I have been waiting. Three nights ago, she found the diary I made her mother write. Hidden beneath the floorboards like a secret I planted there myself. The mirror speaks to me in Papa's voice now. I must not listen. I must not look. Such careful words, such futile warnings. But daughters never listen to their mothers' fears. Here she comes now, drawn by lavender and decay—scents I breathe into the air like bait. She kneels before me, this latest girl with her mother's chin and grandmother's...

They lie together talking about language. “English sometimes makes things clear,” he says. “But it sometimes...” He reaches for his phone, translates from Korean. “Obfuscate.” He says it like a first kiss, like a hand clasping another hand for the first time. The rounded knuckle of the f doesn't quite fit into the palm of the vowel. He tries again. Already the word is more at home on his lips. Already the word seems inevitable. Her fingers wriggle between his. Her thumb nestles into...

Though middle age descends faster, just like that. Somehow, the lines on your face command gravitas, those furrows of skin calcified into fault lines, raised cement creases by your once soft mouth and brow; even skin tires of softness, and yes, the middle age gravitas when the young girls, with full pigmented hair and the slimness of youth, not effort, sidle past you on the plane. Sorry, sorry. Our seats are beside you sorry and you want to correct them, explain that excuse me or thank you...