I’m back at the honsool. The soju’s stinging my throat when I hear the girl arrive. I consider ignoring her altogether. I could sit here like a deaf mannequin and pour shots into my hollow body until I pass into black or my time runs out. I’m not obliged to talk, and if she doesn’t like it she can ring the bell and find someone else. No biggie to me.
‘Hi,’ she says. Sounds like she’s in her late teens or early twenties. The younger ones aren’t as interesting; fewer tales to tell, less disappointment in their voices. They say exactly what they think and feel and make it all too easy. It’s like reading a book with pictures on every page when you want riddles in every damn sentence.
I don’t answer. I’ll let her work for it. Tonight, I’m a cat’s cradle tied up in knots.
‘You have a name?’
