Soo-hyun, it’s a long story.”
Troy groaned. “I do not want to hear it.” He closed the door and locked it, then strolled down the short hallway that led to the bedroom, announcing over his shoulder: “I’ll get you something dry to wear.”
The apartment was small and neat, everything placed at right angles, as though Troy had decorated with a ruler and set square. The living room was floored in ugly, brownish, short-pile carpet that was mostly obscured beneath a large Oriental rug that Troy had inherited from his grandparents.
JD sat on one of the two light gray couches, their fabric shadowed with various stains and indented with the invisible weight of past bodies. There was no TV opposite, just a wall adorned with framed posters for sixties French cinema—Week-end, La Chinoise, Le Samoura?, and Le Feu Follet. All of them except Week-end had been gifts from JD, printed cheap on university printers and framed by an old Korean couple at a tiny shop in outer Seoul; they’d cost a full month’s rent. JD was glad they had survived the breakup.
“How have you been?” JD called out.
“Busy. They’ve got me tutoring classical literature, early Christian and Jewish studies, as well as my philosophy classes.”
Now that he was standing inside, JD’s phone connected with the apartment’s smart systems—the ambient temperature was displayed in large digits hanging in the center of the living room, and a list of controls for light switches, the oven, microwave, and kettle slid down the left side of his vision. He’d never relinquished his control keys after he left.
“What do you know about literature or religious studies?” JD said, dropping his voice when Troy returned with a threadbare bath towel and one of his many University of Cambridge sweatshirts.
“The administration doesn’t care. As far as they are concerned, it’s all just old people and old books. ‘Give it to Professor Morrison, he loves that stuff.’ ” Troy still spoke with the hint of an English accent, clinging to his tongue years after he’d left the Brisles—just before the old government collapsed in a domino effect from the crumbling American empire.
“At least it’s work,” JD said, scrubbing his head and face with the towel.
Troy sighed and sat on the couch. “You’re right; I should be happy.”
“I didn’t say that—you can feel however you want.”
JD folded the towel over the arm of the couch and turned away from Troy to strip out of his wet shirt, as though they hadn’t seen each other naked countless times before. He pulled the sweatshirt over his head slowly, breathing in deep to savor the smell of the fabric. JD would never spend the money for the brand of detergent that Troy used, no matter how much he liked the scent. Besides, it would only remind him of Troy. He hung his windbreaker and shirt on the hat rack by the door and sat back down.
“How’s your work?” Troy asked. “Still doing repo?”
The question hung heavy in the air between them, loaded like a cargo ship, like a gun.
“Yeah,” JD admitted, watching Troy’s face for a reaction, but seeing nothing telegraphed there. “Mostly I’m doing machine maintenance at a warehouse on the shorefront. The pay sucks, but at least the hours are long.” JD smirked.
“Living with your mom?”
“No, that was strictly short-term. Living in a dorm, but I still see her every week.”
“How is she?” Troy asked.
“I think she misses you—” JD said, stopping himself from saying the rest: as much as I do. After a silent beat, JD nodded toward the framed posters: “This place hasn’t changed.”
Troy carefully inspected the room, as though he didn’t see it every single day. “I suppose you’re right. I’m going to make tea—do you want anything?”
“Hot chocolate, please, if you still have any.”
Troy disappeared down the corridor. Alone in the living room surrounded by all the icons of memory, JD felt out of place. He got up from the couch and paced the length of the room, then walked to the kitchen.
Troy was filling the kettle, and the shuddering noise of the substandard plumbing concealed the sound of JD’s shoes on the linoleum floor, patterned like tiles. JD went to the cupboard and found the cocoa powder, sugar, and chamomile tea where they’d always been, everything unchanged apart from the thin layer of dust that had accrued on the box of cocoa in his absence.
JD reached past Troy and placed them down on the counter beside the kettle. Troy turned and started, then pulled away.
“Could you just—