"Fragile & Finite" is a compilation of one shots. Now and then I get sudden bursts of ideas or inspiration, but don't quite have the time (or patience) to create a whole story with it.

In this first story I include some Korean and Navajo words, which should give you a clue as to who the story is about. There's a glossary at the end if you're interested. ~ Sage

White Lilies

Sometimes, he would lie awake and listen to the rain pounding on the tin roof over his head, like war drums, like the beating of his heart--like the beating of time itself.

Drip. Drip. A second a drop, an hour, a day, didn't matter.

Sometimes, he would close his eyes and let the wind stroke his skin, let it whisper away the before, the what-ifs, the regrets and the blemishes.

Sometimes, when it was dark and cool and unbearable, when no one could see his face, he'd let himself weep so that no one knew that he had broken, finally. He was supposed to be strong after all, scarlet fire, like the wild, untamable weeds that suffocated the daffodils in the front lawn.

Sometimes he'd let a girl inside—blonde, brunette, red, green, blue, black—and share a bottle of maekju with her. Together they'd light their throats on fire to escape the memories. And maybe, if he felt like it and if she begged enough, he'd undress her quickly and make pretend love to her, taste her skin. He liked the power of being above her, of dictating what happened next, of feeling her legs wrapped about him, body limp in silent surrender. The taste of her honeysuckle breath filled his mouth, the sounds of her satisfaction, breathy exhalation, her body, like those poisonous daffodils outside, wilting beneath the weed. It should have been enough, but it never was. There was something missing, always missing, and he always pulled away before he could feel the pleasure for himself. It was but an illusion, a false, temporary sanctuary from what actually was. And so he'd always let her go and send her away so he could wipe her memory off of his body and forget all that had been done.

He did this, sometimes, when he wasn't feigning laughter and bruising his legs in bar brawls, muscles throbbing and blood singing. He did this, sometimes, while longing for Baek and his kind words; Baek, the only father he'd ever known, now lay in the myoji with white lilies lying limp against the headstone. The white lilies always died quickly, and he would go out every week to the same flower shop to replace them. He wasn't one for flowers, but they were white, like Baek's dobok, white, like kindness and regret, like the plaster paint on his walls. Hayan saek, white, like the clouds in his mind. Their sweet fragrance made his head spin; their orange pollen stained his fingertips. He couldn't bear to see that beauty wilt, would not accept their death.

He wanted to be sweet like those lilies, fragile. Maybe he could learn to appreciate flowers. Maybe he'd find a real girl this time, maybe Baek wasn't really dead, maybe he'd…maybe.

Always maybe.

Seoul smelled good tonight, like old paint and exhaust fumes. The same old prostitutes, long legs sheathed in fishnets and eyes painted fuchsia, prowled the streets seeking easy change. He smirked, pitying them and their weakness, their desperation, their coy smiles and lack of self-worth. They were worse than the lonely women who came to see him at night. His eyes shifted to the blinking billboard signs: red, gold, blue, magenta, green. Things unheard of, things never seen. "Seoul's best noodles and hottest girls" they sometimes boasted, other times flashing gaudy ads of the newest car models. He wasn't sure, and he didn't care.

Signs were insignificant for he was already lost.

The club music throbbed in his veins, and the hummingbird iridescence of the lights blurred his vision. The low moans of car motors sped down the freeway, evading the police, fleeing their troubles, away, away, away, and the stench of pulkogi and grease made him dizzy, so he shut the windows and turned off the lights. Too much, too much, too much.

There was a time when he could have handled it, a time when he'd owned Seoul's streets with his gang, earning easy money with his legs and his lies. The blood had shown bright as the yŏmnyo in his hair. Victory had tasted sweeter than the alcohol. The fighting spirit had made him feel invincible.

He shut his eyes, remembering. Forgetting. Those times were long gone.

When the sun went down the girls came back for his body and his knowing hands, and he'd give them what they wanted, legs tangled in the sheets, sweat on skin and that bitter taste in his mouth again. It wasn't as enjoyable as it used to be, but he needed them as much as they needed him: he made them feel alive, and they made him feel wanted, even if it was only for a brief night of loveless lovemaking.

"Run away with me, baby. I adore you," they'd all said, "take me on that bike of yours. I've been dyin' for a ride."

