NINETEEN
We join the Mins in the living room.
There’s a new romantic drama on TV that’s already three episodes into the season, and Mr. Min doesn’t spare a single detail of what I’ve missed, telling me about the leads and the back story of each character on a couple of commercial breaks.
“Your father did that for me, too, once,” Mrs. Min says, pointing to the screen where one of the male leads obnoxiously thrusts a bouquet of flowers in the female lead’s face. “And I demanded to know why I had to hold his flowers.”
“It wasn’t like that, my love. I tripped.”
“Oh, right, you tripped and shoved those flowers in my face, the very flowers I was allergic to.”
“I didn’t know that at the time!” Mr. Min groans, and shushes everyone when the show comes back on.
I, on the other hand, sit rigid
