she thinks she's wonderful
she thinks she's wonderful
1,716w; pg-13 (dongho/hyeri)
and so it is just as you thought it would be.
Her father tells her this town is covered in dust and haze. Everything - down to his truck, their rooftop, the sunshine sticking onto their clothes. All yellow, pale next to his egg yolk door. Pale next to her, a silhouette in the morning on his fading bronze bicycle, wheels catching in potholes.
She doesn’t believe him.
Her mother’s car is supposedly white beneath the two coats of smoke and smog that mar the windows grey. Very city, she assumes when construction workers stare from their lunch break at the intersection. She stares back.
They stop two houses away from her father’s, tall man too small next to a doorway for three. Her mother does not turn around to remind her anything, glances from the rearview mirror suffice.
“Won’t you at least stay for lunch?” she asks against the wind slapping their windows. “I’m sure dad wouldn’t mind.”
Weathered hands tighten around the steering wheel, severe lipstick smudging under pressed lips. “I’m sure he wouldn’t.” She gets out of the car then, leaving behind her mother’s white knuckles, suitcase rolling over tufts of weeds between sidewalk cracks, chalky air drying her lips.
Her mother’s car burns the pavement with rubber tires before she can even get up the white brick steps.
Cedar dust and wooden beams shift in the mornings, coaxed by the wind. Frames tower over her despite endless barbed wire fences, dangerously shadowing her face. Two blocks in, hard hats and quiet bulldozers blur as she pedals by.
Large signs staked into the ground outline the community in-the-works. Modest two-stories with roofs of five repeating shades of red, green lawns and white gates. And people, because suburbs require people, tiny shadows next to mahogany doors. People - just another part of suburban development, waiting to bring smoke and smog into the town.
She blinks. A golden eye blinks back at her, sleepy and sticky, staring straight into hers. Something precious, she reminds herself as a fleck of gold catches under her fingernail. Something precious, she reminds herself as the wind rattles the window panes.
She blinks again. The golden eye remains still.
Her father is a routine, an old sitcom put on repeat - the same jokes every thirty minutes. He brews his coffee every morning at seven o’clock, sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when she double-knots her old shoes from two summers ago. Gives her the same old parental guidelines - be careful, don’t ride out too far, lunch is in the fridge - with the same crinkling at the corners of his eyes before leaving for work.
I’m going to college in the fall, but he shakes his head with that elusive smile that only her mother can match. She suddenly stares at his square fingers, upturned to the ceiling.
He is a dream-catcher, she has heard. From Minah, when they ate lunch together on her first week back. From her elementary school teacher, when they ran into each other at the supermarket. From someone else too, she’s sure, but not sure exactly who.
He is a dream-catcher, she learns. And everybody knows this like they know Dongho.
Summers are mundane for her. Bike rides every morning, staring at every construction worker she passes, eating microwaved dinners with her father with the six-thirty evening news blaring in the background, his soft snores when the entertainment programs come on after that.
Etchings on the kitchen doorway - her heights through the years. She marks one for herself this time, a crooked line compared to her mother’s and father’s. Kind of a shame, so she tries again, faded crayon coloring pages still stuck on the near side of the refrigerator, two attempts of signing her name in white in their dog-eared corners.
They knew each other, once.
“Hey,” he says, eyes unintentionally dark. Late afternoon flushes him red on the forehead.
“Hey,” she replies, getting off her bike.
“Big laugh Hyeri,” he smiles, eyes crinkling.
“Big dream Dongho,” and she gives him a smile of consolation, just for the heck of it.
Her fingers trace over the gold eyelashes embossed on the cover. Then, to the eye whites, the irises, the pupils - all peeling under her nails. Pyrite, she thinks as flecks of gold paint fall over her nose, judgmental brown eye becoming evident.
She forgets the fact that he wears a hard hat now, that he’s waiting for something better, that he’s waiting for the city. She forgets her father, mundane summers, the city she’s returning to in two months, instead remembering a full house of three, doorway too small, and falls into the drowsy stupor of his dreams.
And the late afternoon flushes their faces red.
If her father notices anything, he says nothing.
She feels the pressure of his back as he leans against her on her father’s bicycle, dipping them in and out of the pothole littered streets. His hard hat bumps against her skull uncomfortably, cedar dust sticking to his t-shirt and jeans. He stares at the sky ineffectually.
