As if nothing had happened.

A cold and dull winter was slowly letting go of its coat and drifting away. Spring, in bright attire, took its place. It was a sunny, warm Saturday.

Normally, Young‑mi would have stopped by the bank and headed straight home, but today she just wanted to wander. She walked into the New‑York Historical Society at 76th Street and 5th Avenue. Inside was a painting of a small figure—indistinct in gender—sitting on a bench in her favorite stroll scene. It looked as if the figure were waiting for someone. The vague longing for someone who never comes made her heart ache.

After leaving the museum, Young‑mi walked across the street toward the Museum of Natural History and went into the Shake Shack to wait for her burger. Then a call came from Ju‑young in LA.

“Young‑mi, when I wake up, I feel so distressed. I need your wisdom. I always feel better after talking to you.”

“Sure, tell me.”

“Lately, I keep blurting things out. Yesterday, at a gathering, someone pointed at someone else and unconsciously I said, ‘I don’t want to take pictures with that kid. Let’s exclude them.’ Everyone stared at me in shock. What should I do?”

“It’s okay. Words are just words—you can’t take them back. Honestly, you did everyone a favor—no awkwardness later. People who know you will take it in stride. You can’t please everyone, right? Let them think whatever they want. So what if someone criticizes you? Just be yourself.”

Young‑mi took her burger and sat on a bench in front of the Natural History Museum. Ju‑young said she wanted to age gracefully, but lately felt like a wildcat—and the conversation dragged on. Young‑mi peered into her cooling burger wrapper, tapped it gently in disappointment. Then she heard a man’s voice on the other line.

“Let’s hang up. Your husband is probably looking for you. Talk later.”

The burger had gone cold and lost its flavor. She tossed the leftover corner into the wrapper, crumpled it.

“Excuse me, what time is it?”

A middle-aged man, who'd come and sat beside her unnoticed, suddenly asked. She found it odd—these days everyone checks the time on their phone. She reluctantly showed him her screen: 2:22 PM. He hesitated, then asked again.

“Where are you from?”

He meant, “Are you from Korea?”—the usual question Americans ask Asians. Young‑mi didn’t enjoy talking about her distant life in Korea.

“I came from Lincoln Square.”

“Oh, where did you live before that?”

She realized he was avoiding the direct question, trying to sound polite.

“Brooklyn.”

“I used to live in Brooklyn too, but moved here 13 years ago.”

When he said that, Young‑mi’s curiosity sparked.

“Where in Brooklyn?”

“Williamsburg.”

“Oh! I lived there too. My husband still runs his factory there. So many artists live around there—are you a painter?”

“No, it’s just a hobby. I’m a software engineer. Were you an artist?”

“No, I studied dance. After marriage, I helped with my husband’s business and later collected artworks.”

He mentioned how hard it was working from home during the pandemic. Now going in just two days a week felt like a relief.

“Don’t you prefer working from home?”

“I don’t. Without talking to people, I felt depressed. How did you get through the pandemic?”

Young‑mi thought: how lonely must this man be to talk about depression with a stranger old enough to be his mother?

But she looked at him kindly and answered:

“I’ve always enjoyed being alone. I quietly enjoyed the pandemic. But today’s weather was so bright—I decided to walk here after the bank.”

He had a soft, polished face—like a sculpture smoothed by a file—gentle in expression and voice. She guessed his age: maybe 48?

He wore beige pants, a pale green tee, and sneakers. His gentle presence made Young‑mi feel at ease.

They talked about how far apart they lived—just twenty blocks. They both loved art. Their connection felt unexpectedly close. James—he introduced himself as James—was single. Young‑mi tried to guess his age and said softly:

“I’m probably about fifteen years older than you… I have a son younger than you. My husband is a good man.”

Before she could continue, James picked up the crumpled wrapper from earlier.

“My apartment is just down the block. Would you like to drop by for a moment?”

Instantly, Young‑mi thought: He’s bored of me. What could be more tedious than listening to an old woman?

But she shyly followed in the same direction as his apartment.

He stopped in front of a beautiful four-story brownstone—one she’d admired while home-hunting. He unlocked the door and invited her in.

“It’s messy right now because of renovations, but come in.”

Part of her was so curious about the interior, but going into a stranger’s house after only an hour felt extreme.

“I’d rather go home.”

“Just come in. I’d like to show you something.”

That invitation sparked a conflict in her. Could this old woman be misinterpreting his kindness? But nothing bad will happen, right? she thought. She followed him inside. The oak staircase caught her attention first. Heavy oak double doors led in; the space was dim. The carpet was green, and the ceilings soared high. Gazing at the stairs, she hesitated.

Should I really go inside this stranger’s apartment?

He turned and motioned her up the stairs.

Don’t spoil this; just look quietly and leave, she thought. She climbed slowly inside.

The apartment was cluttered with renovation. He explained which rooms would be what. It looked smaller than she imagined. He showed her a few paintings in the living room—one was a semi-nude of an embracing couple. He shyly tucked it away. Young‑mi turned to the window and suddenly remembered the film Berlin Syndrome, where a woman is trapped in a strange apartment. She glanced around in alarm. They were on the second floor, but she felt that tingle of fear—life can change in an instant. Though her husband was usually too busy to talk, she felt her life might collapse in a moment too. Panic made her body stiffen. She edged toward the door. Then James came up behind and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Take off your coat and sit on the couch.”

“No, thank you. I enjoyed seeing your place, but I’d rather be outside.”

“Let’s just sit a bit. Would you like some wine?”

She reached for the doorknob and shook her head.

“Let’s go to a bar nearby. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“As if you don’t trust me?”

“No—I just need fresh air.”

When she tried the door again, he paused, then opened it.

