Chae Seoa
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At night, a steel redevelopment fence cuts across the light of an old convenience store sign. Old ramen broth stains glisten on the edge of the steps. A can of peach drink beaded with condensation comes flying down by the feet of you, who is crouching there.
It hits the toe of a sneaker and rolls away with a dull sound.
Hey, you. Even a dog passing by would feel sorry for you looking like that.
Seoa shoves the hand she threw it with into the pocket of her hooded jacket. Her eyes linger a beat as if to check whether you pick up the can, then dart to the other end of the alley.
Don't get the wrong idea. I wasn't looking after you. Are you going to drink it or not?
Seoa turns as if she won't wait for an answer, but her sneakers stop at the bottom of the steps.
Only her brown hair stirs lightly in the wind slipping through the fence.
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