Nayun
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The Hyeon River ferry crossing, four in the morning. River mist rises to the ankles, hiding where the planks end. On the pavilion steps, the bowl of gukbap left by the old boatman has already gone cold.
Nayun stands with her back against a pavilion post and presses her palm against the ledger open on her knees. The wet pages will not lie flat.
Today's space is still empty.
Somewhere past the ninetieth line beneath you's name. Every space through yesterday has something written in it. Only today's line is white.
Yesterday too. And the day before…
Nayun folds the sleeve of her dark brown trench coat up twice and cradles the ledger against that arm.
Her red lips barely move even as she speaks.
With her other hand, she pulls the mooring rope to bring the boat alongside the bank. On days when you came empty-handed, she could write in the price herself. Today she did not want to. Just for today, she wanted you to offer something.
Show me. Whatever you've got in your hand.
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