and when the results came back negative, she optimistically encouragedus to keep trying. There was nothing demonstrably wrong with either ofus, and it would probably be only a matter of time. When Eunji pressedher to explain the miscarriage, she told us that sometimes these thingsjust happen. She advised Eunji to get more sleep and avoid stressful situations. It seemed like reasonable advice, but I privately wondered howfeasible it was, given the state of disarray in which we were living.
Eunji didn’t say much on the walk back from the clinic, and I hopedthat her silence was indicative of relief. After all, the doctor had soundedoptimistic enough. Yet the moment we reached our block and foundourselves once again in the shadow of Angel Tower, Eunji snapped. Shecharged at the wall that surrounded the construction site and began topummel it with her skinny fists. I tried to restrain her, but she shovedme aside with such force that I decided it was better to keep my distanceand let her outburst run its course. I waited patiently as she cursed at thetower, then pleaded with it. Pedestrians averted their eyes and hurriedpast, speaking in hushed tones, but Eunji either failed to notice them ordidn’t care. She beat the fence and wailed until her hands were bruisedand her voice hoarse. Then, so suddenly that I was caught off guard, sheturned to me and calmly declared that it was time to go home. As wecrossed the street and entered the Golden River Mountain Apartments,her expression was serene, but her eyes retained a trace of fierceness. Iwondered what she was thinking but didn’t dare ask her to explain herself.
When I awoke the next day, Eunji was hard at work. “What are youdoing?” I asked.
“New project,” she said, making it clear that she didn’t want to be in-
terrupted. I kept quiet and watched as the form of her new project began
to take shape. She was building a tower, right in the middle of our living
room, out of the ruined canvases she had disfigured during her destruc-
tive months. “Look,” she said at last, as she balanced a final canvas atop
the pile in the shape of a spire. “It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
“It’s very large,” I remarked.
“That’s the point,” she explained. “The carcasses of discarded can-
vases reborn as something bold and new. It’s conceptual,” she added
upon registering my blank expression. “I was trying to explore the sym-
biotic relationship between creation and destruction, the notion that the
future is built on the remains of the past.”
“That sounds interesting,” I told her in a tone that failed to mask
my ambivalence. But Eunji did not seem to care what I thought, so