As if nothing had happened.

The winter, which had been cold and tedious, fades away like someone unbuttoning a heavy coat. In its place, a bright spring has softly settled in. It was a clear and warm Saturday. Usually, Young-mi would have headed straight home after stopping by the bank, but today she felt like walking without a destination.

She stopped by the New-York Historical Society at 76th Street and 5th Avenue. There is a painting there she likes, depicting a small figure—it’s hard to tell if it’s a man or a woman—sitting on a park bench. The person looks as if they are waiting for someone. It is a work that makes her heart ache with the sadness of someone longing for a person who will never come.

Leaving the museum, Young-mi went into the Shake Shack across from the Museum of Natural History. While waiting for her burger, her phone rang. It was Joo-young, calling from LA.

"Young-mi, I feel terrible about what happened yesterday. I need your wisdom. I always feel better after talking to you." "What is it? Tell me." "I’ve been saying the strangest things lately. Yesterday, I went to a gathering. While we were taking a group photo, I pointed at one woman and blurted out, 'I don’t want to take a picture with her. Let’s take it without her.' Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. What should I do?" "It’s okay. The words are already out. Look at it this way—it’s a good thing. Now she knows how you feel and she'll stay away. You’ve cleaned up that relationship in one shot. Your friends know your personality anyway; they’ll either understand or they won’t. Let them think what they want. You can’t be liked by everyone. Just live comfortably as you are."

Young-mi took her burger and sat on a bench in front of the Museum of Natural History. The conversation dragged on as Joo-young lamented how she wanted to age gracefully but felt she was acting like a wildcat. Young-mi looked at her cooling burger and tapped the wrapper, frustrated that she couldn't eat yet. Suddenly, she heard a man’s voice on the other end of the line.

"I have to go. It sounds like your husband is looking for you. Let’s talk later."

The cold burger was tasteless. She stuffed the leftover crust back into the wrapper and crumpled it up.

"What time is it?" A middle-aged man, who had sat down next to her without her noticing, asked. Young-mi thought it was strange for someone to ask for the time these days when everyone has a phone, but she showed him her screen. It was 2:22 PM. After a brief hesitation, he asked again.

"Where are you from?" She knew he was asking if she was from Korea—a common question for Asians in America. Young-mi didn't particularly enjoy talking about Korea, which felt like a fading memory.

"I’m from Lincoln Square." "Where did you live before that?" He’s persistent, she thought. He’s trying to find out my nationality indirectly. "Brooklyn." "Oh, I lived in Brooklyn too! I moved to this neighborhood 13 years ago." Interested, Young-mi asked, "Where in Brooklyn?" "Williamsburg." "Oh! I lived there too. My husband still runs a factory there. A lot of painters live in that neighborhood. Are you an artist?" "No, just as a hobby. I’m a software engineer. Are you an artist?" "No, I studied dance. But after getting married, I forgot about the stage while helping my husband with his work. Instead, I started collecting paintings one by one as a hobby."

They continued talking. James was a single man who lived 20 blocks away. They shared a love for art, and the atmosphere between them grew warm.

"I have a son who is about 15 years younger than you," Young-mi said, trying to gauge his age. "My husband is a good man."

Suddenly, James picked up her crumpled trash and stood up. "My apartment is on the next block. Would you like to stop by for a moment?" Young-mi hesitated. Is he bored of my talking? She stood up and walked with him, as it was the same direction as her home. He stopped in front of a 100-year-old brownstone—a beautiful four-story building Young-mi had often admired while "real estate shopping."

"It’s under renovation, so it’s a bit messy, but please come in," James invited. Young-mi was curious about the interior, but she felt uneasy about entering a stranger’s home. Yet, she didn't want to be rude or overthink his kindness. She followed him inside.

The interior was dark and cluttered with construction. James showed her his bedroom and kitchen, explaining his renovation plans. In the living room, he showed her a few paintings, including a suggestive semi-nude. He looked embarrassed and moved it aside.

Suddenly, Young-mi felt a flash of anxiety, remembering the movie Berlin Syndrome, where a woman is trapped in a stranger's apartment. Her senses sharpened. She moved toward the door. "Take off your coat and sit on the sofa," James said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "No, I’m fine. I’ve seen enough. I want to go outside." "Let’s just sit for a moment. Would you like some wine?" "Let's go to a bar nearby for a beer instead. I'll buy," she replied, reaching for the doorknob. "Don't you trust me?" "It's not that. I just need some fresh air."

They went to a bar a block away and sat at an outdoor table. The sun was bright. "Young-mi, what kind of man do you like?" James asked suddenly. The face of her hardworking but stoic husband flashed through her mind. Their life was wealthy but lacked conversation. "Brad Pitt? Tom Cruise?" James teased. "Maybe James Dean," Young-mi laughed. "Your name reminded me of him." "I know him! He used to live near 68th Street," James leaned in. "Don't I look a bit like him?" "No way! You're cute, but the vibe is different. You have a bit of a belly." "If I lose the belly, is there a chance?" Young-mi laughed out loud. "In my next life, I’d like to date a man like that." James whispered, "You look great, and your vibe is wonderful. It’s not too late. Let’s date—just like we are now."

The phrase "like we are now" made her ears turn red. For a moment, she felt like a young girl again. But then, images of her husband and son returned. "I’m a married woman. Marriage is a promise and a responsibility," she said firmly. "Why are you sitting here with an old woman like me? Go find a young woman and enjoy your life. Time goes by fast. I have to go home and cook dinner for my husband."

She insisted on paying the bill. As they walked toward her apartment, they were quiet. Ten blocks away, James stopped. "I’d like to cook for you sometime," he said. Thinking of his dark apartment, she declined. "I don't really like eating, and I hate cooking. But thank you." She gave him her number—a small excuse to herself that she didn't want to cut the connection entirely. When James gave her a hug, she instinctively said, "You are a good boy," as she often said to her son. As she walked away, he shouted, "Young-mi! Young-mi! Wait!"

She didn't look back. She felt like the old woman in the news who was rescued from a flood by a handsome firefighter and joked, "Being in the arms of such a handsome man is the best thing since my wedding day." She felt a bitter sting of old age.

By the time she got home, it was 5:20 PM. She had spent three hours with him. She prepared dinner for her husband with extra care, feeling like a guilty child.

That night, she came down with a fever. On Monday at 2:22 PM, James texted "Hi." At 5:22 PM, he texted "Young-mi." She lay in bed and thought: If I keep meeting him, I’ll be standing on the edge of a cliff. My peace will be broken. I must not be ruled by desire. It is an illusion. Before her husband came home, she blocked James's number. As soon as she did, her fever seemed to break, replaced by a hollow sense of loss.

James had poked the embers of a fire she thought had gone out. She looked in the mirror at her wrinkles and told herself she did the right thing. She shouldn't meet him again with a face covered in "moss."

A week passed. On another sunny Saturday, Young-mi sat on a bench and watched the people pass by. She felt small and old. Her husband called. "Where are you?" "Just getting some fresh air. I’m sitting on a bench." "Be careful. Come home soon. I'll make spaghetti for dinner."

Her husband was unchanging, never noticing her wrinkles or her inner turmoil. She knew that staying with him was safety, and James was a fall from grace.

The three hours with James had changed her. The chatterbox who gave advice to her friends was gone, replaced by a quiet longing. James was like a wind that had passed through, leaving a tiny spark behind. She didn't try to chase the spark; she simply kept the memory of "2:22 PM" deep inside her and continued her life, watching the world with different eyes.