Portrait
I like routines. For five months, I went to the same coffee shop every weekday morning. I arrived between 8:10 and 8:15, ordered an iced Americano, and sat by the window at the table closest to the counter. The coffee shop was near city hall, where I'd worked as a security guard for more than three years.
I spent twenty to thirty minutes there, either listening to Radiohead or reading Kim Young-ha. OK Computer was playing when I first met Jin. He was three months old then and came to the coffee shop at least twice a week with his parents.
I usually saw them around 8:30 on a Monday or Tuesday. I could easily tell that Jin's parents were close friends with the owner. Later, I overheard that they were both freelance writers and had gone to college with the owner.
"Jin rolled over last night," the mother said.
"Already? That's really fast, isn't it?" the owner said.
I never joined their conversations, but I picked up all kinds of stories about raising a baby boy. Once, the father complained that Jin had cried for two hours, until four in the morning. Another time, the mother said Jin had had a high fever in the middle of the night. They told the owner about everything: when they started brushing Jin's teeth, when he first sat in a chair, when he started eating solid food, and when he said "mama" for the first time. Whenever Jin's family walked in, I paused Radiohead and listened to the day's update.
Sometimes a whole week went by without my seeing Jin and his parents. Had they come to the cafe at a different time? Had they moved to another neighborhood? Were they traveling somewhere? Was Jin sick? I had so many questions, as if we knew each other personally.
At city hall, sitting behind the information desk, I took out a pen and a pocket-sized sketchbook. I had three hours at my disposal. I usually spent this time drawing because only a few visitors came to the desk. I wasn't allowed to use my phone, but no one complained about a security guard drawing a bird or a tree. I thought about Jin and how quickly he'd grown. I felt like an uncle he didn't know existed.
I began drawing Jin's round face, tiny nose, long eyelashes, and big, dark eyes. He barely had any hair, but his bangs were surprisingly long, like those of an old man desperately trying to cover his bald head with the few strands he had left.
I thought about giving the portrait to his parents. I could tell them I was an amateur artist and a regular at the coffee shop. I didn't want to scare the family, but they already knew my face, so I figured my drawing wouldn't seem too creepy. After all, they were artists, too.
After drawing Jin, I added his parents on either side of him. All three were smiling as if they were posing for a family portrait on the boy's first birthday. I tore the page from my sketchbook, folded it in half, and slipped it into my inside pocket. A visitor came to the desk looking for the restroom. I pointed to the right, then sat down again.
Should I try one more time? I knew a second drawing would have finer details. I took the paper out of my pocket, unfolded it on the desk, and stared at it for a few seconds.
They looked so happy. They seemed too perfect.