Previously appeared in Romance Buds, and Butterflies
Asha sashayed across the London tavern floor, looking every bit the exotic, strikingly beautiful Indian ex-pat. As she walked, men turned on their barstools to regard her, thinking, I’d like some of that. But Asha was not available, at least not to them.
Ignoring the others, she stopped at a table in the center of the saloon, where sat an 80-ish man, gray at the temples, and with a slight tremor in his hands. He seized his cane and made to stand up, but Asha held up her hand to stop him. “Don’t get up, Ari,” she said, taking a seat by his side.
Across the tavern, covetous men shook their heads, bewildered at Asha’s choice. “Have you been waiting long?” she asked. Ari shook his head no. He seemed to have difficulty speaking.
Suddenly Asha moved, leaning into Ari and throwing her arms about him and kissing him affectionately on the cheek. She squeezed him tight. The spectators in the bar rolled their eyes and tossed back their drinks, puzzled by the apparent attraction of the old man to the stunning woman.
“What’s that all about, Fahey?” a large, attractive man dressed in the garb of a construction worker asked the bartender. Fahey said, “I can’t say for sure where it began, Mike, but I’ve heard rumors from those that know one or the other of them. Ari was an upper class Brit in the colonial days. Some of them were right bastards but he was one of the good ones. He did what he could to help the locals. Asha’s family was quite poor, but Ari got her father a good job as a government bureaucrat. Got a good paycheck for signing papers, and making low-level decisions. As a result, Asha’s family and Ari’s socialized a lot. Asha’s family learned about Britain, and Ari’s family learned about India. When they first started socializing Asha was two years old, and Ari was a forty-year-old man with a wife the same age.”
“How old is she now?” inquired Mike. Fahey shrugged. “Around 40? Anything else you want to know?” he asked archly. The irony of the remark was lost on the other man. “Is she involved with the old man, or is she a…free agent?”
“My man,” said Fahey, with a knowing grin, “nothing in this life is free.” “How about you introduce us?” asked Mike. Fahey began to wipe down the bar. “You’re a little late,” he said. “You mean…” began Mike.
Fahey nodded. “They’re married.” When Mike looked lost, the bartender continued, “Ari lived in India until about ten years ago, when he began to get dementia. Ari’s wife, Mabel, moved them back to London to their old home so he’d be in more familiar surroundings. About five years ago, his wife became terminal and she contacted Asha and she came to the city almost immediately. She moved in with them and took care of them both. Then, a year ago, when Mabel died, Asha and Ari got married so that it was acceptable for the culture for them to live together. You understand?
Mike did understand, and gazed with compassion and admiration across the tavern at a true love story.
Erin Kim is a student attending a school in Seoul, South Korea. When she has not trapped herself in her room alone working on her art, she enjoys playing tennis.
reflecting her soft, hazel eyes into a shade of orange.
In them, lingered a quiet protest.
And an unspoken fear for another restless dawn.
Lili Mariline
3 AM in the morning, Fifth Avenue, New York.
She walked down bricky tapestry of memories
All neatly knit together on one breezy autumn night.
The streets were vibrant in neon colors, and the streetlights were dim—
yet, with hordes of moths.
Craving for the flickering of light bulbs,
One by one fluttering to the ground, lifeless.
She re-opened a letter he sent her years ago
and smelt a fragrance of his nostalgic cynicism.
It came from a land far away,
Where bullets were words—-and truths are silenced.
It came from a world so different from the one she lives,
One she has never dared to imagine.
She heard a faint melody of his, singing ‘Lili Mariline’.
Then, she gazed into the distance.
Thinking about the very spark that once made life in her world
And one that had once filled her heart with joy.
With a stream of memory running down her left cheek,
With panoramas of forgone yesterdays running down her other,
And with a dim reminiscence of his last goodbye,
Her castle of conscience reached its last chapter, and then—
She fell.
Memories of Kindergarteners
This ground bears the memories of kindergarteners
Mashed flowers and a sandbox, the hot sun baking two plastic slides—-
And a child, fallen from a swing—running to her mother.
This is the last ground she’s touched since then,
as she felt the hands of a million, pushing her down.
Burying the girl’s arms into her beautiful nature,
This is where she sank—and sank—
Wrapping herself around the warm, bottomless sandpit.
This is where I saw leftovers of a Hawaiian pizza, rolling on the ground.
This is where I played hide-and seek with my parents, after school.
This is where my friend walked her dog, wearing that pink ribbon of hers.
This is where I stood barefoot, building sand-castles all day.
And this is where I last saw you, after all these years
This is where you carved that map of mahogany inside my heart,
As you plunged into the unreachable abyss,
on your own.
Alina Lee is a high school student at an international school in Seoul, South Korea. Her writing explores memory, identity, and the quiet moments between people. When she’s not writing, she enjoys hiking, running, and playing the ukulele. Her work is inspired by the natural world and the rhythms of everyday life.
