands in hers, and holds them close to her heart, wisps of brown floating to and fro in the light breeze, “that in the midst of it all, I will forever uphold my duties to you, as wife.”

She grins, and Irene knows she has fallen.

Irene looks down at their joined hands and tries not to pretend it is her whole heart encased within Seulgi’s pretty fingers.

She wonders if she holds Seulgi’s within hers too.