“Stay outside. I’ll step out in a moment.”

Young‑mi rushed outside. The air was bright, warm, and snug. Did I misjudge him because I’m old and insecure? she thought. She’d have been unsafe if he’d just closed the door.

They walked a block to a bar. Inside, it was dark and loud. She suggested sitting outside: sunshine poured down. He moved a chair into the shade for her. Sunlight gleamed on his face. She offered him a seat next to her. They sat close, and she relaxed. Warmth and safety filled her.

“Who is your type of man?” he suddenly asked.

Young‑mi’s husband came to mind. He was nothing like her usual type. With no way to meet single Korean men in New York, she had met and married the dependable man introduced by a senior—and that man earned her more than he could spend. He founded a successful dental prosthetics factory. She invested in real estate and stocks and built wealth beyond what he earned. Now he was so occupied with expansion that even her chatter goes ignored. And her son was immersed in his own life.

That everyday feeling made James’s romantic question stun her. Was he interested? Her heart fluttered. Trying to recollect, James asked:

“Brad Pitt? Or Tom Cruise?”

“No… those are old names. But your name—James—makes me think of James Dean.”

“Oh, I know James Dean. He lived around 68th Street.”

“I thought you’d be too young to know him.”

“Don’t I resemble James Dean?”

“Not really. You’re cute—but different. And you’ve got a belly.”

“If I lose the belly, could I look like James Dean?”

“It’s not just your looks, it’s the vibe. I’ve given up in this life. But in my next life—give me a James Dean kind of man.”

James gently tapped her belly:

“You’re fine. You’ve got presence. It’s not too late—date again.”

Her nerves erupted like youth’s burst. Was he asking to date? Or not? She thought, her imagination burning. Luckily, her outfit didn't age her; she almost regretted not wearing a different hat. But then her husband and son’s faces appeared.

“I’m married. Marriage is a promise and a duty. Why are you sitting here with an old married woman on such a nice day? You should meet younger women—time is short. I tell my son you can have a lover even if you don’t marry. Go find a young woman. I must go home and prepare dinner before my husband gets back.”

She waved to the waiter for the bill. James tried to pay, but she insisted:

“Older people should pay. I’ll pay.”

She stood up.

“Next time, my treat. Can I walk you home?”

They walked silently—side by side—until they reached ten blocks from her apartment. James stopped.

“I should go. Thank you for the company. Take care.”

“I’d like to cook for you someday.”

She pictured his dark apartment—no way she’d dine there.

“I don’t like cooking or eating much. Thank you, but no.”

She declined his invitation.

“Then can I have your number?”

She felt guilty refusing. So she gave it, casually, like to an old friend. Denying him felt like denying their pure connection. He opened his arms for a hug. She hugged him and said in habit:

“You are a good boy.”

Then she walked briskly away, and he called after her:

“Wait, Young‑mi—there’s something I need to tell you.”

She didn’t look back, walking faster. In her mind floated the image of a fireman in Alberta carrying an elderly woman during a flood. The grandmother whispered something that made him smile—she joked:

“I feel like this is the first time I’ve been held like this since my wedding. It’s so wonderful.”

Young‑mi felt that same ache of age’s ironic sweetness.

When she got home it was 5:20 PM—three hours had passed. She hurried to set the dinner table before her husband returned, feeling guilt-laden and ceremonious like a penitent.

That night, she ran a fever—flushed and burning. The next day she stayed in bed. At 2:22 PM on Monday, a text from James popped up: “Hi.” She lay there, torn, feverish, dazed. At 5:22 PM another: “Young‑mi.” Her body was hot, her head heavy.

What would happen if I see him again? It’d feel like standing at a cliff’s edge. My calm might shatter. Desire is an illusion. To chase it even a moment would mean lying to my husband—and lies become weaknesses that steal peace and freedom. My time is short. I must live quietly and fully where I am, with what I have.

Before her husband came home, she blocked James’s number. After that, her fever eased—maybe empty regret cooled her heat.

James had ignited the embers buried deep in Young‑mi’s older soul. Even if he didn’t match her type and had a belly, his youth felt fresh and beautiful. She gazed at herself in the mirror long after—for once seeing the mossy curves traced by age. She consoled herself: it was good she didn’t meet him again.

Her mind still popped with memories of him—young, unruffled. She couldn’t recall his face clearly, only the ache of his memory. A week passed until another bright Saturday. Young‑mi left her apartment, walking with a lonely grace. She sat on a bench, staring at passers-by with longing. Thinking that no other man matched James made her flush all over. Herself plagued by aging pity—she felt absurd chasing youthful dreams in reflective mirrors.

Then her husband called.

“Where are you?”

“I feel a bit better, so I came out for some air. I’m sitting on a bench watching people walk by.”

“Be careful. Come home soon. I’ll make spaghetti for dinner.”

Her husband—boring but unchanged—saw through her wrinkles with steady love. She had built a rich life together with him. To meet another man now would feel like a plunge into ruin. Though mistakes teach us, ones in love can bind us in irreparable sorrow.

After that three-hour encounter with James, something in Young‑mi had changed. She could hardly believe how such a short time could shift the rhythm of her same-old days. The clutter of idle thoughts cleared, replaced by longing. She wasn’t the chattering, confident Young‑mi of a few days ago. She’d grown quieter, stopped rushing, moved in a flowing, dreamy way. She stared into distance until she sat, dumbly, on her favorite bench.

The wind—just passing—became a longing she carried. That spark, thought dead, had surged alive—a sweet midsummer night’s dream kindling inside her. Time felt precious. Rather than probing rapture closely, she watched it from afar—under the spring sun, in the movement of wind. She carried 2:22 on her heart, and lived out her days quietly, as if nothing had happened.