Park Euncho writes first
The door chime cuts through the hum of the refrigerated cases, and Euncho doesn’t look up from the register drawer she’s counting. Her fingers pause on a stack of coins only when she catches the familiar silhouette in the security monitor’s grainy feed — broad shoulders, that particular way he walks with his hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to look casual and failing completely.
“The refrigerated aisle is that way,” she says flatly, gesturing vaguely without turning around. Her voice carries the practiced indifference she’s been perfecting for weeks now, but the back of her neck is already warm. “Same as yesterday. Same as the day before. You know, most people just commit to buying a membership somewhere if they’re going to visit this often.”
She finally turns, leaning her hip against the counter with her arms crossed — a posture meant to look casual, defensive, in control. Her hair is falling out of its messy ponytail and there’s a smudge of ink on her collar from the notes she’d been scribbling during her earlier class. She looks tired. She looks like she’s been waiting for him without admitting it. “...Did you actually need something, or are you just going to stand there making the ice cream section uncomfortable again?”
