The spool of red thread unraveled over my lap like a waterfall and flooded out of my bedroom door. I bent over a white scarf with a needle in hand creating repetitive up and down movements. 

            “Make a loop and the needle goes under the bridge,” I whispered, guiding myself as the video taught me and readjusting the cushions on my fingertips. 

            Clumsy Korean letters that read “Nam Aera” stared back at me. I delicately placed the scarf on a rocking chair near the window overlooking the retirement home’s garden. The residents and young volunteers scurried along the manicured lawn like hungry mice, tending to the decorations for the annual spring dance. The grandmas surrounded a girl setting up the extravagant archway near the entrance in amazement. They massaged their achy bodies as if they were the ones doing the work. 

            “Mr. Cha!” said Aera, waving her hands frantically. “Can you give me a hand?”

            “C-coming!” 

            I threw the scarf in a spare, brown grocery bag and hesitated by the doorway once I caught a look at myself in the mirror. 

            My hair was a bird’s nest, and I had a frown permanently painted on my face. I ran some water through my hair, only to look like a teenager with a pound of gel in his hair.

            Like a puppet, I lifted one corner of my mouth and then the other. It still didn’t look right, but I had to move on. 

            Aera welcomed me under the archway and embraced me in a comforting hug. As we drew back, the comfort was replaced by a ghost of pain. My finger throbbed from an invisible force, and I cradled it near my body like a baby.

            From the corner of my eye, Aera held her pointer finger in a similar manner and searched the area for a possible perpetrator. But there was no one—we were alone.

            Where did everyone go? 

            Like a fairytale, my mother told me when I was young, a red thread slithered around my finger, creating a secure knot and leading me closer to Aera. 

            She brushed the thick curtain of white hair before she willingly held her hand in the air and allowed the other end of the red thread to wrap around her finger. The thread closed the distance between us. 

            Heat rose to my wrinkly cheeks, and I wanted to run away from this foreign feeling. Yet, no matter how much I tugged, cut, and knotted the thread, I did not prevail. It was a futile attempt to break the thread because it was like trying to slice through metal with craft scissors.

After all, I can’t beat fate in a thumb wrestle. 

            I felt eighteen years old again, asking my crush to be my date for the prom. I created a crater in the dirt with my toe and fidgeted with the bag in my hand. 

            “Are you going to the—?” 

            From inside, the orchestra began practicing, and the soft melody floated out of the second-floor window. The violins and cellos played faster and louder as if they were impatiently urging me to do something. 

            For a second, I thought I heard one of the violas whisper, “This fool.” 

            Yes, I am a fool! 

            I held my breath as the music grew louder and quickly placed the scarf around her shoulders. I could not bear to see her reaction, so I turned on my heels so as not to face her.

            “Did you make this?”​

            What should I say? 

            “Y-eah,” I said. 

            She tapped my shoulder in an effort to make me look at her, but she had to physically turn me around eventually.

            “The scarf looks really… pretty,” I stammered. “No! The scarf doesn’t look pretty. I mean it looks pretty on you.” 

            “I love it!” she exclaimed. 

            “You do?” I asked, my eyes widening. 

            “Of course! It even has my name on it. I can tell everyone that I have a personalized scarf made by Mr. Cha.” 

            The music was deafening, and I could barely think straight. 

            She stepped forward with a determined look in her eyes and asked, “Mr. Cha, will you go to the spring dance with me?” 

            Darn, she beat me to it.

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