But Daddy say no. My son begged us to come and I say no until he stop begging.

He got married. I saw pictures on the Facebook.

They have first son. I saw pictures on the Facebook.

They have another child. A girl this time.

My sohn-jah, and I only know them from computer.

Now when these boys come in here with these girls who don’t look like their ommas, I get angry. This country try to take everything from you. Your language, your food, your children.

Learn how to use chopsticks.

This country can’t have everything.

JUST UNDER TWO HOURS to go before my appointment, and Daniel really wants to go to norebang, which is the Korean word for karaoke. Karaoke is itself the Japanese word for embarrassing oneself by singing in front of a room filled with strangers who are only there to laugh at you.

“It’s not like the American version,” he insists when I balk. “This is much more civilized.”

By civilized, he means that you embarrass yourself in a small, private room in front of only your friends instead. His favorite norebang place is coincidentally right next door to where we’ve just had lunch. It’s owned and operated by the same people, so we don’t even have to go outside because there’s an entrance inside the restaurant.

Daniel chooses one of the smallest rooms, but it’s still big. They’re clearly meant to accommodate parties of six or eight instead of just two. The room is dimly lit, and plush red leather couches line most of the perimeter. A large square coffee table sits just in front of the couches. On it there’s a microphone, a complicated-looking remote, and a thick book that has Song Menu written on the cover in three languages. Next to the door there’s a large TV where the lyrics will appear. A disco ball hangs from the ceiling.

Bev would love this place. First, she has kind of an obsession with disco balls. She has four hanging from the ceiling of her room and a disco ball lamp/clock contraption. Second, she’s got a great voice and will take any excuse to use it in front of groups of people. I check my phone for more texts from her, but there’s nothing. She’s just busy, I tell myself. She hasn’t forgotten about me already. I’m still here.

Daniel closes the door. “I can’t believe you’ve never been to norebang,” he says.

“Shocking, I know,” I say back.

With the door closed, the room feels small and intimate.

He gives me a look like he’s thinking the same thing.

“Let’s get some dessert,” he says, and presses a button on the wall for service. The same waitress from the restaurant appears to take our order. She doesn’t bother to look at me. Daniel orders us patbingsoo, which turns out to be shaved ice with fruit, small, soft rice cakes, and sweet red beans.

“Like it?” he asks. It’s important to him that I do.

I finish it in six spoonfuls. What’s not to like? It’s sweet and cold and delicious.

He beams at me and I beam back.

Observable Fact: I like making him happy.

Observable Fact: I don’t know when that happened.

He grabs the song menu from the table and flips to the English section. While he agonizes over song choice, I watch the K-pop videos playing on the television. They’re candy-colored and infectious.

“Just choose a song,” I tell him when the third video starts.

“This is norebang,” he says. “You don’t just choose a song. A song chooses you.”

“Tell me you’re kidding,” I say.

He winks at me and begins loosening his tie. “Yes, I’m kidding, but pipe down. I’m trying to find something to properly impress you with my vocal stylings.”

He unbuttons the top button of his shirt. I watch his hands as he pulls the tie off over his head. It’s not like he’s taking his clothes off. It’s not like he’s getting undressed right here in front of me. But it feels like he is. I can’t see anything scandalous, just a quick glimpse of the skin at his throat. He pulls the rubber band from his hair and tosses it to the table. His hair is just long enough to fall into his face, and he brushes it behind his ears absentmindedly. I can’t help staring. It feels like I’ve been waiting for him to do this all day.

Observable fact: He is pretty hot with his hair down.

Observable fact: He’s pretty hot with his hair up too.

I pull my eyes away and stare at the air conditioner on the wall instead. I’m considering adjusting the temperature down.

He rolls up his sleeves, which makes me laugh. He’s acting like we’re about to engage in serious physical labor. I’m trying not to notice the long, smooth lines of his forearms, but my eyes keep traveling over them.

“Are you a good singer?” I ask.

He looks at me with mock solemnity, but his dancing eyes give him away.

“Not gonna lie,” he says. “I am good. Italian-opera-singer good.” He grabs the remote to key in his song choice. “Are you?” he asks.

I don’t answer. He’ll find out soon enough. In fact, my singing will definitely cure him of the crush he has on me.

Observable Fact: I am the worst singer on earth.

He stands up and walks to the open area in front of the television. Apparently, he’s going to need space to maneuver. He adjusts his stance until his feet are planted wide, bows his head so that his hair obscures his face, and holds the microphone up in the air in one hand—classic rock star pose. It’s “Take a Chance on Me” by ABBA. He puts a hand over his heart and croons the first verse. À la the song title, it’s all about taking chances, specifically me taking a chance on him.