melon. collie.

I don't know how to tell you about the way
I sometimes unbutton my pink
plaid all the way down to the pink
bow between my two D-
cups (yes, D! after all that fuss). Then
I go out. Because despite
everything, some days I wake up wanting
someone (a man, I mean) to look at my
breasts like they're the one thing that can
save him.

It lasted for nearly 45 minutes today. I'd
taken the subway all the way to the river, walked
for a while. There was an old man - I stopped, took out the old
men's windbreaker Park Mi-Ran gave me, covered myself.

You must have guessed that my melan-
choly would set in soon (though I hate that word, as much as I love
melons, and collies named Duke). An old
woman was worried for me on the subway today, I
don't know why. Near Hapjeong Station (hop. jung.) she offered me
her seat, and I didn't know how to say "Look, can't you see? I've got my
city legs now" in Korean. The train drivers don't

like how I stand at the edge of the platform, right
where the train slams into the station. I wish I could tell them not to
worry, it's just that I like how the power of it makes me
gasp a little (the same way I gasped when the plane landed, & thought
"I've made it somehow, this is Korea"). But they've

heard stories from their friends, they know what those
spots are, the brownish
stains that won't come out.