Lauren, a paralegal, said with a thick Chicago accent, “I still vote in the US, and my family is there.”
Kini and Jada worked for Google; Jennifer and Tasha were in website development.
“OMG,” Jennifer screamed. She ran from the table to the railing to dance in her red heels and sleeveless white dress. “This is my favorite song.”
“She’s a V fan,” Kini explained. “He’s in BTS.”
Meena nodded and took photos of Jennifer singing into an imaginary mike. “Do you understand Korean?”
“I’m conversational in it.” Jada stopped singing to respond. “I started learning it a few years ago, as soon as I discovered K-pop. Living here, it’s gotten a lot better.”
Meena took notes along with photos. This was her last shoot for her Rolling Stone assignment on American women living in Korea, motivated by their love of K-pop. She’d been with these five women for a week, in their homes, at their workplaces, on dates with their Korean boyfriends, and out in clubs. In their late thirties, these women had found something they’d been missing. Permission.
“We’re not embarrassed or ashamed that we like a boy band,” Tasha said. “We own it. Like, who decided we had to outgrow our teenage selves? And let’s be clear, I’m not chasing boys. I love their music, yes, of course I find them sexy, but not in a way that’s icky. I have an age-appropriate boyfriend. And part of me is like, This is what I want to do, and you can suck it if you don’t like it. It’s like BTS gave me this confidence where I live on my own terms.”
It was four in the morning by the time Meena left the club and headed back to her hotel. She’d wrapped up what she’d needed, and after a few hours of sleep, she would edit and caption her best images before sending the whole set to the photo editor. She would also let the writer of the piece know she’d filed her pictures. Then she would find a place to stay and be on the lookout for more work. As she packed away her camera, she scanned her phone. Tanvi continued to text regularly, and while Meena’s texts back had been sporadic at first, the woman had worn her down. Tanvi had a lot of questions and wanted to live vicariously. So Meena had sent short videos of Korean street food, which Uma had taken up as a challenge to re-create it. Now Tanvi was asking about the club.
Meena sent a short video of the dance floor and the maniacal strobe lights and hit send. In the cab ride back to her hotel, she rewatched the last video from Tanvi, who had recorded Wally chewing up one of Sabina’s slippers. The attached text said, He’s such a good boy. Meena missed the little puppy.
And Sam. She wanted to text him, talk to him. Instead of letting him fade from her memory, each day that passed without contact, she missed him more. The longer she put it off, the more overwhelming the need became. She hadn’t stayed in touch. She didn’t know if the aunties gave him updates on her. And in a way it would be worse if they did. She didn’t know why she was acting this way. Sam was no different from Tanvi. You can’t lie to yourself.
Once in her room, Meena brushed her teeth, washed her face, and applied moisturizer before climbing into the small bed. This was her life again. Prioritizing her work above everything else. The new was becoming old. Even after a few months off, she was already tired.
Because she wanted to be somewhere else. She wanted to live somewhere. Not as a base, not as a flat share, but as her own place.
An idea stirred her. A new goal to write down in the passion planner Zoe had given her. One year—not six months—to unpack her things, have utility bills in her name. The obvious place was the one she already had, her inheritance. She had three months left before she was even eligible to sell the apartment. Three months until Sabina would inevitably demand that she do so. She smiled as she thought about her wildflowers. She really wanted to be there when they bloomed in a few months, wanted to see Sabina’s reaction. It wasn’t going to be pleasant. She got up and grabbed a pen and the planner from her backpack. She also took out a small wooden elephant she’d taken from Neha’s apartment on an impulse. It was like a talisman, and rubbing it helped her think.