Trace of Butterfly

“This is Mabel Lee.”

After twelve beeps, what I heard was a voice as clear as the wind on the beach. Before I knew it, I exhaled a sigh of relief. I was holding a piece of paper with an unrecognizable number on it. It took me several days from when I first received the note to finally muster the courage to call the number. I was hesitant. I was scared.

The voice remained unchanged, and I marveled. Then I tried to count exactly how many years have passed since I saw your face or heard your voice. You asked me how I was doing in the same voice that asked me to grab a coffee with you. I didn’t want it to be that way, but I felt the butterfly in my stomach. Who wouldn’t? I always believed in the comforting power of your voice. Or maybe I was just nervous or stressed. Stressed? To hear your voice after all this time? It wouldn’t make sense. I have thought about you almost every day for so long.

The white dress you wore and your long silky black hair blowing in the wind outside H mart remain vivid in my mind. Your dark brown eyes peered straight into mine while your soft hand pushed the hair, that kept getting into my mouth, behind my ear. As I felt my heart pounding hard, and my voice trembling, I even remember the

thought that occurred right after. Did she hear that? I think we both had some degree of social anxiety. You let out a small, unintentional laugh that made me blush, and made me think you are so natural. But now I know that you were laughing because you were nervous too. Was it mere excitement from seeing a familiar face, a fellow Korean person in a foreign land? I wasn’t convinced,

because you felt more like a tropical fruit I had never tasted before rather than the sweet and sour Kimchi that I missed so much. You made me promise to meet you again, not in a familiar tone used by people when saying back and forth, ‘We should grab lunch together sometime,’ ‘Totally, let’s catch up sometime,’ but in a convincing yet cheerful tone that would make anyone believe that you couldn’t wait to hang out with you again. You didn’t use the word ‘sometimes,’ or ‘later.’ You were natural like that. Imagine my surprise, when we did meet again, you seemed genuinely pleased. It was a refreshing and exhilarating feeling. Perhaps I might have been overly excited. I could not contain it. I sometimes wonder why I get so unsure of my memories with you when I was the only one who knew about the tattoo under your pale chest.

It must have been a day when the sunlight was especially shining. All objects shone golden under the strong sunlight, and it was strange weather with a pleasant wind blowing. It was a day of pure happiness for me, a sentiment you seemed to understand without

a word. Maybe you already knew. Why did I wake up particularly early that day, pay attention to my clothes, and stop at the store window I always passed by? I was there early and watched many cars in different shapes and colors pass. I checked my watch, both needles were pointing exactly at noon, and started to hear heels clacking. Looking up, I saw a pair of dark jeans, and a V-neck white

t-shirt approaching. It was undeniably you. The sun was on your back. As I tried hard to keep my eyes open to smile at you as the sun attacked my eyes, I wondered if you were smiling back at me.

Without hesitation, you led me to a quaint café among the many lining C street. I asked you if you come here often. You looked at me and said you just liked the table out front. I can close my eyes now and remember exactly what those tables were like. There was a

bouquet of tiny purple flowers, each delicately embroidered on a cream-colored tablecloth.

“Do you know the flower language? It’s basically a poetic song. Some of them are tragic.”

I shook my head and asked you about the language of lilac. I hoped you could tell the twinkle in my eyes brimming with genuine curiosity.

“Did you know each flower tells a story? Lilacs, for example, whisper tales of some idiot’s first mistake, but sweet innocence.”

“Are you sure that’s the line?”

You grinned.

“What would you have me rather call it? Irreparable, fatal, lethal, risky, foolish, grueling, delusion?”

I whistled.

“I mean, there are other words. Like irresistible, irreversible, precious, captivating, enchanting, delusion.”

You paused then burst out laughing. I couldn’t help but smile back at you. That cafe was the only place with lots of purple lilacs that made the light table colors stand out. As soon as the waitress wearing a black dress and apron came out, you ordered two

cups of bergamot without hesitation.

“Trust me, you will like it.”

