Sweater Weather

“You can lock up after finishing up front. I’ll be in the back doing some paperwork before I leave,” Suki said with a grateful smile as she made her way to her back office. She ran Suki’s Sweets, a quaint little ice cream parlor in one of the backstreets of Shibuya that boasted its one of a kind, artisanal ice cream. She was cute and short and she looked like she was born in the wrong era. She dressed like it was the 60’s and it looked like the entire shop was patterned after her, with the old school diner set up and vintage wall décor.

I remember the first time I came in here looking—or more aptly, begging—for a job. Suki gave me a flat out no, but I came back every Wednesday for three weeks, ordering a strawberry chocolate cone, almost on my knees, pleading for her to give me a chance. Suki eventually caved and hired me on a whim. I’d like to think I was doing a pretty good job. No one’s yelled at me for a wrong order so far.

“Already on it, boss lady! Have a good night,” I answered from my place in front of the store. My fingers felt like they were going to fall off one by one. Cleaning the freezers was the job I despised the most but I was sure it was better than doing numbers or inventory like what Suki was doing. Scraping frozen ice cream and juice stains was far from glamorous and it was sad to think that I was spending my Sunday night doing something so mind-numbing. How stupid was I to think that working at an ice cream parlor would be fun.

I’m such a ing dimwit. There was nothing fun about being harassed by bratty children with rotten teeth. I tried to remind herself of why she was working here in the first place--Culinary school, Hyemi. That’s why you’re scrubbing freeze dried sweet cream off the sides of a freezer. So one day you can make a delicious mess in the kitchen and have someone else clean it up for you. Just a little bit more. Thinking of it that way made the job a little easier to bear.

I turned up the radio sitting in the corner, bobbing my head to the beat as I finished up with my mundane yet taxing job. I moved to wipe down the tables when the door of the store opened, triggering the little golden bell atop of it to ring.

Seriously? My eyes instantly sought out the clock hanging on one of the walls. It is 9:4 on a Sunday. Who on God’s green earth would want ice cream now? I groaned inwardly. Just when I thought I could manage to leave the store a little earlier than usual, here comes a dumb teenager looking for a quick ice cream fix. Sweet Jesus, can’t a girl get a break? All I want is a ing chocolate croissant and a night in front of my television!

With a heavy sigh, I attempted to put on a pleasing smile and turned to the customer at the door.

At the door stood a tall young man dressed nearly head to toe in black, a snapback covering his hair, donning a pair of expensive looking sunglasses. Really? Really? We, an ice cream shop, are getting robbed? On a Sunday?

I tried to open my mouth but I could only let out a quick, “Uhm—“ before I was cut off.

His voice was deep and obviously foreign when he spoke out in broken English, it was all hurried and panicked, “I pay you all my money if hide me!”

“Like, from the cops?” I answered in clear crisp English. Great, I have a fugitive. Even better than a robber.

The stranger looked shocked at her fluent speech and tried to articulate his words but he was flustered and covered his face in what looked like embarrassment, “Aish, worse, actually,” He muttered in Korean.

“Seriously? What can be worse than the cops?” I responded in the same dialect. How serendipitous for our stranger to walk into this shop and to find yet another Korean. Of all the things that could happen to me on a Sunday night and it had to be hiding a stranger in an ice cream shop. Cool. But for some reason I managed to muster up enough courage to walk over to the door and locking it, turning the sign from ‘open’ to ‘close’, and pulling down the blinds. This man could be some crazed Korean killer but here I am, helping him out.

“Yah! You can speak Korean? Why didn’t you say so earlier?” He yelled out in disbelief.

I was so taken aback, it felt like my eyes were going to pop out of my head in disbelief, “Are you serious? Why would I tell you that? I’m not crazy and you’re the stranger asking for my help here!” I called out.

He dragged himself towards one of the booths and collapsed as he took a seat. He leaned back, took off his sunglasses and his snapback, revealing bright raspberry colored hair. I almost laughed at my luck and how stupid I was for thinking this man was a robber or a murderer or anything of that sort. I was too caught up with the idea of misfortune that I didn’t quite look close enough to read the writing on his clothing. His clothing, which consisted of a very comfortable LA Dodgers jacket, pretty much revealed his identity