And he'd laugh and show them the door because he'd grown immune to lies and temptation. In the end he didn't need them that much; they weren't real after all. Alone, that was what he was, that's how he preferred it. The world wasn't worth knowing him, and he wasn't worth knowing the world.

A name, a dead hope, an extinguished flame, that's all he was now. Hwoarang. Hwoarang. Hwoarang.

When he felt like it he'd take out the dusty punching bag and pummel it for a few hours for vanity's sake, but more so to remind himself that he was still strong and capable of rage. Then, breathless, he'd stand in the freezing water of the shower, maekju in hand, and open the windows to let the polluted wind wipe away the wetness on his skin. He'd flex his muscles, as if to show off to an imaginary female admirer, then laugh because nobody was ever there anyway. The punching bag returned to the closet, and it was rice and kimchi again with extra hot sauce. The rock music was always turned up so high the old Chinese lady from next door would storm over with her high-pitched voice and broken Korean, sometimes with a little broom clutched in her tree-root hands. And he'd laugh again, wait until she'd gone, then turn the music up a couple notches until his eardrums ached.

Sometimes, his part of Seoul would get so quiet.

He didn't like the quiet. Sometimes he hummed to a tune in his head to kill the silence, or sometimes he'd talk to himself, make up conversations in his mind, conversations he'd wanted to share with Baek.

Sometimes he'd just endure and have nightmares about nothing.

He knew he'd changed. Something inside him had weakened, had been lost. A darkness laced his heart, no silver moon showed, and the sun was merely playing tricks. And he'd sigh and look at himself in the mirror, a handsome, ugly, grotesque joke of a man with fire in his hair but no fire in his heart.

Searching, always searching for something.

And then there came a knock on the door one evening. It was probably that blonde-haired Chinese girl from last night, or that small Korean widow from Pusan looking for another mindless, good fuck. Swig. Fire. The beer was good at least, he thought. He was tired of giving it to them all the time. They never gave anything in return after all, simply took and went. But he opened the door anyway and there she was: olive skin, torn blue jeans, hair pulled back into a braid—a foreigner. No stiletto heels or porcelain doll face. No sticky maroon lipstick or nicotine smile.

"You must be Hwoarang," she said, bowing slightly. Her Korean was ok; her tongue formed the words slowly but accurately, and he liked the way she smelled, like ŭnbang-ul kkot—lily of the valley. Sweet and fresh. Sweeter than Baek's lilies. It made his head spin.

"You're American," he stated in English, and opened the door a little wider.

"Why yes, I am," she said with a shy smile, switching to English.

"You wanna…come inside?"

"If you don't mind."

"If I minded, would I have offered?" he said, face expressionless.

She smiled again and followed him inside. He brought her a bottle of maekju from the fridge and opened it for her. Thanking him, she took a small sip, winced, and he hid his smile; she wasn't accustomed to fire yet. A necklace of turquoise adorned her throat, and he wanted to kiss them and feel her shiver against him as his mouth touched her sun-bronzed skin. He desired her suddenly, this new woman, desired her unlike anything before, but he knew that she would not embrace his fire like the others had. She was more, much, much more.

Sitting across from her, he watched her drink, watched her adjust the glasses on her nose and fold her fingers across her lap. Outside, it began to rain again; monsoon season had already begun. She was his for now.

"My mother sees you a lot at the flower shop. She says you like white lilies," she began--prodded--but he stayed silent and continued to watch her, waiting.

He liked the sound of her voice, wanted to trap it and keep it for himself. He wanted to kiss her mouth and devour the words from her tongue because no one had spoken to him like this for so long. For the others it was always about sex and cheap promises, then emptiness again. It wasn't like this. A conversation. Well, an attempt at one.

He continued to stare, and she never once looked away. Her dark eyes were curious, probing, and it was he who turned away.

"Wouldn't you like to know my name?" she asked after awhile.

Shaking his head, he replied, "I always forget them anyway."

Besides, she'd probably just leave and never return, so what was the point? All the good ones ended up leaving.

He'd remember her face though, her white-lily smile and the sweet strength of her voice, the intoxicating rush of her smell. He'd remember how she'd come to him for the comfort of words rather than of the body, unlike all the other ones had done. Grimacing as the alcohol seared his throat, he did not like how he fell so easily for this stranger. He took another swig of his beer, fed the flame, tried to convince himself it was nothing, but after another gulp the ache in his chest remained.

