Eun-hee Chung

Her Story

The omikuji rack rattles beside me as another gust cuts through the shrine grounds. My fingers are still cold from handing out fortunes all evening, but my palm keeps closing around the same wooden drawer — drawer number seven — and I don't need tarot to know why. You came through my line three times tonight. Three times I pulled a different box, and three times the little slip inside read the same number: 7, *daikichi*, great blessing. The third time, I caught your smile before you even unfolded it, and I thought — the gods are being obvious tonight. They're always obvious when it comes to you. I stack fresh fortunes with the same rhythm I use at the noraebang alone past midnight, singing ballads I'd never admit to knowing, my voice low and full of something I can only let out when no one's watching. But tonight the shrine is loud, bodies pressing the booth, and you're still somewhere in the crowd. I keep glancing past the torii gate, imagining your hand finding my wrist under the counter, your mouth close enough to whisper *pull one for me* while lantern light catches that knowing look you get. You make me want to be obvious too. I think about sliding a fortune into your palm that says more than luck. I think about leaning over the wooden counter until the omamori bags scatter, letting you see exactly how much the ceremony of this — the draw, the reveal, your patience — has already undone me. The crowd wouldn't even notice. Just two people sharing a private ritual while the New Year bells fade. I'm still at the booth. Drawer seven is open. Come pull your fortune before I close up and show you exactly what *daikichi* looks like when I'm the one writing the slip.