Page 60 of Angel of Thursdays

He took it.

“So is May coming to the—what is it, Lunar New Year?”

“Seollal. Yes.”

“Is his family not doing anything?”

Cassiel set the tweezers aside and looked over. “He and his mother aren’t close right now.”

“That’s it?” Lauren was waiting for something more, something that constituted gossip.

“That’s what he told me,” he replied.

“What about his dad?”

Cassiel opened his mouth then closed it. May had said everyone’s doing their own thing at Christmas. He’d said my mom and I aren’t great on a walk home from their outing on Clement Street. He’d mentioned her name was Teresa in January, casually, when Cassiel asked about the abundance of mandarins in his kitchen. May’s father was⁠—

May’s father was an unknown quantity. May had talked about Anna, about Louis, about Teresa’s piano teaching and her feelings about ‘fire qi.’ About his father, May had said almost nothing, which Cassiel supposed meant there wasn’t anything May considered interesting about his father.

“I don’t know about his dad,” Cassiel said.

Lauren shrugged, picked up her straw wrapper from the bench, then walked it to the trash can and dropped it in. As she came back, she sat down on the edge of the workbench and said, “Oh, I forgot the best part. The ranch guy wanted me to subscribe to his fucking Substack. Like, what are we doing here? Is there something wrong with me?”

Cassiel picked up the tweezers. She had moved on. When Lauren moved on, you moved on.

* * *

The apartment was dark when he unlocked it. He didn’t turn on the overhead because he didn’t hate himself. The hallway lamp came on first, then the bedroom lamp through the French doors, then the living room. Three switches in sequence, a perfect circuit he could walk without sight.

In the kitchen, the sesame oil sat on the shelf beside the rice vinegar. He’d never bought sesame oil before December. On the counter behind it, May’s mug: a vintage Otagiri ceramic in the shape of a Victorian row house, the Painted Ladies in pinks and creams, a chimney for a handle. May had found it at a thrift store and carried it home in his backpack, cradled in his arms.

Cassiel had looked it up later: Otagiri, Japanese company, 1980s, discontinued. It was too large for a normal shelf and too awkward to put away. It sat there, a house within a house. Cassiel could live with that.

He filled the kettle. Through the wall, his neighbor started. Not Chopin tonight; singing, her voice low and smooth. “How Insensitive.”

They passed each other occasionally, exchanged nods. In two years, they’d had three total conversations, each about mail. Her practice schedule was Tuesday and Thursday evenings, 6:30 to 8:30. Most nights she sang. Some nights it was classical. Cassiel preferred the singing.

The kettle clicked. He poured. Through the wall, the same phrase repeated, adjusted, repeated again. Working something out.

His phone buzzed on the counter. Minju.

He picked up. His thumb found the ring on his index finger. The five colored beads were smooth and worn from all his fidgeting by now, the thin wire of the ring perhaps having a year left in it before he would have to find a replacement or—create something new out of what remained.

“Oppa. Did you see the family chat?”

“No.”

“Check it. Appa made a sign for the shop.”

Cassiel pulled the phone from his ear and opened the chat. His father had sent a photo of a printed sign—full color, landscape, centered text in two fonts. CLOSED 29 30 31 JANUARY. Below that, larger: KOREAN NEW YEAR—SEOLLAL. In the bottom corner, a clipart snake.

“I have no opinion,” Cassiel said.

“Silence is enabling,” Minju said. “But speaking of—Seol is Wednesday. I need to—Jaewon-ah, no—I need to go over the plan.”

“Go ahead.”

“Menu’s locked. Umma said tteokguk, japchae, jeon, galbi-jjim. I’m doing the japchae because she wants to ‘supervise.’”