"Keep your name a secret. It might be the only thing you have left in the end," he murmured, as if to himself. She went to him then, that curious look returning to her eyes.

"What are you afraid of?" she asked, taking the bottle from his hand and setting it on the nearby table. Her fingers reached out, touched his hair gently, but he pulled away.

"You should go," he choked, and knew that he spoke lies. He never wanted her to leave. He wanted her to hold him so he could inhale her smell, so that he could tattoo her into his memory so that he'd know that hope existed. That she'd been real. But if she didn't go now, he might start believing again, like he always did, and he didn't think he had enough won for more white lilies.

A sad, small smile curved her mouth. "I've been watching you for a long time, Hwoarang."

He didn't want to look at her. He wanted to forget again. Smiling grimly, he listened to the rain.

"I know why, Hwoarang, why you buy those lilies, why you never leave this apartment," she murmured, brown eyes meeting his.

"Please go," he commanded gently, and she went this time.

Afterwards, the apartment reeked of her. He thought he would go crazy.

But every night she returned, and he let her in every time without question. The nights were less lonely with her laughter and her voice, her smile, and the day was tolerable for him because he knew she would be back once darkness devoured the gray sky. She spoke to him of little things, of forsythias and wisteria vines, of white-feathered birds and the songs of wolves, of turquoise dreams and of sun-seared forests and the smell of the desert. She spoke in paintings; he could see each word she said, could taste them, and he swallowed each picture, keeping them alive and in secret deep within himself. He listened, he laughed, he desired, he hurt. And when she left, it was only the rain and the alcohol again, but he sat and watched TV with a smile on his face, knowing she would return. He wanted to think that he loved her, because if he did then it meant that he wasn't completely lost after all.

Sometimes, he rode his motorcycle at night, envisioning her face, shouting to the sky so loudly that the neighbors cursed him in their sleep. But he didn't care. He felt like he was on fire, flames engulfing his heart, trailing up his throat, spewing out from his mouth in little drops of heat. On those nights the alcohol wasn't necessary.

And then one night, when the rain fell harder than before and when the sky moaned with thunder, she came without that smile of hers, without her words, and led him up the stairs to his room. Shutting the door and the windows, she undressed before him, her eyes never leaving his. She was lovely, flawless, smooth skin and sleek curves, and she let her dark hair hang loose. He stood still while she removed his clothes, his shirt and jeans and boxers, and trembled when her hands brushed against his skin. When she pressed herself against him, bare skin on bare skin, he sighed deeply, shivered, fearing yet wanting what was about to happen; she was so warm, so alive and real, and so he took her to his bed, giving in.

She wasn't like the others. She gave, and gave and gave, and he took the pleasure from her and felt what had been denied him all those months. His mouth and hands caressed her skin, moved across the flesh of her throat and her shoulders, her breasts and belly, down, down, in, out, in, out, seeking that secret within, that light, deeper, deeper…But she denied him full power. This time, he was the one who surrendered, and he felt her warmth close around him as he let go. She whispered his name, fingers tangled in his hair, and this time did not wince when she tasted fire. Inhaling her smell, lily of the valley, he made her his own and knew that, once again, things had changed.

He held her afterwards, watched her sleep, and thought about what had just happened. He didn't even know her name, and suddenly wanted very much to know, but he bit his lip and let her rest, his hands stroking her dark hair. Leaning in close, he inhaled her smell again, and again, and smiled to himself as she murmured in her sleep, pressing herself harder against him.

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to dream.

An hour later he awakened to find the spot beside him empty. Her clothes were gone, but the imprint of her body was still on the mattress, her scent yet lingering on the air, and he closed his eyes again, knowing that she was gone. The good ones always left. Then it was a good thing he never knew her name after all. But, disgusted, in despair, he knew that he would never forget her either. He searched for that extra stash of beer he hid underneath his bed, but realized that it was gone. Enraged, he dressed hastily and headed for the kitchen. It was the beer that numbed him, that made him forget, and he needed it now.

And there she was in the kitchen, stirring freshly cooked rice, the smell of stir-fry wafting up into the air. She smiled over at him and beckoned for him to sit; a plate, bowl, chopsticks, and glass of water had already been prepared for him. Speechless, he complied, and let her ladle the hot soup into his bowl and spoon mounds of beef and rice onto his plate. She told him to eat, then set about to cleaning up the messes she'd made.

