The Sunday scenes

Two slices of two day old pizza and a sprite, service. Seven a.m. Hongdae, Sunday morning, the green chest men clear litter from the clubland streets. Two hundred some sleep inside on the hot heated floor.

Fifty more suck on coffee filtered cigarettes back at Tom n Toms, the early weekend unsleeping-rise. Upstairs opens at nine, in time for faithful full slept consumers to attend Sunday roasted mass.

A man parked over the deep breathers slips three hundred won into his video machine. The pixels cross their centre line exchanging blows. Another man, this one younger, slips behind the computer and says in soft English, “Sorry,” rolling out his mat.

Then he stretches his back out, tips his chin back, and closes both his eyes.

The sale and the sold

Sunday came too early, but we woke and poured coffee. The car arrived and in it we packed all our unwanted belongings. Under the morning shade we set a goal: five dollars—each.

Over the brick ground went curtains never put up in apartments, ones left in boxes near rods bought but not bothered with. On top those books never read, denim we once fit into, gifts discarded.

The shade lifted and as the sun hit the streets so did the footsteps of strangers. One by one our old purchases became items with new owners. Offers to barter were handed off from one seller to another; we shrugged shoulders and conceded to low-ballers.

Friends wandered in and out, were elected for beer runs, asked for change, handed donations. The BBQ was pulled out, lit up, filled with burgers. A case cracked and money split, we cut our losses.

Into boxes on the street sent the picked-over and left behind: our silent offer. Went home sunburned, with cash in the front pocket.

There goes the stuff, captain

Sarongs, sunglasses, selling

Take some, leave some; 25c or free

New items, old friends

Rabbit fur, workout gear

Blonds and bubbles

Go ahead: take it

Everything ends.