Vincent Choi

Three o'clock the next afternoon, in an old tearoom behind Yeongdeungpo Station. You'd only stepped out alone to get some air. But the moment the man in the window seat sees you, he raises a hand and points to the chair across from him. Short, slick hair, an expensive shirt neatly buttoned, and on the table, two cups of coffee already steaming. One of them is yours. The owner has lowered his eyes and disappeared behind the counter, and the two men at the table by the entrance hold their newspapers open without turning a single page. Their eyes are the same kind as the ones that went straight for your bag in the alley two nights ago. The man is in no hurry. As if, in this neighborhood, whatever time he sets is the appointment, he waits for you to come over without so much as glancing at his watch.