Chapter 1 - Jennie

Every night, Mino stepped out to smoke and gaze at what little stars shined over Seoul's sky before he went to bed. He was convinced that the routine was responsible for his wellbeing and good eyesight, 20/20 in each eye. I went out on the veranda too–not to look at the stars, but to look at Mino. I loved watching his face as he gazed at the starlit sky. He had a beautiful face, with long straight eyelashes. 

He took a drag on his cigarette and asked, “what’re you thinking about?”

“Life,” I said. I’d meant it as a joke, but Mino nodded seriously. These were my happiest moments–out on the veranda with my fiancé and childhood sweetheart, a glass of whiskey in my hand, the night air cool against my skin.

But I could never stay out long before I felt too cold. You see, unlike warm winters in Auckland where I used to live, the temperature here at Seoul frequently went below zero. 

I hurried back into the warm apartment and came face-to-face with the yellow man. He was an oil painting by Mino. Most of his face was buried under his green hands. I stood in front of the painting and sang. You see, the yellow man liked to hear me sing. 

After treating him to two verses of ‘Moon of Seoul’ by Kim Gunmo, I went to the kitchen, ran the water into the kettle, and boiled it. After a while, I filled the infuser with crushed lemon and tea into the teapot and slowly ran over the water through. I didn’t hum as I did when I boiled the water and cut the leftover lemon. I focused on what I was doing. This is serious work; accuracy and balance were key. It was one of the few household chores Mino demanded of me. 

I placed the kettle back on its stand.

“Ready!” 

Our engagement was one month old–but explaining our relationship is no simple matter. 

“Thanks,” Mino said with his usual smile and took a long sip of the herbal tea. He always liked his tea extra hot. 

After going through rigorous training for six years, I debuted as a rapper part of a girl group called Blackpink nine years ago and have enjoyed some fair share of success. After more than a decade of doing that and feeling the pressure from the restrictions from work placed on me, I managed to negotiate my way to live outside of the company’s dormitory and also a little hiatus to focus on my hobby that was photography. At some point of time then, through the hobby, I began to get in touch with my childhood crush again, he had established himself as a household name in the art scene in Seoul. Saying that Mino influenced me a little there was an understatement. 

With the hiatus of the music side of my career, I turned to publish indie zines from time to time, under the alias Jen–because I did not want my work to be associated with my fame. Since it was about time I finished up the piece I’d been nibbling at all week, I turned off my home studio’s lights, closed the door, and went and sat down at living room's sofa. 

I poured myself some whiskey, freely. That deep, rich hue of gold–what a way it had of entrancing me.

“Alcoholism? I don’t think you need to worry about that!” the doctor had dismissed, laughing. “Your liver is fine, and your stomach too. You’re having only two or three drinks a day, after all.” When I told him I couldn’t quit, he got up and patted me on the back. “I’m sure it’s a passing fancy. And remember, Jesus thought it all right to take a little wine for your health,” he said. “I’m giving you some vitamins. Just try not to worry yourself sick.”

“Try not to worry yourself sick,” I imitated the doctor out loud, swilling my glass.

All of a sudden, I felt that I was being watched. I turned around to look: it was the yucca elephantipes staring over at me. The “Tree of Youth”–the potted plant’s bizarre alias–was an engagement gift from Jiwon. With its dense foliage of large, sharp, straight leaves, it seemed eager to pick a fight. 

I glared back at Jiwon’s tree and downed the rest of my whiskey.

Mino was already in the kitchen when I woke up. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day for him.

“Morning. You want me to fry you up some eggs?”

I shook my head. 

“An orange maybe?”

“Yes please.”

By the time I was back from my morning shower, Mino had already done the dishes. On a glass plate he had set out for me was an orange, sliced into comb shapes, dripping with juice. 

As I sat eating, Mino programmed the heater to keep the room temperature stable and picked out the day’s background music for me. 

I filled a cup and watered the Tree of Youth. Through the blinds, the morning sun drew bright stripes on the carpet. The water sounded delicious as it hissed through the soil. 

“Tell me about Jiwon-oppa,” I pestered. 

“When I get home,” replied Mino.

Mino, who was an artist, drove off to the gallery or his studio every morning at ten past nine on the dot. Apart from some evening exhibitions, his weekly cycle was a regular salaried man’s, with a two day weekend. 

Having seen off my fiance, and having skimmed the papers, I decided to finish up the zine, which I hadn’t the night before. I was still feeling unwell from having put together “Moon, Star, and Dust: A Sci-fi Dystopia” when the phone rang. My mother called me almost every day.

“Feeling fine?”

She sounded so concerned that I became a little irritated and snapped at her. “Fine? What do you mean, fine?”

At the top of the bedroom chest, along with my Apple desktop warranty and tenancy agreement, were two medical reports. My mother’s voice tended to remind me of them. True, she knew only about one: the self-contradictory certificate according to which my mental illness was nothing abnormal. “The term ‘mental illness’ covers such a wide range of conditions, you see,” the dunce of a doctor had explained. “You aren’t not suffering from mental illness. Don’t worry though–it’s no more than a case of emotional instability. Your drinking is probably a manifestation of it. I’m sure you’d start feeling better in no time if–and I say this just for instance–you get married.” If you got married! His irresponsible advice was to blame for eight meetings with potential marriage partners.

“What’s wrong? Sounds like you’re in a bad mood,” my mother said.

“Not really. It’s just that I was in the middle of work.” I carried the phone into the kitchen and took a can of peach fizz from the fridge. I opened the can with my free hand.

“That’s good, but make sure you get housework done, too,” my mother said. “Don’t drink too much. Your father and I will come to see you soon. Say hi to Mino from me.” I hung up the phone and threw the can into the trash bin.

My mother was supportive when she learned that I was in touch and would move in with Mino. And then she was overjoyed to hear that her 32-years-old daughter was finally on her way to matrimony. And not because of status or fame. Scrutinizing a recent photo of Mino and me, she had said, quite in earnest: “You’re going to get better, my dear, living with him.” She knew how close we were when we were little. My mother and Mino’s mother have been trying to set us up since we were children and us engaged was one dream they have achieved in their lives. 

When I told Mino about that, during one of our apartment