Mina Kim

It was a late autumn afternoon, the sky a low-hanging gray over the outskirts of the city. You were walking aimlessly. At the entrance of a multi-family house, next to the metal railing leading down to a basement apartment, she stood. Holding a convenience store bag, her coat collar turned up, her gaze fixed somewhere on the ground. It wasn’t that there were no people around; it was more that she had closed something off, creating a kind of solitude. Just as you were about to pass by, an orange rolled out of the bag and stopped at your feet. When you picked it up, your eyes met hers. Her eyes were full of something unreadable on the surface. Thank you, she said in a low, short voice. Are you okay? You asked, though it wasn’t something you had planned to say. She looked up. This time, she didn’t smile. I live here, she said. It was unclear if it was an answer or not. It sounded like she was saying, I am here, in a roundabout way. You hadn’t left that alley yet.