He towers above her.  He’s tall, good-looking, if not a bit thin.  His hair is scruffy and long.  Her shortness makes him laugh.  He grabs her hand again.  The distracted man takes the cigarette out with his other hand and lets out smoke.

She doesn’t notice the smoke.  Her thoughts are of comfort—he is holding her hand.  He must like her.  Where they are going doesn’t matter; they are together.  He never looks straight into her eyes when they talk.  He looks astray, as if he’s talking to others.  She is not bothered it.  She finds it strange, though.

They step into a coffee shop.  He talks real fast.  “Isn’t this place great?” he asked.  They listen to the fast beating pop music.  The distracted man lights another cigarette.  “What do you want to order?” 
 “What’s good here?” she asks with affection.  
“It’s a coffee shop, dummy.  Drink coffee or green tea or orange juice,” he reproaches her.  
They both order coffee.  He talks above her again. 
 “Yesterday, I met my buddy again and we played pool till early morning.  It was fun.” He doesn’t like looking into her eyes.

She asks what he did after that but he can’t be bothered to answer.  She silently holds her expressions and wonders why he doesn’t answer him.  She’s always considered herself a strong girl but feels weak in his presence.  When she was young she once told her friends she would never be in an unequal relationship.  A strong woman she would become, she thought.  Now, she doesn’t know what to make of her predicament.  She looks at his hand.

The distracted man is tapping, tapping, and tapping his fingers on the table to the melody.  “Why do I waste my time?” he thinks to himself.  This isn’t really that interesting.  I feel no warmth in my fingers when I hold her hand.  Why is honesty so hard for me?  I remember my mother once told me that a cold heart makes a cold man.  Why did she tell me that story?

“How was your weekend?” his friend interrupts his thoughts. 
 “Cool?” he laughs.  “I met Jina and we had coffee and talked a lot.”  
“I thought you don’t like that girl?” his friend asked insinuatingly. 
 “Oh, well…”the distracted man laughs again. 

 He hates being cornered on matters he’d rather not think about.  The truth is he doesn’t know why he meets her.  She’s short and far less attractive than his expectations.  Her way of talking is an uninteresting as her hairstyle.  Nonetheless, the amount of effort it takes to meet new girlfriends tires him.  He grabs another cigarette.  His friend bangs his shoulder with his elbow and moves on back to work.  No reason to continuing hassling someone.

Jina is at her favorite coffee shop.  Her squeaking voice rises and falls.  Her friends giggle and raise their voices.  The pop music drowns out their laughter.  "Wow!  How wonderful!  And then he grabbed your hand!  Terrific!  Going great!  You two will be married before long," the friends continued on.  Jina is quite thrilled, really.  When's the last time she felt such love?  Ah, yes, her first boyfriend in the sixth grade.  He'd given her some chocolates--well, not to her specifically, but the whole group of friends.  But she felt it was directed at her.  "Yes, so we talked about pop stars.  He really likes nightclubs, too.  I don't really see what the fascination is.  But I guess it's nice to be around the music, lights, and lots of friends.  Isn't he so handsome, though?"  Jina's friends roll their eyes, and shake their heads.  They are joking, though, for he is quite handsome.  Jina secretly sighs.  Something is not right.

The time passes in this way for many months.  They meet weekly and laugh and walk and drink coffee.  If they get drunk, they slept together.  Jina, nervous and innocent, never fully releases her tension.  She can't have an orgasm.  The distracted man thinks of smoking his cigarette during sex.  Sex is rough and not enjoyable for either.  They both desire love so badly that they are blinded by their want.  The distracted man thinks of a story his father once told him:  It's better to be sexually starved for years than to pretend to love.  He stands up and stares at his naked body in the mirror.  Jina calls his name, but he turns so he can't see her face in the mirror.  Her small chest irks him.  He's bothered by his insecurities.

Jina watches him get dressed.  The silence is oppressive.  So, this is how her mother felt.  She visualizes her mother's face--that face of pain Jina saw so often when she was young.  Mother always covered her face in her hands and cried after that sad face.  But wasn't it supposed to be different this time?  Haven't we changed?  Aren't we more mature and educated then our parent's generation?  What has modernity brought me?  The distracted man closes the door.  Jina is chocked up; she giggles as warm tears slide down her cheek.  She's never smoked before, but she grabs a cigarette.  It tastes salty but pleasant.