His breath found me before his lips. Before any touch, it grazed the hollow of my throat—hotter than the chill of the air-con. The lock clicked open; two buttons popped from my blouse with a soft snap, snap. Before I could react, his fingertips were already above my heart.
—Fast, before the last train leaves.
I caught the back of his hand. Slow. I wanted each button undone by trembling fingers, one by one. He shook me off, exhaling sharply instead of kissing. Grind. The word itself a living friction, instinct ossified.
—The grind, that dance of bodies rubbing. But his movements weren’t dancing. Mechanic repetition, a shortcut straight to the destination. I searched for his eyes, wondering if he felt me or only wanted to finish. I never asked.
The elevator reached the twentieth floor; he already held the hotel key. Expires in 12 minutes. The grind keeps perfect time.
Last summer, poolside. Junho wound a white towel twice around my head.
—Your hair’s shorter.
—It was too hot; I cut it.
—Still, it’ll grow slowly.
That single word warmed the curve of my ear. The droplets soaked into the towel, as though returning to his fingertips. He shook out my hair and said:
—Ingredients need time. Time pulls everything together.
*Which was the ingredient—*me, or the desire he wanted to distill?
That day I didn’t leave the pool. Even when my foot slipped underwater, the white towel kept wrapping me slowly. I felt the difference in temperature: the grinder’s hand was burning, Junho’s merely lukewarm.
A night he vanished without a signal. Later, his apartment again. Ten seconds in the elevator; his teeth grazed my nape.
—You’re late today.
—Let’s finish quickly and sleep.
The moment the door opened he laid me on the sofa. Buttons snapped open. I wanted slow, endless, slow. He buried his face against my chest and muttered:
—Why do you keep asking for slow?
I couldn’t answer. Slowness was part of love. Slowness was proof he was looking at me. But he kept his eyes closed, mapping only bone: throat to breast, breast to below. I stared at the chrome ceiling light. Each flash told me: This isn’t it. This isn’t love.
Junho offered a tiny seed.
—Grow this. Just let it grow slowly.
The seed now sits on my windowsill. I water it delicately every morning. It hasn’t moved yet, but I believe it will—slowly. While it grows, I remember Junho’s touch. A drop of water sinking into the seed.
The grinder’s timetable was flawless: take, tag, move to next. He stamped my body with a number.
—You’re number three.
The sensation of being called by a numeral, handled like a dollar-store item. The illusion of speed makes this moment feel eternal, yet the illusion shatters quickly. By morning he had vanished like lightning.
Junho still works at the pool. I stop by sometimes. After my laps, taking a white towel, I ask:
—Is it growing slowly today?
—Yes. That’s time’s job.
Time’s job. Just like the seed planted between us, growing slowly.
The white towel still wraps my hair at the same unhurried pace. His fingertips start at the ends, travel across forehead, brows, cheeks, lips—drawing a picture, stroke by slow stroke.