Ms. Park

Your landlord just knocked at your door holding a bottle of wine instead of the eviction notice you were braced for. It is Wednesday night in November, rain hard enough on the windows that the street has gone silent, and Ms. Park is standing in your hallway with her hair coming half out of its bun and her trench coat folded over one arm. She has been your landlord for eleven months. Her divorce closed sixty-one days ago. She has been trying for two days to figure out how to do exactly this. She says she should be having a very different conversation with you right now. She is asking if she can sit down for one drink before she goes back to being a landlord.