And I did. It must have been from then on. My tastes began to change little by little to yours. What you thought was cool, I liked it. What you liked; I was infatuated with. And I became infatuated with bergamot. Back then, I only drank coffee. 16 ounces of iced coffee for the morning. Now one side of my flat is dedicated to a collection of my tea.

You took me back to the hotel on our third date. We watched a German movie with subtitles. I don’t remember what the movie was about, but I remember sipping whisky off the flask that you smuggled into the theater. Following my finger as it pointed one direction to another, your car meandered through the streets of San Diego’s night. We arrived at the hotel eventually. As you pulled into the driveway of the hotel, your eyes shimmered with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. I understood your curiosity and was turned on by your inspecting gaze. You leaned over and gently kissed me on the cheek. I was seconds away from turning my face, giving you my lips instead when the valet opened the door for me. I blushed. You giggled. I wonder how much of the pieces of our time drifting in my head all the time really happened. Some of the pieces just feel so unreal, it almost feels like I imagined them.

One of the pieces is an image of you, wearing a headset bobbing your head in an old record store. When I wasn’t in my hotel room or spending time with you, the place I spent most of my other time at was a second-hand bookstore in front of my hotel. It was the last place I could run away from the world to find my peace and quiet, even from you. I would look for old, out-of-print books, and as I went hunt for them, I counted each book I passed and smelled them. The owner of the place, an old Irishman with dyed blond hair, welcomed me warmly. When he wasn’t organizing, or dusting, he sat by the window sit instead of the counter and read a book. Sometimes I would sit across from him and read a book too. He’s the one who told me I could do that. He probably let me stay there and just read books for hours and hours if I wanted to.

“I kept the one you were reading last week. Here, take it. Maybe you can finish it today.”

He pulled the book under the counter and handed it to me. As I thanked him, I couldn’t help myself but feel bad. What if someone wanted to buy it?

“Notes of Crocodile? Don’t worry darlin, no one has looked for that shit for years.”

He laughed with a loud guffaw as he walked into his tiny back room to make two cups of coffee. He handed me a coffee mug with two sugar cubes wrapped in white paper. I told him many times that I don’t put sugar in mine. He stopped putting them in my coffee,

but he never forgot to bring me a couple. I put them in my pocket. And the moment I glanced out the window, my eyes caught the sight of black hair hanging over a light blue sleeveless shirt. It was a record store facing a used bookstore across a narrow asphalt road. The store must have always been there, but I didn't know until that moment. Until I saw you listening to music. I reached into my pocket, took out my cell phone, and put it back. With your headset on, you stared blankly at the driveway outside the window and plopped down onto the ground. Your lips parted and tears rolled down your cheeks. Your shoulders shook as if you were exploding all your emotions at once. I could feel people's eyes occasionally glancing over. You were crouched down like that until the staff came running and helped you up. What was it? It was my first

time seeing you like that. What was it that stopped me from running straight to you on the spot? Your bony shoulders and skinny wrists. I wanted to hold that wrist the whole time. The words I wanted to say but couldn't linger on my dry, scratchy tongue. There were only three words, but what was I so afraid of that I tried to erase them on my own like the bitter aftertaste of coffee? I can't even ask you anymore. We were both there at the used bookstore and record store facing each other across a quiet road where old cars and buses occasionally passed by. Basking in the July sunlight passing through the glass, I was holding a book and a coffee cup in each hand and looked at you for a long time

as you vomited out your sadness. I wonder If I had run to you and hugged your shoulders, I wonder what would have been different now. I can’t have those moments anymore no matter how much I miss them so much.

