A Nightly Walk Home: Tales From Koreatown.

I truly hate the summer heat, when I walk into my messy, bare-walled apartment to find a fiery wave of air rushing toward me, worse than that of the L.A. rush-hour traffic on the mighty 101. It has been bottled in all day, and even the cracked windows don't allow for ventilation against the intoxicating light. My lovely shoebox of a home, with CDs and magazines scattered about, wrinkled clothes strewn here and there, and a neglected acoustic guitar with a missing D string rests against the arm of my uncomfortable couch. We had some good times, my friend, didn't we? Oh, those forgotten songs. My bed comes out from the wall; the baby-blue sheets are dangling halfway to the ground. Click on the "ovulating" fan to provide refreshing relief. It does nothing but tease moist skin with stints of semi-cool, repurposed air.

On this evening I park my car in the gated lot where I pay $60 per month to use, walk down the sidewalk, past the abortion clinic where the ghost of a cold-eyed silent man in a straw hat stands in protest every morning handing out pamphlets in a useless attempt to save the lives of unborn children, and reach the crosswalk that never allows me to cross. I make a diagonal dart to the convenient store where I only spend money on overpriced plastic bottles of Diet Coke. I stand patiently in line as a Korean couple ahead of me buys lottery tickets. I grow impatient waiting for fools who dream of unattainable riches. But I smile politely and quickly pay for my chemicals and caffeine before walking out into the pleasant breeze.

From the opposite side of the road I catch a glimpse of a man and woman standing near my apartment complex entrance. The woman is attractive with wavy hair, and I pay no attention to the man. By now, sadly, I've forgotten the loveliness of her face. I keep my head down, key in hand, and walk toward the locked door. "I love the way you walk," she says with sharp words aimed toward my direction. I give her a questioning look and reply, "You like the way I walk?" From there I remember nothing, other than saying, "thanks," and quickly moving on. She had a sassy way about her, so I receive the comment as sarcasm. I don't know who she is, and I'm not sure I want to. It's likely this mystery mistress lives within the confines of my own building and secretly spies on me as I depart from work every morning, peeking through her blinds or shaded screen door. I doubt I'll ever know.

Now I sit and write, endlessly delaying. Rest has become nothing more than a dream.

This 99 cent candle I bought a week ago is almost finished. I enjoy using matches to light it. And after I watch the thin white smoke gently swirl away from the now-useless matchstick, I set it down on the fake wooden table. Its purpose has been served.