“You’re going to college in the city, aren’t you?” he asks. Brick red houses blur as she turns the corner.
“I was valedictorian of our class, you know,” he states, all dry laughter. It sucks her into powder. He spits into an indent on the street, then returns to staring at the sky.
Her father is at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when she double-knots her old shoes from two summers ago, seven o’clock coffee two minutes overdue. Gives her the same old parental guidelines - be careful, don’t ride out too far, lunch is in the fridge - with the same crinkling at the corners of his eyes before leaving for work.
And today - a soft kiss on the top of her head - middle-aged eyes glancing at the etchings on the kitchen doorway, reminding her to remember not to forget, to remember that what is now is now and nothing else.
Dongho sneaks her out one late night in the middle of July, indiscreet red motorbike sucking in the crisp night air and spitting out gasoline. He screams not to ask him any questions until they get there - wherever that is, at least - over the roar of the sputtering engine and roaring wind.
Their shadows dance beneath dim streetlamps surrounding town hall, marble steps dull in pitch. A convenience store bag clunks in his right hand, the left pulling her along, ringing ears and all. He dumps the contents on the corner of the plaza, spray paint cans deafening against the concrete.
They’re spraying town hall, he tells her, glint in his eyes, hand squeezing hers until the circulation cuts off. Some stupid reason filters through her still-ringing ears - because they don’t help us move up, they don’t help students with anything, this town is stupid, stupid ass town with stupid ass opportunities, if I was anyone else, if I was you, I would be in the city for college, I would be in the city, the fucking city -
The world oscillates. Once. Twice. She removes his grip from her hand. She thinks - red late afternoons, the hard hat, deafening motorbike, big laugh hyeri, big dream dongho, dream-catcher, dream-stealer, dream-breaker, suburban development over a children’s playground - why, why would you do that?
She hears herself say something. Blinks and it is a blur, he is a blur - dark eyes and circles glaringly obvious.
She walks home, then.
I love you, Hyeri, like the morning as the sun tangles through my eyes to a new day -
I love you, Hyeri, like the summers that shade us red every afternoon as we ride home -
I love you, Hyeri, like I have never god damn loved anyone before, I love the way you laugh -
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you -
It is then that she realizes this is unreal.
She rides out as far as she can go, farther than she has ever gone before. Past her elementary school, the middle and high schools she never could attend. Everywhere she goes, the town is covered in dust and haze. Everything - construction cranes, drying lawns, the signs outlining the community in-the-works. All yellow, pale next to her father’s bicycle. Pale next to her, a silhouette in the summer morning, mundane.
Something precious, she reminds herself as she stops next to a barbed fence. Something precious, she reminds herself as she hurls the brown eye pendant into cedar dust.
And it, in some strange relief, feels wonderful.
The wind buries it there.
(he pressed it into the palm of her hand. an analog pocket watch, he smiled, grip sucking against her wrist. something precious.
something perfect for the city.)
His hand reaches for hers. Or, at least she thinks it does. Darkness deems this insignificant.
“Do you think we’ll remember this,” he starts. Pauses, dust shifting beneath his head. Begins again. “Years from now?”
She squints into a starless sky, an upward abyss. The heat of his fingers waver above her palm. “No.”
His fingers fall to his side, limp and open, damage done. A nearby streetlight reflects off her eyelashes, creating an artificial star.
The wind buries them there.
Good night, Dongho. He grazes an eggshell kiss against her cheek. She stares at him, ineffectually.
He walks home, then.
Her father tells her that the taxi got lost trying to find their town. They laugh, his fingers crinkling the edges of his newspaper in the process. She double-knots her old shoes from two summers ago, traces her hand over the etchings on the kitchen doorway. Gives her the same old parental guidelines - be careful, study hard, come back next summer if you can - with same crinkling at the corners of his eyes, hand holding her luggage as his slippers slap down the dusty white brick steps.
They pull away - taxi covered in two coats of smoke and smog - her father waving, tall man just right next to a doorway for one. Then, all that’s left is the road.
She blinks. He is there, running after her, dark eyes and late afternoons, wind beating him backwards, a silhouette in the morning through the dust and haze.
She blinks once more. He fades into yellow, pale against her father’s egg yolk door.
