it’s the last night of august in seodaemun Claire Whetzel
my legs are wet with rain. at the exit of the station, i buy fresh bread with walnut filling and pay the vendor with large, round coins found on the sidewalk. the bread is too sweet, but warms my fingers through a thin, paper napkin. the lights take too long to turn green. i wear a dress with pretty lace on the shoulders a and a small marker stain by the hem. my feet pale and unslippered and quiet in puddles, on oil-slicked pavement, careful not to step on broken bottles. it smells of smoke and sweat and perfumed wrists. my lips are chapped, leave my skin pink and warm after pressing them to the back of my hand. a strand of hair catches on curled and darkened lashes, slips into my mouth. it tastes of riverside and neon light. in the street, a girl kisses a boy with rolled shirtsleeves. a wide-faced man in a gray suit ducks past. i trace a cold metal railing with thin fingers and run lightly up wooden stairs. a woman on the corner stands under an awning, squinting into a handheld mirror. she dabs at her lips, powders her forehead and the tops of her cheeks. the moon seems very close. i press one foot against one leg to keep warm, lean against a rough, brick wall. my arms and nose itch with water. i pull the sodden fabric of my dress away from my skin, step on fallen leaves made translucent, plastered to the pavement. the rain will stop come morning.
6
