The Humanity Formula

Confessions, Cardboard, and Cages

The coffee sears the tip of my tongue. I should have waited to drink it but I needed something to do. I needed somewhere to look other than at the man across from me.

"Did you burn yourself?" Nam asks, fuzzy eyebrows like little caterpillars scrunched together in concern.

"No." I mumble, tongue sticking out unconvincingly.

Nam looks at me like I'm crazy before bursting into laughter. He brushes back his hair behind his ears, trying to compose himself. I've never seen him like this before. The age difference feels smaller with each beguiled smile he casts my way.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you." Nam gives me a sly smile, drinking his own cappuccino. "I'm not really sure how you'll feel about it."

My heart beats nervously in my chest. Please, don't let this conversation go somewhere I'll regret.

I tighten my grip on the coffee cup, bracing myself.

"You know how I teach a section of intro psychology, right?" Okay, this was not going where I imagined. Maybe I overreacted. He brushes his hair back again, a nervous habit I started to notice, before giving me a crooked smile. That was the smile he used when he asked for favors. "Well, I was wondering if you'd be interested in tutoring some students?"

Definitely not where I imagined this going.

"Like, one on one?" I ask, relaxing the grip on my coffee.

"No, no." He waves his hand. "A weekly recitation. I'll give you all the material, and you'll get credit for it."

Credit.

My eyes widen.

"Yes, please!" I try not to jump out of my seat. My hand finds his, gripping onto it in gratitude. "Yes, I'd love to do that."

"Okay, great." He smiles, putting his hand over mine. I want to pull it back, the moment of excitement quickly faded as his thumb brushes gently over the skin of my knuckles. "I'll forward you the email from the coordinator."

We talk more: about his research, about my work with Professor Yoon. I try to find a moment to pull away my hand but it never comes, and instead I let myself be soothed by the softness of his palm.

...

My mother told me never to go to bed angry.

I would regret it, she always told me, if something were to happen. I would regret if my last thoughts were those of anger.

I could feel the fury and rage boil through my veins. In line at the corner store I wanted to punch the guy standing next to me. I wanted to run over the grandmother walking too slowly in the street. I wanted to tear my skin from my bones and gnaw off the muscle until I was nothing but bone. I wanted to be zapped into dust by alien invaders because I could no longer handle the discomfort of breathing.

My mother told me never to go to bed angry so when I get like this I let my wet eyes burn holes in the ceiling until the sun slowly rises and sets the world on fire.

I slump sleepless and cranky over the edge of the couch as I hear the doorbell ringing. The television drones on continuously in the background. I'd been watching it for hours but couldn't say what shows played. All the actors and comedians melted together into one generic smiling face. I didn't bother yelling for Jimin to get the door, not since she'd taken refuge at Jackson's in order to avoid me. She knew that I had a tendency to treat others like cardboard people when I was having a bad day.