Sublimation(74)

* * *



Atheist theological studies majors like to point out that Lucifer, the serpent, the one angel who rebelled, is also an instance of God.





SOYOUNG-ROSE


Soyoung’s up too late. She had a 2 AM meeting for her Korean self’s job and then had meetings in a block all morning for her American self’s job. She had swapped languages, given presentations, smiled in the video window, made small talk with Korean coworkers about “dealing with some family issues, but they’re almost resolved,” and “how Korea was, other than the family things,” with the American coworkers. It was logistically challenging, making sure that no one suspected that there’s anything wrong.

She rubs her eyes. She gets out of bed. She might as well go get her mail. A walk will clear her head.



* * *



On top of her mail, there’s a package. She hadn’t ordered anything, but the address is located in Korea, specifically Yujin’s apartment. Soyoung takes it upstairs and rips it open. The top of the box has a note that says Care package! along with some snacks, the xylitol gum she likes, and some stationery supplies (fancy mechanical pencils, colored lead). She pulls all of them out. Underneath there’s a USB drive, with a sticky note folded on top: FOR YJ (SY PLEASE DON’T LOOK) and a second slip of paper, which has a string of numbers, and the word “PASS.”

It’s clearly all window dressing for the USB drive. But why send this to her, rather than to his instance directly? Soyoung has the vaguest memory of YJ having asked about Yujin mentioning her when they talked. She examines the snacks. They’re all Korean brands, all things you could buy in the States except without the English-language packaging. The honey twist things, the banana puffs. Kid snacks.

Dr. Crouton meows and comes running up to her. Soyoung bends down to scritch him.

“You think these are treats, don’t you? It’s not treats. It’s problems.”

He winds around her ankles. She stands up. Picks up the USB drive and uncaps it. Recaps it. She puts it down and opens the door to the closet where she keeps her out-of-season coats and shoes and other miscellany. A handheld vacuum cleaner. A shoebox full of old cards, from Rose’s birthdays. An old diary. One of those preserved roses that an old boyfriend had gotten her, as a gift and a joke—a rose for Rose!

Underneath everything, there’s Rose’s old laptop. It’s a college artifact. She uses it for anything that she doesn’t want on her work computer. If there’s anything suspect on the USB drive, it won’t get mixed in with her work files. The ancient machine begins booting up. Soyoung goes over to the kitchen and takes out a bag of the American honey things. She opens it. Dr. Crouton comes running over.

“Again, not for you,” she says, and shakes a couple out onto her hand. She walks back over to the snacks and opens the Korean honey things. She closes her eyes. She eats one, and then the other. Crisp, oil, salt, sweet. She can’t tell if the difference in flavor is psychosomatic or not. She opens her eyes again and eats a few more before brushing her hands off and sitting down at the computer. She plugs the USB drive in, and gets a notice that it’s password protected. She punches the password in and then opens the file folder. The first document she opens is a letter addressed from Yujin to YJ. She thinks about closing it. She doesn’t. She reads.



* * *



Adam receives the apple from Eve, who exhorts him to eat it. She can’t explain anything more to him. What she learns from the apple is untransferable. There is no way to explain in language the intrinsic understanding she gains from its consumption. All she can say is that it’s good to eat, and what they had thought before was wrong.





YJ


Grand Central’s crowded; the weekend out-of-towners, a few commuters, a group of Chinese tourists all gawking at the hall. You check the train tables and go to the track for the Metro-North, up to Poughkeepsie. Soyoung’s standing there, typing rapidly on her phone. She doesn’t look up until you arrive. You smile at her, but you don’t reach out to hug her. She smiles back. You haven’t kissed her again, since the first time. You haven’t touched her since the time in the park. She hasn’t moved to touch you again, either.

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad. Just sending sorry, I’m busy! texts to friends, you know.”

“Sure,” you lie. “Do you have a lot of friends?”

You have to stop yourself from wincing. It’s such a high school question.

“Rose has like … a large social network,” Soyoung says. “I don’t know if I’d call them all her friends. It’s been awkward. I’ve been making a lot of excuses.”

“You don’t want to see them?”

“Not really,” she says. “If they realize—”

“How likely is that?”

“I have no idea,” she says. “Would you have realized?”

“I didn’t know you, I don’t know.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to forget—”

“It’s fine,” you say, though you don’t know how to feel about the way she sometimes conflates you and your instance. She doesn’t do it often. But you’ve noticed in the past weeks, every so often she’ll forget. She’ll look at you with too much familiarity. Sometimes you like it. Sometimes you don’t. You keep saying yes to her, though. “I just—”