In the cab， too busy with memory， she didn’t speak a word， but I surprised myself by remembering the address of the house. We couldn’t find it， even though we were sure we were at the right street corner. Unfamiliar， modern brick buildings were clustered where the old house had once been sprawled out， and children ran in the alleyway with the twilight on their backs， shouting once familiar names of other children that resonated weakly in my brain， "Insu-ya！ Dongchul-a！" Everything had been uprooted and paved over； we couldn’t even find the chestnut tree that used to shade the house. We stood at the curve of the road where the bean-curd vendor used to rest his rickshaw and wipe off the sweat from his forehead with the towel looped around his neck. We stared together at the ground as if to trace the footprint buried under the cement. She turned around and started walking away， and I closed my eyes to the sky bleeding red with the approaching night and heard in the harsh click of her cheap high heels on the cement， an echo of her footsteps from long ago. But opening my eyes cautiously， I saw her thick waist wrapped in a gaudy suit， the age that had settled on her figure， the unnatural ahjooma curls of her short hair. I closed my eyes again and saw the house where I had once foolishly loved rise up before me， resurrecting itself by degrees， the forsythias first.
Afterwards， she led the way. We went to a small street-side restaurant where a thick-set woman with a generously stained apron served us chicken gizzards with a bottle of soju. I lit the cigarette she held out to me. Suddenly becoming voluble， with memories I never knew I had loosening in my mouth， I talked of America and the years that separated me now from that image in my brain. The radio from the kitchen spilled out old melodies with pathetic lyrics； through the weeping voice of the female singer， I made out a verse about men always leaving women. Namja-neun， namja-neun da， moduga geurukye da， ah-aaa， aaaah-a. She started singing along， crying. I told her the banal truths about my wife that embarrassed me as soon as the words were out of my mouth. Both of us were drunk on something more than the bottle of soju.
"When I first met my wife， something about her reminded me of you，" I said.
"You don’t know anything about me，" she said.
I thought how strange it was to sit here and watch her nostrils breathe out long plumes of coupling smoke from her cigarette， to compare her to my wife and find the original lacking.
"If you knew anything about me， you couldn’t say that your wife reminds you of me. Do you know that I never miscarried？ My mother made me get an abortion when the guy who lived in the room next to yours got me pregnant and refused to marry me. " She looked at me flatly， expecting surprise. I remembered his thick and mobile underlip that repelled me， the showy strength of his biceps， and how he used to brag about failing the college entrance exam three times. He had lived on the monthly allowance his mother sent him out of her own small income， and all the boarders hated him. He had moved out suddenly， sometime after her footsteps stopped.
I saw them together in the empty and silent house， trapped like a pair of flies on flypaper one of those drowsy summer afternoons， listening breathlessly to the sounds of their own labored breathing. And then I understood.
The shadow of her silhouette had lingered all those mornings when I dreamed in fantastic colors， but not by my door.
Did I model my love for my wife after her， refusing to give more than what I thought I could give to the image in my brain？ Was she the pure phantom I loved because I would never touch her， never allow my all too real hands to dissipate the mist？ I realized I knew nothing about her at all， that underneath the wrinkles and cheap clothes and permed hair that I hated for betraying the image I made myself remember long ago， were colors of a different kind， mixed in combinations too subtle for my dream-dazed eyes， stories I couldn’t imagine. And after twenty-five years， I wasn’t sure that I wanted to hear new stories. Namja-neun da geurae. The song ended with a specious conclusion that all men are the same. The ashes from her cigarette fell onto the lap of her dress， but she didn’t bother to shake them off. In the silence that followed， I could see that she was ashamed of the words that remained bare for me to see on the table even though the song was now over. Her darkened lashes fell over her cloudy eyes， leaving smudges. They were no longer demure and I realized that perhaps they never were， but the dull ache in my heart—as banal as the word "love" in a love story—surprised me. I was moved by what I did not remember.
"You don’t know anything about me，" she said suddenly， as if to assure herself.
"Why don’t you tell me？" I asked her， reclining in the plastic chair with my eyes open， waiting for the enchantment to begin， once again.
她是我荒谬初恋的女主角。在晨曦的微光中，我醒来躺着，等待着她那近乎无声的脚步下到门厅，等待着她那蜂蜜和蜜桃混合的一种说不清的气味，来冲淡游子屋外满满的浓厚的孤寂气息。她会在门外停留片刻，换了拖鞋，然后再走下两级台阶到厨房。那刻，我的荒谬的想象中便涨满了她在门外徘徊的侧影，再真实不过的幻影，比我睁眼所见的一切更真实。每一个清晨，每一个清晨，我便那样守侯着，守侯着赤橙黄绿的光晕像云朵似地聚拢在我紧闭的双睑，那时，就似她下到门厅，从我身上走过，那些云朵突然间散开，露出了她那大大的清澈的带着腼腆睫毛的眼，蓓蕾般的双唇一抹笑意依稀可见，我的双眼仍紧闭着，向着裸露着的白炽灯，我张开双臂，大声说出我的爱我的痛苦：你不知我有多爱你，你的倩影将是我脑中持续一生的兴奋点，你的名字就像一首沁入我耳的诗，仅仅想象轻触你的手，我便会轻轻地颤抖。所有这些声音都被毛毯捂住。
而现在她正坐在我面前，不再是幻影。她正缓缓地搅拌着咖啡，那杯她刚小心地放入两块方糖的咖啡。她的动作从容不迫，十分悦目。从这间豪华旅馆休息室光线暗淡的一角渗出音乐来，是首著名的小提琴曲，曲里多有E弦音，装束完美的女侍者着品红色及蓝色的韩袍，托着果味鸡尾酒在厅里缓缓地移动。岁月在她身上的糙化令我震惊。我注意到她脸上抹的粉，均匀地分布在她湿湿皱皱的皮肤上，闪耀着。我看着她那蓓蕾不再的唇，明白不用瞧，它们定会在白瓷杯上留下油污，而她会在认为我没看她时悄悄地将它们擦掉。当我无望地搜索着她脸上含糊的反映时，我那心爱的套服内的新衬衣都在嘲笑我，为那女孩几乎捉摸不定的影子，她的脚步声已随我到美国的新生活，且在这二十五年多的每个夜晚安慰我入眠，为我曾经每早等候的那女孩的笑容的影子，若有若无地显现在妻子苍白可爱的脸上。忆起妻，我感到一阵突然的思乡之痛，为我从没想过的习以为常：刚出炉的面食上撒着的巴马干酪的香味、听到不费力地发出我的美国名字中两个“R”时的愉悦、早晨不加牛奶原味咖啡的魅力、妻长长的四肢及披散着的比连翘稍黑的柔发。在这儿干什么？我，这个中年正秃顶的有位美国妻子的美籍男人，这个喜欢打网球和喜欢鲜沙拉更甚于泡菜的成功医生？我问自己，为什么仍追逐那个幻影，那个本应在二十五年前一个大清晨随着脚步声不再经过我的门前就要消失的幻影。这次荒唐的旅行使我懊恼而沉默不语。
我们现已坐在汉城的高级旅馆咖啡厅的一张光滑明亮的桌前，像一对可怜的陌生人。
“你有孩子吗？”她啜了一小口咖啡问道。她用双手捧着咖啡杯，好像那是杯热茶，即便那杯咖啡因她不停地搅动而已变凉。我感到微温的液体滑下咽喉的不快。