My beautiful Mabel, do you remember our first kiss? We went to La Jolla again. We saw both the sunrise and sunset there. The sun burned brightly and set on the blue horizon of the Pacific Ocean. Your cheeks were stained red as you peered at that scene. What

would it have been like if I had kissed your cheek first? But I couldn't do that because I was a cowardly child who was swayed more by the gaze of those around me than by my emotions. It wasn't just an ordinary thing for one woman to kiss another woman on a wooden bridge where usually straight couples were hugging each other's waists. After the sun had completely disappeared, turning the sky purple, you started the car. Then we climbed Mount Soledad and had dinner overlooking the gorgeous night view of San Diego. The night air was unusually cold and windy. That night, on a whim, we boarded the two-dollar red trolley. We had to deal with the parking fee later which was tragic but left us with no regret. You laughed cheerfully, waving your car keys on your fingers.

You'll probably never feel the same way again, the fun you felt back then, the feeling you felt like you couldn't bear without loving someone. Those were the moments that made my heart burst. We sat in the back of the trolley heading south to Mexico, with the windows open and taking in the cold air. Lilacs, a combination of light purple and white, were in full bloom at every corner of

the road. That strong scent was carried by the wind. It was a suffocating scent that made me dizzy. I remember your pale cold arms. There were only us and an old Mexican gentleman with a fedora hat on the bus, and in the quiet silence, Caetano Velozo's Paloma was playing on the radio. I leaned my head on your

shoulder and your hair touched the back of my neck, and it tickled me, but I stayed still. You moved closer to me with your face red. You leaned over and kissed me. I tasted the tequila. It was short and strong, but soft.

It was a scorching day, and you took me to an exhibition at Balboa Park. You were standing in front of one painting as if your feet were glued to the ground. The entire background of the picture was painted light gray, and half of it was painted white. It almost looked like a ball of fluff that had been pulled out of silkworm.

“It’s a trace of a butterfly.”

You pointed at the bottom of the picture with your finger. Only then did I see the title embedded in a golden border. Traces of butterflies. I raised my head and stared at the picture again. The white tangled ball of hair was half of a butterfly wing. And the black powder flying around.

“It is buried on the wing, and when a butterfly lands on it and leaves, a trace is always left behind. But you know what? That powder is poisonous.”

You smiled as if you were dreaming. I felt anxious all sudden. The painted white butterfly and you overlapped. I saw fog spreading in your eyes, and suddenly there was a wall between you and me. I felt the intense desire to hug you and hold you still until the fog disappeared before you flew away and disappeared from me. Being with you wasn’t difficult, or complicated. It was just as, natural as the day we met. There was no regret, even though the pain came after you left me without any warning. The day was approaching near. There was a lot of me that was more excited than anything. I missed my home. I started counting two weeks before my departure. I wonder how long before you started counting. Maybe you never did. I don’t remember you ever looking at the calendar or even mentioning a date. We didn’t have the talk, but we both knew our end was approaching. We both talked to each other as if my flight back to Seoul was the same distance as flying to the Bay Area. It’s hours away, but we will wake up admiring at the same sun coming up, and when we go to the beach, and dunk our bodies, it would be the same body of water. It was like a little game we played. I knew you’d be back in Seoul too, someday. But as the day approached, I realized that ‘see you soon’ from the same city, and ‘see you soon’ from two different countries are not the same. Maybe you were already preparing for our breakup. Maybe you never even had to prepare. The day I bought my ticket, I went back to La Jolla, our La Jolla, alone. I went to the island we were supposed to go to by myself. I walked and walked alone across the wide expanse of La Jolla until the white waves turned blood red. Until the sand and pebbles get stuck in the bottom of your shoes and make an unpleasant crunching sound every time you walk. On the street, the green wisteria leaves were crushed to black. I stopped by the cafeteria and ordered a thick-skinned Pavarotti and a glass of hazelnuts I took a boat alone to Coronado Island, where you and I had originally planned to go and sleep. The sand of Coronado Island was so white that it gave me goosebumps. I suddenly sat down and grabbed a handful of sand. Grains of sand were stuck painfully in my fingers. At that moment, I burst into tears without knowing why. On a white sandy beach with no one around, I left my bare knees exposed, grabbed my red, chapped heels, and the white sand, and cried sadly and sorrowfully like a child.