It is then that she realizes this is real.
1,716w; pg-13 (dongho/hyeri)
and so it is just as you thought it would be.
Her father tells her this town is covered in dust and haze. Everything - down to his truck, their rooftop, the sunshine sticking onto their clothes. All yellow, pale next to his egg yolk door. Pale next to her, a silhouette in the morning on his fading bronze bicycle, wheels catching in potholes.
She doesn’t believe him.
Her mother’s car is supposedly white beneath the two coats of smoke and smog that mar the windows grey. Very city, she assumes when construction workers stare from their lunch break at the intersection. She stares back.
They stop two houses away from her father’s, tall man too small next to a doorway for three. Her mother does not turn around to remind her anything, glances from the rearview mirror suffice.
“Won’t you at least stay for lunch?” she asks against the wind slapping their windows. “I’m sure dad wouldn’t mind.”
Weathered hands tighten around the steering wheel, severe lipstick smudging under pressed lips. “I’m sure he wouldn’t.” She gets out of the car then, leaving behind her mother’s white knuckles, suitcase rolling over tufts of weeds between sidewalk cracks, chalky air drying her lips.
Her mother’s car burns the pavement with rubber tires before she can even get up the white brick steps.
Cedar dust and wooden beams shift in the mornings, coaxed by the wind. Frames tower over her despite endless barbed wire fences, dangerously shadowing her face. Two blocks in, hard hats and quiet bulldozers blur as she pedals by.
Large signs staked into the ground outline the community in-the-works. Modest two-stories with roofs of five repeating shades of red, green lawns and white gates. And people, because suburbs require people, tiny shadows next to mahogany doors. People - just another part of suburban development, waiting to bring smoke and smog into the town.
She blinks. A golden eye blinks back at her, sleepy and sticky, staring straight into hers. Something precious, she reminds herself as a fleck of gold catches under her fingernail. Something precious, she reminds herself as the wind rattles the window panes.
She blinks again. The golden eye remains still.
Her father is a routine, an old sitcom put on repeat - the same jokes every thirty minutes. He brews his coffee every morning at seven o’clock, sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when she double-knots her old shoes from two summers ago. Gives her the same old parental guidelines - be careful, don’t ride out too far, lunch is in the fridge - with the same crinkling at the corners of his eyes before leaving for work.
I’m going to college in the fall, but he shakes his head with that elusive smile that only her mother can match. She suddenly stares at his square fingers, upturned to the ceiling.
He is a dream-catcher, she has heard. From Minah, when they ate lunch together on her first week back. From her elementary school teacher, when they ran into each other at the supermarket. From someone else too, she’s sure, but not sure exactly who.
He is a dream-catcher, she learns. And everybody knows this like they know Dongho.
Summers are mundane for her. Bike rides every morning, staring at every construction worker she passes, eating microwaved dinners with her father with the six-thirty evening news blaring in the background, his soft snores when the entertainment programs come on after that.
Etchings on the kitchen doorway - her heights through the years. She marks one for herself this time, a crooked line compared to her mother’s and father’s. Kind of a shame, so she tries again, faded crayon coloring pages still stuck on the near side of the refrigerator, two attempts of signing her name in white in their dog-eared corners.
They knew each other, once.
“Hey,” he says, eyes unintentionally dark. Late afternoon flushes him red on the forehead.
“Hey,” she replies, getting off her bike.
“Big laugh Hyeri,” he smiles, eyes crinkling.
“Big dream Dongho,” and she gives him a smile of consolation, just for the heck of it.
Her fingers trace over the gold eyelashes embossed on the cover. Then, to the eye whites, the irises, the pupils - all peeling under her nails. Pyrite, she thinks as flecks of gold paint fall over her nose, judgmental brown eye becoming evident.
She forgets the fact that he wears a hard hat now, that he’s waiting for something better, that he’s waiting for the city. She forgets her father, mundane summers, the city she’s returning to in two months, instead remembering a full house of three, doorway too small, and falls into the drowsy stupor of his dreams.
And the late afternoon flushes their faces red.
If her father notices anything, he says nothing.
She feels the pressure of his back as he leans against her on her father’s bicycle, dipping them in and out of the pothole littered streets. His hard hat bumps against her skull uncomfortably, cedar dust sticking to his t-shirt and jeans. He stares at the sky ineffectually.