But he couldn't eat. Instead he just sat there and stared at her hurrying about the kitchen, humming a song only she heard. She halted, feeling his gaze on her back.

"Why are you still here?" he asked quietly.

"I can leave if that's what you want."

"No! I mean…no," he said, gentler now, "I was just…wondering…"

She set down the dishtowel and took a seat beside him. This time when her hand came up to caress his hair, he let her, and leaned into her touch.

"Why did you do all of this?" he whispered, "why me?"

"Why anyone?" She smiled that small smile again.

"Please. I need to know. All the women, they come for me, again and again they come for me…but none of them stay. None of them."

The woman took the spoon and dipped it into the soup. He took the spoon from her and swallowed, the hot broth soothing his throat and spreading throughout every nerve of his body, to his fingertips and to the ends of his toes. Blinking, he felt strangely rejuvenated, and ravenously slurped the soup down.

"Sometimes love doesn't need a reason," she finally replied after he'd finished. "It just…is."

"Love?"

She looked away, biting her lip, trying to find the words. But he didn't need anything else, and instead took her into his arms and held her there, kissed her mouth, felt her feather-soft sigh against his heart. She'd taken a shower, he could smell his shampoo in her hair, but she still retained some of that former scent, that lily under her skin. He smelled it now, and was reminded of Baek. The flowers must be dead. It had been a week and a half now, maybe more.

Gently disentangling himself from her, he said, "I have to go somewhere. Stay here, all right? I still have some things I want to say to you."

But she shook her head and took his hand. "I know where you're going, Hwoarang, and I'm coming with you."

"You can't. I'm sorry but…it's kind of personal where I'm going."

"I know. You're going to my mother's flower shop, and then to the cemetery."

He was silent, refused to look at her, and she pulled him to her.

"My name is Julia," she whispered against him, and he closed his eyes momentarily, held her name in his mind. Julia. She'd given him everything now. Perhaps she was a fool in giving so much, he thought, because he wasn't very good at taking care of things nowadays. But he took her name and swallowed it, kept it safe.

He took her, silently, to her mother's flower shop, to purchase yet another handful of white lilies.

It was a small shop, quaint, hidden, and squeezed between a noisy sushi bar and a Moroccan gift store. The place always smelled like a mixture of Russian sage and damp, decaying roses. He hated going inside. The moisture clung to his skin and the flawless faces of the blossoms jeered at him. The sunlight leaking in from the windows in the ceilings hurt his eyes, and the love-struck gazes of the male customers buying flowers for their lovers sickened him. He knew that only mourning people bought flowers, only the desperate lovers and the broken hearted. Nevertheless, he came to that same shop every week and suffocated on the fumes.

"How is he?" her mother asked.

Julia shrugged. "He's a broken man, I've seen many like him. But…he's different, Mother."

"How so?"

She didn't answer, merely turned away and watched Hwoarang select a bundle of lilies. His red hair seemed to disappear as he leaned in to bury his nose into their pale petals.

Michelle shook her head, muttering Navajo under her breath. "You fell in love this time, didn't you?"

"Yes," she replied guiltily, but with a small smile.

Her mother sighed, fingering the topaz beads about her neck. "We're supposed to help men like him, not fall in love. You know that."

"I know."

"What did you do, sleep with him?"

"Amá! It's more than that!"

"So you did sleep with him."

"Oh, spirits…" she grumbled, yet did not deny Michelle's statement.

But her mother smiled in response. "Oh well. It's about time you found someone anyway."

He returned with the white lilies, about a dozen of them, and forced a tight smile to his mouth as he handed them to Julia's mother. Orange pollen dusted his nose, and she suppressed the smile as she rang up the flowers. This man had once been made of fire. Now he'd been reduced to ashes. Smiling, she handed the white lilies to him.

"I'll see you next week, Sir," she said again, like she always said, and he left quietly, like he always did.

Standing beside him, she stared down at the headstone. She couldn't read the hangul very well, but he pointed to his mentor's name. She asked about Baek but he shook his head. Too many things to say, he said, too many things to say and not enough time. So they stood there together in silence, the cool wind caressing their skin and spreading across the lilies, one little kiss of frost at a time.

