note: this a short story written in 10-part serial form.

A cigarette break. He recalls the days when his parents’ friends adored him. He was only seven or eight, but everyone loved the way he said “hello” and “thank you.” His parents didn’t have friends anymore. They were retired recluses living together in some obscure town a few hours north of the city. His mother hated other Koreans for reasons he could never quite understand. His father, he felt, was defeated from trying too hard.

A homeless woman walks by and asks for a cigarette. He gives her one but doesn’t even see her. He remembers how his parents’ friends once bought him toys and clothes. The Lego set that made him want to be an architect. The first shirt that wasn’t from Kmart.

Back to work. He hates it, the way he doesn’t really care about it. He hates how the khaki pants fit him and how his stomach hangs a bit over the belt. He used to touch the ground and not feel a thing. He sits in his cubicle and flips through a few documents on a clipboard. He looks around and nobody’s in sight. He discreetly catches glimpses of naked women on his computer. Fire me, he whispers.

He still keeps a photo of his ex-wife on his dresser, although he’s pretty sure she’s close to remarrying. He remembers how she used to make the bed every morning, lining up the pillows perfectly. He imitates the routine as an homage. It’s already been two years, but he swears he can still remember her voice. He feels a sudden urge to visit his parents. This weekend he’ll go.