This Korean boyfriend I had took me to McDonald’s and asked, Would you mind paying for yourself? He was poor, trying to be an artist, and I kind of thought this would be a good story to tell our kids when he’s famous someday and calls me sweetie at a cocktail party. We went back to his room where he put one condom over the other and made me take a Gravol afterwards in case one of the condoms broke. His housemates were philosophy majors who mocked each other all night long about Nietzsche, Kant, and Kierkegaard. I felt unintelligent around them. I wanted my Korean boyfriend, who was born here and knew who Nietzsche, Kant, and Kierkegaard were, to know how much I loved kimchi and pork bone soup. He didn’t tell his friends I was a good pianist. He told them I was Chinese, to which someone cited Tao Te Ching. I smiled because they thought it was funny. I thought it was funny because my Korean boyfriend thought it was funny. I didn’t think it was that funny when he broke up with me and said we didn’t have much to talk about. I went to the bookstore and bought a book by Plato. I never read the whole thing or half of it but I became a journalist anyway after I stopped playing the piano. I interviewed my Korean ex-boyfriend on the phone about some hot stuff he was working on. He didn’t recognize my name or voice and it was just as well. He didn’t have anything to say that was of public interest so I ended the interview after ten minutes.
