The door opens and a gust of hot air takes my breath away. The sun is barely up, but already the streets of Seoul are sweating. The dog days of summer are here…and I’m the dirtiest dog in town. Last night I met a girl with black Persian eyes and a Dionysian thirst. We were at Le Cox, on Rodeo-gil, and I struck up a conversation somewhere between my first and fourth bottle of wine. Her name was Sunny. She told me she was a model working on the home shopping channel. She said she loved wine, fashion and some Korean hip hop group I’ve never heard of. Don’t ask me what else we talked about, I haven’t the faintest idea. The only other thing I can recall is that somewhere along the line I decided it would be a good idea to go home with her. That’s the third girl this week. Most of my friends think I’m sick, but they don’t understand. I'm empty. ***** It’s been two years since Megan died. Two years of questions and quiet anguish. Some days I wonder if I could have helped her. If I could have stopped her from getting into that car. Would it have been different if I were there? I’m thinking about Megan now as I step out into the street. The morning sun casts a golden glow on blocks of concrete and extinguished neon lights. My shirt clings to the sweat on my back and I wish I had my sunglasses. My watch says 7:16 and the streets are deserted. Early-risers sit in cafés, sipping their low-fat ice cappuccinos and reading the morning paper. Across the street, a motley crew of drunk Koreans zig-zag down a narrow lane, yelling and screaming in a language still alien to me. The smell of puke and soju hangs heavy in the air. Suddenly, an intangible thought flits across my mind, and something dawns on me: I’ve never seen this city on a Sunday morning. My mind continues to race, but the thoughts are meaningless. As pieces of last night’s puzzle swirl in my head, I try to create a clearer picture, but nothing fits: just a bunch of hazy snapshots distorted by wine and mirrors. The only clear memory is of Sunny – back at her apartment. I see her now with the exactness of a photograph. She is sitting on the bed with her back against the wall. A Hello Kitty blanket draped over her legs. Her eyes – large and doll-like – sparkle with an innocence I’ve long since forgotten. Her sleek hair shimmers in the lamplight. She takes a hearty sip of wine and smiles. I’m wondering if she’s drunk enough to make a couple of bad decisions. Twenty minutes later my question is answered. She invites me into bed and turns off the light. We fall into a dark, unwholesome embrace. ***** My guts turn and a thousand tiny jackhammers bang out an off-cued symphony in my head. Nausea sets in, and the brittle memories of the morning come rushing back. There I am wriggling out of Sunny’s embrace. Slipping out of bed and snatching my clothes off the floor. And that’s me sneaking out the door. Running down those stairs like they’re on fire. No note, no goodbyes. Just another one night stand. Halfway home – near Apkujung station – I’m accosted by two Jehovah’s Witnesses. They are clean cut lads dressed in starched white shirts and grey slacks. They’re both wearing ties, are in their early twenties, and hail from Utah . The taller of the two asks me if I’ve ever read the Bible. I tell him I have. “And did you find God within its pages,” asks the shorter, plumper fellow. I tell him God is dead. Flogged to death on an altar of greed and lust. Then for no real reason - other than I feel like it - I tell him about Sunny. I tell them about other passionless sexploits. About Karen and Sarah. About Isabella and Grace. I tell them about all the drunken nights and forgotten names. I tell him everything. They stand there, mouths agape, staring holes through me. The look on their faces are priceless.“You are a hapless scoundrel”, he seems to say. “A lost cause…a doomed soul….definitely not one of God’s children.” They don’t say another word. As they leave, I watch them walk away. Two innocent, compassionate young men out for a Sunday stroll. They leave a sinless past in their wake and welcome the bright, rosy future with open arms. They're full of love and happiness. All the things I lack. I think of this and laugh out loud. I laugh at their brutal naivete. I laugh about the pleasures of life they’ll never know. But then something happens. Cold, clammy fingers wrap around my throat and constrict. I can barely breathe. I choke on the taste of bitter envy.   Back to Tales from the Edge main menu