“It’s freezing out there,” she repeated to herself.

Once she got home, she reheated a pot of doenjang jjigae while skimming the text and flipping through the lesson plans. It seemed that with about thirty minutes per day, she could get through at least half of the book over the next month, completing all the exercises and assignments along the way.

In the dining nook, she closed the book and blew on a spoonful of soup before taking a bite and realizing then how cold she actually was in that house. She needed to put on a sweater but felt too lazy and hungry to move.

Mrs. Baek emerged from her bedroom in a drab gray T-shirt and loose matching pajama pants, yawning as if she had just woken up. The night before, she had probably worked the graveyard shift at the restaurant where she cooked for late-night diners and partiers who had been out drinking and craved a comforting bowl of soondubu jjigae or a cast-iron platter of bulgogi.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Mina said. “I made dinner already, some doenjang jjigae. Do you want to join me?”

“Sure, let me take out some more banchan.”

Mina ladled her some soup and scooped rice while Mrs. Baek laid out a stack of little bowls—gosari namul, kkakdugi, panfried dried anchovies—covered in Saran wrap from the fridge.

“I make these every day at work,” Mrs. Baek said, unwrapping the banchan and releasing the rich, comforting scents of sesame, onion, and garlic. She sat across from Mina as if she were on the floor, lifting one of her legs and placing the bottom of her foot on the bench. Unlike so many women, Mrs. Baek didn’t seem to mind taking up time and space, spreading herself out, which both irked and fascinated Mina.

“I’m so thirsty,” Mrs. Baek said, chewing. “I don’t know why.”

“Let me get you some water.” Mina ran the faucet, trying to remember how many years Mrs. Baek had lived in America. Five, ten, twenty?

Mrs. Baek flipped through the Spanish textbook absent-mindedly, as if strolling through the glossy pages of a women’s magazine. “You’re learning Spanish?”

“Trying. I figure it’d be easier to, you know, talk to people.” Mina laughed. “I guess I should learn English one of these days, too. I can’t always depend on you.”

“Oh, you’ll learn eventually.” Mrs. Baek smiled. “It takes time.”

“How long have you been here, in America?”

“Many years. Almost twenty.”

“No wonder your English is so great.” Mina mixed rice into her jjigae.

“Yes, yes. I read a lot, too. I was also an English literature major. Do you like to read?”

“To be honest, I hate reading.” Mina smiled. “I was never a good student.”

“You can watch television or movies then. I think if you take in the culture, it’s easier, you know?”

Mrs. Baek impressed Mina with her college degree, her English skills, and her cooking, yet something about her was also deeply unsettling. Mina couldn’t quite understand how this woman would’ve ended up in the same house as her, at a restaurant cooking food, when she could get a higher paying job in an office somewhere. Was she running from something or someone?

She couldn’t ask that. Still, she had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Baek, like her, was hiding from the world. But from whom?

IN THE BACK OF THE STORE AT A LONG FOLDING TABLE, Mina nibbled on her packed lunch, a bento of leftovers—rice, seasoned spinach, kimchi, a few bites of bulgogi. She thought about the Spanish words she had learned from Daniel, words about the weather—nublado, viento, soleado—which sounded beautiful out of his mouth but funny and garbled out of hers. She still couldn’t quite get the sound of the letter L.

As she formed her tongue and lips, trying to find the shape of that sound—L . . . L . . . L—Mr. Kim entered the break area, stopping to bow his head toward Mina before heading to the restroom. Now that Lupe worked at the supermarket, Mina and Mr. Kim no longer had a reason to visit her and her children. He still left food items for Mina in her storage bin, but as the days passed, she saw him less and less. Perhaps he now felt embarrassed after asking her out to dinner a couple weeks ago. Who could blame him?

He exited the restroom, turning away.

“Mr. Kim,” she said, not knowing why or what she would say.

He stopped in his tracks. “Yes?” His voice was tired and gravelly.

“I’ve never thanked you . . .” She cleared her throat. “For the things you put in my basket.”

“Oh.” He turned around, staring at the floor a few feet ahead of him, waving dismissively. “No big deal. Sometimes, we have these leftovers, can’t sell them or anything, so . . . no big deal.” He lifted his hand to acknowledge her words before turning again.

“Mr. Kim.”

“Yes?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing. Everything is fine.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to run now. But thank you.”

For the rest of the day, she thought about his downturned face. The tenuous bridge between them was eroding. She imagined herself shouting for him as he walked away, but she didn’t know what she would say. She couldn’t explain how frightened she had become of life, knowing that at any moment it could be taken away and that there were no lessons, no meaning that she had found in loss, only pain. How could she explain this to him?

At her register, she scanned and punched the numbers, barely acknowledging the customers, anyone around her.

“?Qué pasó?” Daniel asked.

She feigned a smile. “Nada.”

But she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She wished there was something she could do for him, leave something in his office. But what? What would he need? How would she know? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe any gesture would count.

At the end of her shift, she grabbed an Asian pear from the produce section, paid for it, and rushed toward the back of the store. She placed the fruit on his desk in his tiny office, which she had never entered before and smelled musty and slightly sweet from paper and ink. She heard a noise behind her and turned around. He stood at the door.

“Is that for me?” His brown eyes softened.

“Yes.” She caught her breath. “I just thought—sorry, I probably shouldn’t be in here.”

“That’s nice of you. You don’t have to do anything for me.”

“You just looked . . . tired.”

His gaze dropped toward the ground as his mind seemed to calculate what and how much to say. “A lot going on around here.”

A pair of feet shuffled behind him as the store owner walked over. Facing them both, Mr. Park said, “Hello, hello. Am I interrupting something?” He lifted his eyebrows.

Mina cringed inside. The office seemed to shrink in size.

“No, Mrs. Lee wanted to talk about her schedule.”

“Oh, any problems?” Mr. Park craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of her behind Mr. Kim. “You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you, Mrs. Lee?” He winked, almost imperceptibly.

“No, everything is fine,” she said in a steely voice. “I just wanted to . . . talk to him about my hours. I’d like to work more hours.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, grinning at Mr. Kim before patting him on the shoulder. Walking away, Mr. Park added, “By the way, good job, Mrs. Lee. You’ve been doing a good job.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Park went out the back door, either to smoke or leave for the day.

Mr. Kim faced her again. “Well, thank you for the apple,” he said with a smile.

“It’s a pear.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“Um . . .” She touched the corner of the desk with the tips of her fingers, steadying herself. “Do you still want to have dinner?”

Margot

Fall 2014

LAST NIGHT HAD BEEN MARGOT AND MIGUEL’S FIRST night sleeping in the apartment, about a week after they had discovered her mother’s body. Margot had slept in her mother’s room while Miguel stayed in Margot’s. After brewing a cup of coffee with a French press that she had bought her mother many years ago, Margot sat at the dining room table, staring out the window at the alley that separated their building from the next. Her mother had never used the French press, preferring instead the packets of instant coffee, premixed with sugar and creamer from the Korean supermarket. Her mother had even kept it in its box as if preserving it for someone.

How many times had Margot gazed out that window?

She and her mother would sit at that table, at breakfast, at dinnertime, silent. How she had wished her mother would ask her how she was feeling more often. How she had longed for her mother to ask her what had happened that day, if it was good or bad, or if something about it had surprised her.

But maybe the questions themselves frightened her mother. Not because she didn’t care about Margot, but because the questions were the same ones that she was never willing to ask or answer about herself. It hurt too much to know. How are you doing? How do you feel?