A Short Story

Like I promised, here is my fictional short story.

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Blinded by the Rain

Annie

I spent my flight to Korea reading a short story called “100% Perfect Girl” by Haruki Murakami. I found it absurd – how two people could simply pass each other on an ordinary April morning and assume with utter conviction that the other was their soul mate. I was mildly irritated. Could love be so fickle?

During my few months as an international exchange student at the prestigious CheongShim International Academy, I spent my weekends exploring the city. A blue cloudless Sunday saw me getting lost in the backstreets of Seoul, but I soon found comfort in the discovery of a small café half-hidden behind a busy market square. Relaxing on the patio, I noticed a young woman not much older than myself sitting a table away. She was not particularly pretty, nor did she possess any outstanding features. It was the expression on her face that caught my attention, a forlorn and desolate look that betrayed the playful tug of the warm breeze. I could not see how such a fine day could cause the little furrow between her eyebrows or the severity in the set of her chin.

My journalistic mindset shifted into position and I initiated a conversation. She was reserved at first; somewhat alarmed at the audaciousness of a foreigner who only knew a handful of stuttered Korean words. Thankfully, the girl, whose name I gathered to be Ae Sook, made up for my incompetence with her English. It wasn’t long before I found out the reason behind her melancholy. She had just rejected her childhood friend, “a boy I’d known ever since I was still wriggling in my crib,” she said. He was from a good family – “rich, intelligent and good-looking,” she described, losing herself in the stirring of her juice. I was most curious, unable to understand why she had not given him a chance. She glanced at me at this point, saying bitterly that she would give anything to love him. Her frustration irked me, and I felt clumsy in my attempts to console her as I watched her fingers curl into her palm. “I hate love,” she told me, “it has a mind of its own, and reciprocates with a disregard for convention and logic.”

To make her feel better, I shared with her the stories of my parents and grandparents. I assured her that she was right to have rejected her friend, because who knew if he snored in his sleep or spent all his time partying at night? If he was as great as she depicted, he could very well have fifty secret girlfriends on the side vying for his attention. Though she didn’t understand, I felt the need to quote Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, “love is blind and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit”. I liked to think that my words brought her some semblance of comfort.

She asked for my email and phone number, promising to call and schedule a lunch. However, as she stood up to leave, she accidentally tripped on her jacket sleeve that had gotten caught beneath the chair. It was a waiter who went to her rescue, settling her back onto her feet. Had I seen a slight blush appear on her cheeks? I cannot remember.

I forgot about her for a while. My life was overwhelmed by my studies, and with the addition of new friends, I spent more time at Karoke bars than being alone in sidewalk cafés. It was five weeks later when she called me. We met at the same café on a Saturday; this time the sky was tainted with shadows of grey clouds. Rain was inevitable. Her appearance, once again, contrasted with the weather. There was a remarkable smile on her face that stretched to the corners of her eyes. I began to see why her friend liked her. She pulled me to sit down as she went to call on a waiter. To my surprise, Ae Sook pulled a familiar waiter to our table and introduced him to me. “He’s my boyfriend,” she told me proudly. “We’re in love.”

I would have laughed at such absurdity had I not caught the look that passed between them at those words. Her smile and the soft touch at his elbow bade me to reconsider. I hardly paid attention to the conversation that followed. I knew a few details - that she had gone back to see him, that her parents disproved and that he had dropped out of college. Though she never once reiterated the word “love”, I could see how very much in love she was.

I left when it began to rain. I had not brought an umbrella with me, and the rain that slid into my eyes blinded me. In my moments of sightlessness, I could see how love itself was just as blind. This profound feeling was not governed by direction or the need to reciprocate, and it hid the truth as much as it revealed it. If society was a room, then love was a window – it did not facilitate conventional ideas. I walked forward in the soft pitter-pattering of the rain, finding myself richer in my belief of love and acquiring a poignant sense of hope.

- Annie