"No!" she exclaimed. She reached out and brushed my hand with her warm, smooth fingertips. "Don't be. It's good. Sharing things, I mean. I like that you share things with me. It's... intimate. But... you should eat, too - the little steamed dumplings are mandu; they're pork, and best hot. Oh, our wine. Here. Cheers, Amanda."
"Cheers. Sorry for..."
"No. Shush. I'm enjoying being honest. It's good to feel that I can talk about things and that I don't have to pretend like I do for my parents. Talking to you is nice. Now - meokja. And enjoy yourself. That's a demand, in case it's unclear," she added, with a smile.
And I did, despite the cranberry pang of memory. People bustled around us, coming and going, the kitchen roared and laughter echoed around us. But she and I sat there in a little
