What is my opinion on this? How will I engage with my words? I badly want it to be good. Good observers. Good big-picture writers. How to know when you are a writer? Is it something within your child?
I think I romanticize him too much. The idea is that he forfeited a career in figure skating to become a K-pop idol. He speaks about ranking 5th among the figure skaters in South Korea all the time. It is something he is obligated to say when someone asks why he would waste ten years in a sport and then retire to become an idol. I try not to be amazed by this. It's not pretty to sit across from him at the table and glorify him. "That's insane," I say to him, then take a sip from my cup. A type of tea he got from a tea shop in Seoul. Something bitter and plum tasting. A dark liquid. It reminds me of him. Deep top notes with a sweetness at the end. "Like, how did you decide to become a K-pop idol?"
"I got scouted. If I'm completely honest, I thought dancing would help with my figure skating. That's just how these things go. You know?" I watch him take a sip of his tea. There's a big pause in the conversation. He stares into the corner of the room while he drinks his tea. There is a coat hanging on the wall, something that looks like a person standing against the brick wall where the overhead light cannot reach, and the atmosphere is thick. Does he see himself?
I wonder if he regrets leaving the ice. Or is he just thinking about the taste of the tea? He licks his lips. Tongue poking out of his mouth like the pick of an ice skate. Sharp and glistening. Bright red from the burn of the tea. His soft white fingers and long nails shone in the dull main light, bringing the cup back to his mouth. He takes a tentative sip. Quick and careful. Then he looks away from the cup.
I looked into the russet swirl of my plum tea. "Can I ask you something? I mean, it's crazy to ask. You're so far into your career as an idol already."
"What is it?" His face is dead. Devoid of any serious emotion. The kind of emotion I was looking for. Something tantalizing like regret. Shame for the fact that he wasted the opportunities he was given in life. Ten years? Ten fucking years of being on the ice, falling, failing, and being bullied just to shimmy around on stage and pose for brand deals? What the fuck was that? Did it really make him happy? He could have been something amazing. I think about when I was ten years old, the same age he was when he started skating, watching the Winter Olympics. All of those brilliant athletes revolving around on the ice at the speed of light, lithe arms reaching for the Sun. Spinning into oblivion. Why would you surrender something like that? I considered it the ultimate sacrifice.
I shook my head. "Never mind. It doesn't really matter. Does it?"
"Do I regret it? Right? That's what you were going to ask. Or something, like, do you miss skating?" he said to me.
I tried hiding the angry red embarrassment on my face, looking down into my teacup and imagining myself somewhere else. Back to the time when I was a ten-year-old girl, consuming those god-like figures spinning out of the blue-white TV screen and thinking there was nothing better. Nothing greater. "I'm sorry. I just…you know. I mean, you said it yourself: People ask all the time. Like, you were ranked 5th. At that age? That's really insane."
"Tell me: What were you good at when you were younger?" he asked me. Both of our cups were empty. He reached across the table and picked up the teapot from the center of the table with his dominant hand, the other tucked under his arm. His body had beautiful lines. That was something I said to myself a lot when I looked at him. The length from the tip of his pointer finger to the jut of his hipbone. A perfect arch. Gaping like a yawn. I haven't seen him smile yet and thought a lot about what he would look like. I would have said that he was stoic then. The same devoid face that never altered to give way to an actual expression.
I shrugged at his question, scrapping my pencil along the bottom left corner of my notebook, graphite tearing through the ivory binding. Flecks of pencil lifted from the yellowed paper. The rough half dome-shape of a teacup, the arch of an ear. What did I want to be when I was little? For someone like me, I don't think a question like that mattered anymore. I am a writer now. Well, a journalist. Isn't that something okay? People read my stuff. I'm still making an impact in my own way. The equivalent of the microscopic bacteria in your gut. Little by little, I did my part in the world. I could be proud of that. No matter how disappointed I was in the way my life turned out.
"An artist. Right?" he asked. "You wanted to be an artist. Do you regret it then? Not pursuing your art?"
I take the fresh cup of tea he hands me. Our hands met where his pinky finger supported the bottom of the cup. At the tea shop when I went to, the lady recommended holding the cup in that manner to prevent burning the fingers. My fingers tucked almost perfectly underneath his index finger and thumb pinching the smoldering ceramic of the cup. It hurt. I thought about the significance of pain at that moment. That regret resembled pain in many ways. Was I in pain? Above regretting my life choices, when I reminisced, did it hurt me to think about my life as if I sacrificed the artist to become an ordinary citizen in society? "I wasn't very good. I think, as an artist, I wouldn't have been very successful. Ironically, it's easier to be a writer."
"That doesn't answer my question," he says. "Do you regret giving up your art for writing?"
"No," I answered finally. "I can understand why it wasn't viable."
"I think I would have had a great career if I stayed in figure skating," he said. "But really, when I think about it now... It wasn't meant for me. I needed it to get over being shy and withdrawn. So, in many ways, it is what helped me become a better idol."