認識 (Ninshiki) - Recognition

You swear. If one more bad thing happens to you this year, the Christmas decorations won’t be the only thing hanging from the tree.

You tally up the recent damages to your mental: you are sleeping with a demon who is, apparently, actively trying to destroy your life. You’ve slept with three women in two months but end up with none of them. A journalist who showed you a photo of your kitchen light from across the street is ten minutes from your apartment and you’re letting her in.

Great. You really wish you’d taken that free therapy session HR offered at your exit interview.

She said ten minutes, it’s been twelve.

You walk to the intercom and press the button.

“Hinode-san.”

“Twenty-fourth floor.”

“I know, coming up!”

The elevator hums up the building. You unlock the door and leave it cracked open. Pour her a glass of water because that’s what you do for guests; even guests who probably waited days for your kitchen light to open. (This is totally not weird and creepy at all.)

She knocks once. Lets herself in like she owns the place. (What is up with women treating your privacy like it’s a currency that you owe them?)

Kim Jiwoo is shorter than her byline photo. Heavier on her feet. She’s carrying two paper coffee cups and a leather messenger bag that has the worn-corners look of something she’s had since journalism school.

She’s smiling. Her smile looks like the type that’s naturally just there. A reverse resting bitch face—yeah. That’s what it is, she has a resting she’s-probably-gonna-be-a-bitch face.

She sets the coffees on your counter without asking. Takes off her shoes. Looks around and scans your apartment.

“Nice place. It’s exactly how I imagined it to be.”

“It’s definitely a place—also, I’ll pretend you never said that last sentence.”

She laughs out loud; genuine and cheerful, surprised out of her. “Sorry. That came out weirder than I meant.” (She’s extremely bright, this didn’t show up in the bylines either.)

“Ah~” She picks up the water you poured her, drinks half of it, sets it down. “Thank you, Hinode-san.” Picks up one of the coffees instead. “This one’s yours.”

“You imagined how I like my coffee too?”

“That—that’s a read.” She hands it over with both hands and a small bow that’s only half-joking. “I’m a journalist, Hinode-san. Reading people is part of the required skillset—also I bribed your barista.” She grabs her own cup and takes a sip. “Don’t tell Manchae I told you.”

The craziness of it all forces a smile out of you; she catches it. Her face lights up like you just gave her a present. (This woman might be too much, but it surely is a breath of fresh air after all the shit you’ve been through.)

“Was that a smile? Eeeeh—was I about to get a smile? Too late to take it back Hinode-san!”

“Looks like this is going to be a long night, huh?” You take the coffee—resisting the urge to drink it. You stand on the other side of your kitchen counter positioning yourself like a duel is going to commence and the counter between you is the makeshift divider.

“Calm down and sit, Hinode-san. I’m simply your guest.” She signals you to sit. “This is your place so you’re free to get as comfortable as you like.” She drops into the chair without waiting. “Counters are for dishes and one-night stands and we’re neither yet, so.”

(Did she just say that out loud? Yeah she really just did that, this girl’s crazy.)

You both sit across each other. She slides off her blazer and drapes it over the back of the chair, finally settling in. Underneath: a black turtleneck, slim. Hair pulled back—efficient and simple. The blazer made the outfit functional; without it, well, the lines of her shoulders and her waist are visibly—distracting.

“Tell me about your assistant.”

“Ok, straight to the point.”

“I don’t like wasting time Hinode-san.”

“You’re more polite in your emails.”

“Emails are meant to be toneless. This—” She pulls a small recorder out of her bag and sets it on the counter. “—this is dialogue.” Doesn’t press the button. “The recorder’s just so I don’t have to take notes. So everything’s off the record until I let you know.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“I’m practical.” She crosses her legs. The turtleneck rides up an inch when she shifts; she doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I’ve done this for a while.”

You sip your coffee: Iced quad espresso in a venti cup, with extra ice and six shots. It is, in fact, exactly how you take it. (Death in a cup, that’s how you like to call it.)

“What do you want to know?”

“What she is.”

You laugh once; dry. The first sound you’ve made all night that isn’t from inside your own head.

“That’s the question.”

“Yup! That’s the question.”

“Why are you asking it like you already know the answer?”

“Because I don’t. I’ve been investigating this for years.” She picks up her own coffee; reaches up with her free hand and pulls the tie out of her hair—shakes it loose. The professional pulled-back look is gone in three seconds; she’s still smiling at you over the rim like she didn’t just change the visual register of the entire room.

“I have a colleague, well, had a colleague. A junior reporter I mentored at Polaris. He got into something with a woman two years ago. He then disappeared into that relationship for a year. Came back like he’s seen oblivion—empty, soulless, aimless, just not himself.” She takes a tiny sip of her drink. “Hasn’t drafted a piece since.”

She tells this story as if she’d told it a thousand times.

“I’ve been tracking the shape of it ever since. It’s always men in high pressure industries. Women who appear in their lives without resumés. The pattern’s been hard to determine because every individual case looks like a coincidence.”

“And I look like a case.”

“You look like one that’s…approachable.”

You’re quiet for a moment; try to decide how much of this is performance and how much is true. (She said the recorder’s off. The light on the side says otherwise. She’s still leaning back, legs still crossed. The bag is unzipped on her hip like she’s not worried about anything in it. She’s relaxed—that’s either a tell or it’s not.)

“What do you think she is, Hinode-san?”

“I think she’s a problem.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have right now.”