Translation of Love

16

Restaurant

I'm sitting on the bus, the second one so far on this somewhat confusing journey to find my father's place. My eyes are glued to the map app on my phone, I prepare to get off at the next stop. He still lives Gyeonggi-do, but it's almost two hours out of west Seoul.

As I get off the bus I start wondering what kind of life he has. For some reason, I imagine him to be well off. Maybe I'm delusional, but my tuition was paid for. It certainly wasn't my money. Also, his messages always seem very formal, as if a secretary wrote them or something.

These speculations carry through my mind as I follow the way to his house.

Is it going to be big? Or maybe he has a penthouse.

The area around me is very dense, jam-packed with little apartments and complexes. Maybe I have to walk far out of this area? But my phone says I'm three minutes away?

My thoughts become more and more confused, reaching their brink when my phone leads me to a small, shabby looking restaurant. I stand in front of the building with a flickering sign that says something in Korean, a restaurant sign fit for a bankrupt place. The windows are covered in flyers and advertisements, the opening and closing times posted on a meek piece of paper that hangs—halfway torn apart—on the door.

"This can't be right," I say to myself.

A group of loud ladies push their way past me as if I don't even exist. I open the restaurant door reluctantly, the small chime of a bell going off as I step in.

The place is small, dimly lit, and with cheap decor. The floors look shabby, the kitchen looking meek and dirty in the background.

A lady cheerfully yells out from the kitchen, making her way to the front, untying her apron.

She looks like she was very pretty when she was young. Her hair is still black and shiny as it curls around her round face. Her skin looks sunken in, pale and wrinkled. Her eyes are small but a pretty shape, and with a glint in them which gives away her not-that-old age.

"어서오세요 [Welcome]," she says to me in Korean, a sweet smile on her lips. I stare at her in confusion, and her face drops as she takes in my perplexed expression. Then I see her looking at my features more intuitively. Her jaw slowly drops from her face. She calls out someone's name while still looking at me.

A man appears from the back of the store, wearing a polo shirt and jeans. Just like the woman, he looks as though he was once handsome. His height towers over the woman, his hair a dark brown. His skin is a lovely colour—a light olive tone. But his eyes are tired, drooping down at the ends from exhaustion. His full lips are pale and chapped, his fingernails are almost black.

He stares at my face much like the other lady, in pure astonishment. I grow uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the next, adjusting the backpack on my shoulders.

"Summer?" The man asks tentatively. This causes me to look back at him.

It can't be. This can't be my father. He isn't supposed to be in a broken down, old restaurant, he's supposed to be a CEO of some company. He's supposed to be handsome and youthful looking, not broken down and struggling. I'm supposed to hate him for being rich and not taking care of me and my mother.

"Yes," I barely let out the word. He hesitantly walks towards me, looking at me as if he's trying to memorize every feature.

"Is that her?" I understand the woman asking.