The door opens and a gust of hot air takes my breath away. The sun is barely up, but already the streets of Seoul are sweating. The dog days of summer are here'�and I'm the dirtiest dog in town.

Last night I met a girl with Persian eyes and a Dionysian thirst. The second I walked into Le Cox on Rodeo-gil, she was the first person I saw. The only person. She was standing next to the bar drinking a bowl of red wine. A slinky black dress clung to her slender frame. I thought I should introduce myself.

I thought she needed the company.

Her name was Sunny. She told me she was a model on the home shopping channel. Said she loved wine, fashion and some Korean hip hop group I never heard of. We talked for hours about things I can't remember. She told me her life story, and I told her about my story-less life. Somewhere between hello and goodbye I decided it would be a good idea to go home with her. So I did.

That's the third one this week.

Most of my friends think I'm sick, but they don't understand.

I am empty.

***

It's been two years since Ethan died. Two years of questions and quiet anguish. Some days I wonder if I could have helped him. If I could have stopped him from getting into that car. Would it have been different if I were there? Would I have gotten in the car with him?

Some questions are better left unanswered.

I'm thinking about Ethan now as I step out into the street. The morning sun casts a golden glow on blocks of concrete and extinguished neon lights. My shirt clings to the sweat on my back. I wish I had my sunglasses.


My watch says 7:16 and the streets are deserted. The chaos of the weekend has died to a whimper. Early-risers sit in cafés, sipping their low-fat ice cappuccinos and reading the morning paper. Across the street, a motley crew of Koreans zig-zag down a narrow lane, yelling and screaming in a language that's alien to me.

The smell of puke and soju hangs heavy in the air.

Suddenly, an intangible thought flits across my mind, and something dawns on me:
I've never seen this city on a Sunday morning.

My mind continues to race like this, but the thoughts are meaningless.

As pieces of last night's puzzle swirl in my head, I try to create a clearer picture, but nothing fits. Just a bunch of hazy snapshots distorted by wine and mirrors.

The only clear memory is of Sunny ' back at her apartment. I see her now with the exactness of a photograph.

She is sitting on the bed with her back against the wall. A Hello Kitty blanket draped over her legs. Her eyes ' large and doll-like ' sparkle with an innocence I've long since forgotten. Her sleek hair shimmers in the lamplight. She's beautiful, but not really my type. Too prissy and shallow. For an instant I think about leaving. But then I hear Ethan's voice, prattling away in the back of my head.

'Don't be such a wanker,'� it says. 'She's hot. You're horny. For the love of God man, go for it!'�

I don't need to be told twice.


*****

My guts turn and a thousand tiny jackhammers bang out an off-cued symphony in my head. Nausea sets in, and the brittle memories of the morning come rushing back. There I am wriggling out of Sunny's embrace. Slipping out of bed and snatching my clothes off the floor. And that's me sneaking out the door. Running down those stairs like they're on fire. No note, no goodbyes. Just another one night stand.

Halfway home ' near Apkujung station ' I'm accosted by two Jehovah's Witnesses. They are clean cut lads dressed in starched white shirts and grey slacks. They're both wearing ties, are in their early twenties, and hail from Utah.

The taller of the two asks me if I've ever read the Bible.

I tell him I have.

'And did you find God within its pages,'� asks the shorter, plumper fellow.

I tell him God is dead. Flogged to death on an altar of greed and lust. Then for no real reason - other than I feel like it - I tell him about Sunny. About the sinful night and the shameless morning. I tell him about my life in Seoul and all its passionless sexploits. About Karen and Sarah. About Isabella and Grace. Heck! I even tell them about that time on Hooker Hill. I describe in detail all the drunken nights and forgotten names. I tell him everything.

I am beyond caring.

They stand there, mouths agape, staring holes through me. The look on the fat kid's face is priceless.

'You are a hapless scoundrel'�, he seems to say. 'A lost cause'�a doomed soul'�.definitely not one of God's children.'�

But neither one of them says another word. They just turn and leave. I watch them walk away. Two young men out for a Sunday stroll. Full of life, love and happiness.

Everything I lack.

I think of this and laugh out loud. I laugh at their bloated innocence and brutal naivety. I laugh about the pleasures of life they'll never know.

But then something happens.

Cold, clammy fingers wrap around my throat and constrict. I can barely breathe.

I choke on the taste of bitter envy.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...