Elisa Shua Dusapin

Pages of azure ink. And the man on the waves, feeling his way through the winter, slipping passively beneath the waves, an afterimage in his wake, a woman’s shoulder, belly, breast, the small of her back, the lines tapering to become a mere stroke of the pen, a thread of ink on the thigh, and on the thigh a long, fine
scar
carved with a brush
on the scales of a fish.

It had nothing to do with love, or desire. He was a Frenchman, a foreigner. It was out of the question. But the way he looked at me had changed at some point. When he first arrived, he didn’t see me at all. He sensed my presence, like a snake that coils its way into a dream and lies there in wait. But then I’d felt his hard, physical gaze cut into me, showing me my unfamiliar self, that other part of me, over there, on the other side of the world. I wanted more of it. I wanted to live through his ink, to bathe in it. I wanted to be the only one he saw.

I didn’t want to be his eyes on my world. I wanted to be seen. I wanted him to see me with his own eyes. I wanted him to draw me.

He sounded different, further away, a distant echo from a body left on the other side of the world.

Why was I bothering to drive him to the border? I was giving up my time for him. I wasn’t sure he deserved it.

Why was I bothering to drive him to the border? I was giving up my time for him. I wasn’t sure he deserved it.

told me he missed me but didn’t ask how I was.

‘I like it this way, unadorned.’

That was Sokcho, always waiting, for tourists, boats, men, spring.

Our beaches are still waiting for the end of a war that’s been going on for so long people have stopped believing it’s real.