Miss Song hated being rushed for a flight. The night before, she had already packed and placed her luggage by the door. She woke up early, ready to return to New York. She dragged her suitcase out and tossed it into the backseat. Her boyfriend, Nam, was nowhere to be seen—as if he wanted her to play hide-and-seek. Fifteen minutes passed before his long legs finally appeared, walking at a snail’s pace.
“Where’s your suitcase?” “Already in the back.” “Without telling me? That heavy thing...” Nam mumbled. “Well, let’s go then. What music should I play? Classical, jazz, or Korean?” He pulled out CDs, asking her to choose. “Just play whatever you want.”
Sade’s Smooth Operator began to flow with its slow, slinky rhythm. Nam fidgeted with the windows, rolling them up and down. He even stepped out of the car and came back in, obsessing over the windshield. While he moved in slow motion, time raced forward. Just as they were about to pull away, he patted his back pocket. He’d forgotten his wallet. He went back inside. No sign of him. After a long while, he finally bustled out.
“It wasn't where I usually leave it. Took me forever to find.” Finally, his foot hit the gas. The car moved.
“We have plenty of time. Why don't we take a detour to Santa Monica Beach?” Nam suggested while driving. Miss Song never missed a flight or a train. She was the type to arrive early and wait, a habit that had earned her a perfect attendance award in high school. A detour? Now? She opened her mouth to protest but hesitated. She remembered his father’s words under the palm trees: “I like you. Please look after my son and his flaws. I’ll handle the wedding.”
Being six years his junior in America, she chose a cautious tone. “Won’t we be late?” “Never. It’s right on the way. Trust me, I’ve got this. Just count on Driver Nam! Hahaha.”
The vast beach welcomed them. The sound of the crashing waves began to dissolve her tension. “Wow, it’s beautiful.” “See? Good thing we came. Let’s rest here for a bit.” Nam flopped down onto the sand. Miss Song sat beside him, watching the water before glancing at her watch. Then at Nam. His eyes were closed. She agonized—should she tell him to hurry? Her nerves tightened. She stood up, brushing the sand off her skirt with a sharp thwack. Nam didn't budge. She gripped her handbag, waiting and waiting. He seemed fast asleep. Maybe he’s exhausted from showing me around, she thought, unable to nag him. But time didn't stop. Her muscles clenched. Finally, she shook his shoulder.
“The flight... how far is the airport from here?” He pulled her hand down as if waking from a dream. “I know the shortcuts. Don’t worry, just sit. Feel the breeze. LA is a blessed land. You fall asleep under this sun.” “Were you sleeping?” “No, just thinking. My father likes you. He wants us to marry. Will you marry me after your Master’s?” “I’ll... I’ll tell you after I get back to New York.” “Why? Don't you want to?” “It’s not that, it’s the time.” “You need more time to think?” “No, the flight time! We need to check in. Aren't we late?” “Stop worrying. I’ve lived here for six years. Going early just means waiting in boredom.” Her nerves snapped. In a cold, sharp voice, she spat out: “I want to go to the airport. Now.”
Nam pulled into a McDonald's near the airport. “Why here?” she asked, her voice trembling with anxiety. “I didn't get my coffee this morning. McDonald's coffee is cheap and good. Let’s just grab a cup.” At that moment, she realized: This man lives in a different world. She stared at his relaxed face, excited for coffee, and said firmly, “I’ll stay in the car. Just be quick.” “No, come in. I can’t pass a McDonald's. It’s a habit I picked up since moving to America.”
She couldn't shake off his hand. She was dragged inside. She sat on the edge of a chair, half-standing, heart racing. Nam stood at the very end of a long line. He seemed to enjoy the background noise—the ice clinking, the muffled chatter. He stared at the menu as if reading poetry, waiting patiently for his turn.
Miss Song glanced between her watch and his back. One second. Two seconds. The ticking felt like a needle in her eye. 1:00. 2:00. A cold sweat ran down her spine. Is he crazy? Does he know where we are? She could almost hear the gate closing.
Finally, he approached with a tray, walking slowly so as not to spill a drop. “Look at the layers of this apple pie. Six years ago, when my uncle bought me this... the smell of the cinnamon and sugar... that was the moment I realized I was finally in America.” “What time is it?” she cut him off. Her hand shook as she took a sip of coffee. Her heart began to pound even faster. “We have to go. Now. Tell me the rest at the airport. Please!”
She stood up abruptly. Her chair screeched against the floor. Her handbag swung and hit the coffee cup. Thud. Splash. A dark line of coffee raced down her orange dress and soaked into her shoes. “Oh, are you okay?” “I’m fine! I’ll change at the airport! Just move!”
“You’re so impatient,” Nam murmured as they drove. “In America, you have to learn to wait. I always pick the longest line. Long lines are the most reliable.” Miss Song heard nothing but her own heavy breathing. She just wanted to leave this man behind and drink a glass of wine alone on the plane.
They arrived. Before the car even stopped, she jumped out and grabbed her bag. “Wait here while I park!” Nam called out. She ignored him and ran. She wove through the crowds and raced up the escalator, gasping for air. The airline agent’s lips moved. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The gate just closed.”
The world stopped. A moment later, Nam strolled up, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He looked like a man taking a walk in the park. “I’ve been looking for you. Why didn't you wait?” “The plane left.” “Oh, it did? Time flies when I’m with you. Don’t worry, there are plenty of flights to New York. Let’s talk while we wait.”
His voice hit her ears like a slow stone dropping into still water. She realized then: His 'time' and my 'time' are parallel lines that will never meet. “I’m going in.” “Already? There are still two hours until the next one. It’s boring alone.” She wanted to scream. But she was a lady. She looked out the window, then went to the restroom just to escape him. He’s handsome, but he’s hopeless, she thought. He has no sense of reality.
When she returned, Nam cleared his newspaper with a smile. “There you are. I was worried. Sit closer. This reminds me of the time I missed a flight in Canada. I had plenty of time, but I got lost in a newspaper. I almost missed the next one, too, but they called my name over the speaker. I was the very last passenger to board. Lucky, right?”
She stared at him, stunned. He’s not relaxed; he’s irresponsible. This is it. It’s over. She stood up. “I’m going to the gate. I don't want to miss another one because of a story. Go home. Thank you for everything.” Finally taking the hint, he stood up and scratched his head. “Well, call me when you get to New York.” He turned toward the exit. Slowly. His back slightly hunched, he disappeared through the sliding doors like the final scene of a very long, slow-motion movie.
Miss Song sank into a seat near the gate. Her muscles trembled as the tension broke. She rewound their relationship in her head. Better to be single than to live at this pace, she thought. Besides, my name 'Ara' doesn't even sound good with his last name, 'Nam'.
“Nam Ara.” (Stay behind.)
Yes, she whispered to herself. You just stay right there. I’m leaving first.
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