“You’re going to college in the city, aren’t you?” he asks. Brick red houses blur as she turns the corner.
“I was valedictorian of our class, you know,” he states, all dry laughter. It sucks her into powder. He spits into an indent on the street, then returns to staring at the sky.
Her father is at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when she double-knots her old shoes from two summers ago, seven o’clock coffee two minutes overdue. Gives her the same old parental guidelines - be careful, don’t ride out too far, lunch is in the fridge - with the same crinkling at the corners of his eyes before leaving for work.
And today - a soft kiss on the top of her head - middle-aged eyes glancing at the etchings on the kitchen doorway, reminding her to remember not to forget, to remember that what is now is now and nothing else.
Dongho sneaks her out one late night in the middle of July, indiscreet red motorbike sucking in the crisp night air and spitting out gasoline. He screams not to ask him any questions until they get there - wherever that is, at least - over the roar of the sputtering engine and roaring wind.
Their shadows dance beneath dim streetlamps surrounding town hall, marble steps dull in pitch. A convenience store bag clunks in his right hand, the left pulling her along, ringing ears and all. He dumps the contents on the corner of the plaza, spray paint cans deafening against the concrete.
They’re spraying town hall, he tells her, glint in his eyes, hand squeezing hers until the circulation cuts off. Some stupid reason filters through her still-ringing ears - because they don’t help us move up, they don’t help students with anything, this town is stupid, stupid ass town with stupid ass opportunities, if I was anyone else, if I was you, I would be in the city for college, I would be in the city, the fucking city -
The world oscillates. Once. Twice. She removes his grip from her hand. She thinks - red late afternoons, the hard hat, deafening motorbike, big laugh hyeri, big dream dongho, dream-catcher, dream-stealer, dream-breaker, suburban development over a children’s playground - why, why would you do that?
She hears herself say something. Blinks and it is a blur, he is a blur - dark eyes and circles glaringly obvious.
She walks home, then.
I love you, Hyeri, like the morning as the sun tangles through my eyes to a new day -
I love you, Hyeri, like the summers that shade us red every afternoon as we ride home -
I love you, Hyeri, like I have never god damn loved anyone before, I love the way you laugh -
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you -
It is then that she realizes this is unreal.
She rides out as far as she can go, farther than she has ever gone before. Past her elementary school, the middle and high schools she never could attend. Everywhere she goes, the town is covered in dust and haze. Everything - construction cranes, drying lawns, the signs outlining the community in-the-works. All yellow, pale next to her father’s bicycle. Pale next to her, a silhouette in the summer morning, mundane.
Something precious, she reminds herself as she stops next to a barbed fence. Something precious, she reminds herself as she hurls the brown eye pendant into cedar dust.
And it, in some strange relief, feels wonderful.
The wind buries it there.
(he pressed it into the palm of her hand. an analog pocket watch, he smiled, grip sucking against her wrist. something precious.
something perfect for the city.)
His hand reaches for hers. Or, at least she thinks it does. Darkness deems this insignificant.
“Do you think we’ll remember this,” he starts. Pauses, dust shifting beneath his head. Begins again. “Years from now?”
She squints into a starless sky, an upward abyss. The heat of his fingers waver above her palm. “No.”
His fingers fall to his side, limp and open, damage done. A nearby streetlight reflects off her eyelashes, creating an artificial star.
The wind buries them there.
Good night, Dongho. He grazes an eggshell kiss against her cheek. She stares at him, ineffectually.
He walks home, then.
Her father tells her that the taxi got lost trying to find their town. They laugh, his fingers crinkling the edges of his newspaper in the process. She double-knots her old shoes from two summers ago, traces her hand over the etchings on the kitchen doorway. Gives her the same old parental guidelines - be careful, study hard, come back next summer if you can - with same crinkling at the corners of his eyes, hand holding her luggage as his slippers slap down the dusty white brick steps.
They pull away - taxi covered in two coats of smoke and smog - her father waving, tall man just right next to a doorway for one. Then, all that’s left is the road.
She blinks. He is there, running after her, dark eyes and late afternoons, wind beating him backwards, a silhouette in the morning through the dust and haze.
She blinks once more. He fades into yellow, pale against her father’s egg yolk door.
It is then that she realizes this is real.