Page 2 of Angel of Thursdays

The Korean came out childishly. Twenty-one years of English hadn’t given his Korean an equivalent adulthood. In this language, about these subjects, he sounded younger than his nephew.

His mother studied him and whatever she found there made her reach for the kkakdugi bowl and set it closer to Cassiel.

“—The jjigae came out different this time,” Minju said, louder than necessary. “I think I left the doenjang in too long. Does it taste off to anyone else?”

That turned the tide of the conversation, food being enough of a distraction. Minju was good at this. Cassiel was not.

His father and Minju moved on to Sunny’s. This was the family dry-cleaning shop on Fremont Boulevard, christened after an English name his father had been advised to choose and rarely answered to.

The press was pulling left again. Minju would call the repair company, she assured him. His father objected to that repair company’s rates and offered no alternative. This circled around twice. Cassiel, whose mind was for details unrelated to business and management, said nothing.

David gave Cassiel the smallest nod during the clearing of the table. The paperback he’d been reading before dinner was gone, his lap now claimed by Jaewon, who was busying himself reducing a napkin to shreds. David didn’t seem to mind. Cassiel returned the nod.

At the door—shoes slipped back on, his mother loading containers into a shopping bag—his father appeared beside him. A hand landed on his shoulder. No squeeze, just the weight of the man’s hand, two seconds, and then lifted.

“Drive safe, Minseok-ah.”

Cassiel didn’t drive. He navigated the Bay through an intense interest in BART and bus routes. His father knew this and said it anyway, every time.

“Okay, Appa.”

One more pat. His father went back inside. Then his mother pressed the bag into his hands, too heavy for the flimsy handles to contain. She packed enough food for a household every time, convinced he didn’t have enough to eat, undaunted by the fact that he lived alone. He’d brought up the quantity once. She’d said if he stopped living alone, he wouldn’t complain to her about having too much food. So Cassiel stopped bringing it up.

He put his headphones on before clearing the driveway. The noise-canceling was not necessary here in suburbia, but he liked it even when the outside world was quiet.

The ride back on BART was fifty minutes of perfect nothing. The train car was near empty, and Cassiel began to hum—a few notes, a fragment of a jingle from a cartoon he hadn’t seen in twenty years.

Cassiel loved public transport.

* * *

Lauren had taken her usual perch on the edge of his workbench at Linden & Pratt. Lauren did not work there and did not have a watch that required fixing. She’d been told repeatedly that his workbench held calibrated instruments and that sitting on it constituted aggression. She dismissed this under ‘best friend privileges,’ which did not exist, but Cassiel could not dissuade her. He was now accustomed to arranging his workbench to account for one thin white woman’s ass.

She was mid-sentence when Cassiel came back from the break room’s counter with his coffee. Lauren liked to speak regardless of whether there was an audience or not—Lauren was audience enough for Lauren.

“He called me at midnight! To apologize. Suspiciously unspecific about what, which means he doesn’t remember or it’s an ‘I dunno, everything?’ and honestly, Cass? What’s worse⁠—”

He cut in with the usual. “Block him.”

“I’m not blocking him.”

“Hit him with a car.”

“Be serious,” Lauren sighed, reaching out a hand to swap the positions of two instruments for no reason.

“I am being serious,” Cassiel replied, and swapped them back.

“My car’s too small.”

“Rent a Cybertruck.”

Lauren scowled. She pulled her knees up and crossed her legs on the bench, one shoe grazing a screwdriver tray organized by head size. This was a breach of the Demilitarized Lauren Ass Zone but, in light of his mood, he chose not to see this.

“Your mom called me, by the way.”

Cassiel set the coffee down on the workbench. No coaster.

“She wanted to know if you’re seeing anyone, like I’m your hookup press secretary.” Lauren tilted her head. “Are you seeing anyone?”