Thirty

I’m back at the bus stop. It’s nighttime, and the moon is hidden behind a bank of clouds.

The streetlamps are broken; they flicker on and off. My head feels foggy, and the bus is late. I peer down the dark street.

There’s a shuffling noise behind me. I turn to look. It’s the stranger from the bus stop. They approach me with outstretched hands. I stumble backward and fall on the asphalt. The pain is jarring, but I scramble to my feet. I need to run. I need to get away.

“What do you want?” I scream. “I don’t have anything!”

My legs refuse to work. They’re stuck to the ground, and the stranger is approaching, closer and closer. Their eyes are the only thing I can see, and even in the darkness I can see their vividness. Blue. Morning glory blue. Niagara Falls blue. The blue of my father’s favorite tie, of the Southern California skies during summer vacations. “Go away!” I scream, louder this time. “Leave me alone!”

They stop in front of me. I close my eyes, and when nothing happens, I peek through my eyelashes. The person unwinds the scarf, around and around until finally I can see their face.

It’s George. His eyes are so beautiful. But when he grins at me, his mouth is an empty hole, toothless and rotting. I step backward, shivering. “George?” I say softly. “George, it’s me. Ji-won.”

To my horror, his eyes begin bulging out of his head. They grow and grow and grow until they’re protruding out of his face. With a wet gurgle, they pop out of the sockets and fall to the floor. I shriek as they bounce over my unmoving, unworking feet.

Cold air blasts my face. I open my eyes. I’m in . . . the kitchen? The refrigerator door is wide open. I’m crouched in front of it, and cherry tomatoes are rolling on the floor around me. I’ve upended the entire carton. They’re so round and smooth and firm. Even though it’s late and I’m not hungry, I close my eyes and pop one in my mouth.