[ yi sang raises a finger. hong lu's gaze traces it. and then, gently, he goes to hang the photo. hong lu's never hung anything before. he feels clumsy, trying to get the photo frame on the nail, but it's a good kind of clumsy, the kind that reminds hong lu a little of a baby chick climbing out of its egg. he's smiling as he stands back to observe his handiwork. a little crooked, so he adjusts it to the right. ah, but it's crooked again, so he adjusts it the other way. the little splinters of glass clink inside, dancing from one side of the frame to the next.

oh, the weight of them is tilting it, hong lu thinks. he laughs. ]

It's tilting no matter what I do with it. Yi Sang, should we keep it this way, or should we find a way to balance it? I wouldn't know how to do it, though. I've always been a little crooked, I think.

[ just a little off-kilter, just a little off-balanced. hong lu has, after all, only one blue eye. hong lu has, after all, only one brown eye. just one of each, and he never quite knows which way he will lilt. ]