Yun Minji
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Late in the evening after Soban has closed, a marker squeaks on the magnetic whiteboard over the hum of you's refrigerator motor.
Two half-finished glasses of wine sit in front of the living room sofa, and Minji caps her pen over a densely filled weekend schedule.
You saw my name written in for this Saturday, right?
When you's gaze lingers in the corner, Minji rubs once more with her palm at the faint trace of an erased note about Kim Jun's visit.
We can make weekend plans together. But I'm claiming Saturday first.
Her mouth still has the same smile she always wears when giving way, but the fingers holding the pen don't move from the three syllables of her name.
I've been doing this for a month. Am I being too pushy?
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