He stood before the grave like he had done for the past year. Sighing, he was satisfied with how the lilies looked against the headstone. They shone whiter, looked slightly livelier, and he was reminded of the white dobok again. He remembered the first one Baek had given him when he was seven, clean and pale as snow; the new material had chafed his skin and had hung loose about his thin arms.

"After a couple washes it should be a good fit. You're small, but you'll grow into it. In time you'll get a new dobok anyway."

He still had that dobok, folded neatly away somewhere in his closet beneath the jungle of belts and other uniforms, red, blue, and black. But it was there, and it still had Baek's smell in it, his words.

White means purity. White is innocence. All beginners begin White.

The lilies were white. Every week Baek was purified with their presence; every week was a new beginning. He refused to believe that it ended there, beneath the earth in a coffin, trapped beneath packed dirt and a dozen fragile lilies. No, no. The flowers had to keep coming.

She knew that he'd been sick for awhile. She knew that if she didn't do something he'd never let go. He'd torment himself with Baek's memory and these intoxicating lilies.

He stood before the grave like he had done for the past year, and remembered everything. The little things, the big things, the way things used to be, the way he wished things could have been.

"I'm proud of you, Hwoarang. You've mastered Tae Kwon Do. You've become a man…and you have been like a son to me. I mean that. Know that I'll always be there for you. As long as you remember me I can never truly die."

And he would always remember. It was the memories that tortured him now.

"Baek, what have you done? I can't stop remembering!" he thought to himself.

He wanted to weep, but the pain went deeper than tears, so he merely stood there. The rain came down in little needles of wetness, slowly, gently drenching his clothes, and he continued to remember. He wished he had a bottle of maekju with him. It might slow the memories some.

Grasping his hand, she reminded him that she was there too, beneath the rain and above the lilies, and his skin devoured her warmth. Heat. Love. Hope. A different kind of beginning. A different kind of lily. Closing his eyes, he remembered the nights before, of how she had made him feel, how she had chased away the remembering and the moments of cold, unbearable silence. Sighing, he recalled the sweet taste of her skin, the feel of her bare flesh against him, moving, shifting, making love to her to the beat of their hearts, talking about everything and nothing, the smell of rice and paek'ap, the trickle of rain, the feather-soft tangle of her fingers in his hair. Her voice, her laughter, her name.

It had only been a few weeks, but he knew that in her arms he was more than a name. She didn't see him like the other women did—a tool, a temporary escape. Rekindled was the flame in his chest. In her arms, he would be able to free himself from the despair induced by Baek's death. Hopefully. But not maybe. He was done with maybes.

"Julia…" he choked out, swallowed hard. The rain felt like tear drops on his cheeks.

She squeezed his hand firmly; the heat traveled up the length of his arm and down into the pit of his stomach. Her love was the same. He came to life again.

"It's time to let go, Hwoarang," she murmured gently, leaning her head against his shoulder.

And he swallowed hard again, buried the sorrow for good, and turned to her. Again and again he kissed her, kisses like a whisper, gossamer wings, kisses of fire and desperation, and she responded calmly yet with a hunger that matched his own. Pulling her against him, he inhaled her scent, his head spinning, buried his nose in the sleek curve of her neck, her warmth making him shiver; he inhaled some more and began to forget. To let go. He loved the way her body molded against his, how it succumbed beneath his touch; he'd always been talented in matters of touching. Yet, as before, she never surrendered completely, and retained much of that strength that had made him love her in the first place. He needed that strength. He had been seeking it ever since Baek's death.

"No more lilies," she murmured with a small smile. He smiled back.

"No, no more."

Julia took his hand and led him out of the cemetery, the soaked earth creating little puddles of gray mirrors in the footprints they left behind. The rain continued to come down, but it was a different kind of rain than before. Knowing this, Hwoarang smiled up into the gray skies and closed his eyes, no longer afraid. He would always remember Baek, but someone else had filled the hollows in his heart.

Kissing her again, he let the white lilies wilt.

Korean Words:

Dobok: Tae Kwon Do uniform

Hangul: Korean form of writing

Hayan saek: white

Kimchi: pickled cabbage, usually spicy; staple food along with rice

Maekju: beer

Myoji: cemetery

Paek'ap: lily

Pulkogi: marinated beef, which is then barbecued

Ŭnbang-ul kkot: lily of the valley

Won: Korean currency

Yŏmnyo: dye

Navajo Words:

Amá: mother