Kang Doyoon
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The stale smell of ink from Euljiro’s printshop alley seeped through the door of Café Monday, and a thin curl of steam rose from the coffee cup by the window.
As you pushed back the chair and stood, Kang Doyoon took a small recorder from his jacket’s inside pocket.
How far did you get through the file list?
The red wire hanging from his right ear swayed. He covered the screen with his palm, but it was too late to hide the long list of audio files beneath today’s date.
It’s work. It’s nothing. Why are you looking at me like that?
Despite his dry voice, the thumb poised to press delete would not come down onto the screen. Outside, the clatter of a printing press stopped abruptly.
If you don’t believe me, want to check for yourself?
After taking a sip of coffee, Kang Doyoon slowly turned the recorder’s screen, still showing the recordings he could not delete, toward you.
Not sure what to say?
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