“Done. I will only write poems about the sun from now on,” I declare.

“Good,” she says.

“Seriously, though? I think most poems are about sex. Robert Herrick wrote a poem called ‘To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.’ ”

She pulls her legs up to lotus position on the couch and doubles over with laughter. “He did not.”

“He did,” I say. “He was basically telling virgins to lose their virginity as soon as possible just in case they died. God forbid you should die a virgin.”

Her laughter fades. “Maybe he was just saying that we should live in the moment. As if today is all we have.”

She’s serious again, and sad, and I don’t know why. She rests the back of her neck against the sofa and looks up at the disco ball.

“Tell me about your dad,” I say.

“I don’t really want to talk about him.”

“I know, but tell me anyway. Why do you say he doesn’t love you?”

She picks her head up to look at me. “You’re relentless,” she says, and flops her head back again.

“Persistent,” I say.

“I dunno how to say it. My dad’s primary emotion is regret. It’s like he made some giant mistake in his past, like he took a wrong turn, and instead of ending up wherever he was supposed to be, he ended up in this life with me and mom and my brother instead.”

Her voice wobbles while she’s saying it, but she doesn’t cry. I reach out and take her hand and we both watch the TV screen. Her dancing score’s been replaced by a soundless ad for Atlantic City casinos.

“My mom makes these beautiful paintings,” I say to her. “Really incredible.”

I can still picture the tears in her eyes when my dad gave her the present. She’d said, “Yeobo, you didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s something only for you,” he said. “You used to paint all the time.”

I was so surprised by that. I thought I knew everything about my mom—about both of them, really—but here was this secret history I didn’t know about. I asked her why she stopped and she waved her hand in the air like she was wiping the years away.

“Long time ago,” she said.

I kiss Natasha’s hand and then confess: “Sometimes I think maybe she made a wrong turn having us.”

“Yes, but does she think that?”

“I don’t know,” I say. And then: “But if I had to guess, I would say I think she’s happy with the way her life turned out.”

“That’s good,” she says. “Can you imagine living your whole life thinking you made a mistake?” She actually shudders as she’s saying it.

I raise her hand to my lips and kiss it. Her breathing changes. I tug her forward, wanting to kiss her, but she stops me.

“Tell me why you want to be a poet,” she says.

I lean back and rub my thumb over her knuckles. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t even know if it’s what I want for a career or anything. I don’t get how I’m supposed to know that already. All I know is I like to do it. I really like to do it. I have thoughts and I need to write them down, and when I write them down they come out as poems. It’s the best I ever feel about myself besides—”

I stop talking, not wanting to freak her out again.

She raises her head from the sofa. “Besides what?” Her eyes are bright. She wants to know the answer.

“Besides you. You make me feel good about myself too.”

She pulls her hand out of mine. I think she’s going into retreat mode again, but no. She leans forward and kisses me instead.

I KISS HIM TO GET him to stop talking. If he keeps talking I will love him, and I don’t want to love him. I really don’t. As strategies go, it’s not my finest. Kissing is just another way of talking except without the words.

ONE DAY I WILL WRITE AN ODE about kissing. I will call it “Ode to a Kiss.”

It will be epic.

WE’D PROBABLY STILL BE KISSING if our cranky waitress hadn’t returned to demand to know if we wanted anything else to eat. We didn’t, and it was time to go anyway. I still want to take him to the Museum of Natural History, my favorite place in New York. I tell him that and we walk outside.

After the dark of the norebang, the sun seems too bright. And not just the sun—everything seems too much. The city is much too loud and much too crowded.

For a few seconds, I’m disoriented by the businesses stacked high on top of each other with Korean signage until I remember that we’re in Koreatown. This section of the city is supposed to look like Seoul. I wonder if it does. I squint against the sun and contemplate going back inside. I’m not ready for the rowdy, bustling reality of New York to reassert itself yet.

That’s the thought that brings me to my senses: Reality. This is reality. The smell of rubber and exhaust, the sound of too many cars going nowhere, the taste of ozone in the air. This is reality. In the norebang we could pretend, but not out here. It’s one of the things I like most about New York City. It deflects any attempts you make to lie to yourself.

We turn to each other at the same time. We’re holding hands, but even that feels like pretend now. I tug my hand from his to adjust my backpack. He waits for me to give it back but I’m not quite ready yet.

Area Boy Incapable of Leaving Well Enough Alone

We’re sitting side by side on the train, and even though it keeps jostling us together, I can feel her slipping away. No one is seated across from us; we watch each other in the window. My eyes slide to her face as she looks away. Her eyes slide to mine as I do the same. Her backpack’s in her lap and she’s hugging it to her chest like it might get up and walk away at any second.