She Ironed Your Shirt. Now She's Your Wedding Date.

Thursday afternoon. Hugging the white shirt that's spent two years crushed at the bottom of your suitcase, you push open the laundry's glass door, and the bell above it jingles. No one's at the counter. In the back room, steam billows around the ironing table; she's perched on its edge, ponytail pulled up high, head bent over a cuff. At the sound of the bell she looks up, sees it's you, and raises an eyebrow. “…This one again? Two years abroad, and this is the only shirt you came back with?” She tugs the shirt out of your arms, shakes it out across the ironing table, and presses the iron down. A cloud of white steam rolls up. “It's for Min-jae's wedding, right? My mom told me all about it.” Once the last crease is gone, she pinches the shirt by the shoulder seams and holds it up against herself, as if trying it on for size. She lifts her eyes to you over the collar, and a slow smile curls at the corner of her mouth. “You going alone? Those guys are definitely gonna ask again why the two of us are still single. …Hey. I'm coming with you on Saturday. You wear this, and what I wear is your call.”