The polar bear robot at the register beckons me closer. 
It’s 10 pm and I can’t sleep, my body still dragging
itself across time zones. So I’m here: cradling 
a matcha ice cream bar and a soggy 5000 won bill,
wondering how I’m supposed to pay.

I gulp. Take a step toward the bear. Another, 
another. I’m almost right in front of it 
when a man in a blue suit appears 
clutching a cup of ramen. He turns to me, 
asks a question I can’t catch.

I pause a moment too long. 
He stares at me, then throws his hand out 
in dismissal, moving to the other register.
When he turns his back, I recover
my tongue, clunky and caught, 
wet fish wriggling in my mouth,
to say one of the few Korean phrases 
I’m confident in: 죄송합니다. 찰 모르겠어요. 

I’m sorry. I don’t know. 
I’m sorry, I don’t know Korean.
I’m sorry, I don’t know what you asked.
I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m still standing here 
staring at a robot while matcha melts in my hands.

I make myself move forward, 
collect cold coins in my palm.

I don’t eat until I’m back in the dark
of my hotel room, peeling the wrapper off 
the frozen bar slowly to assess the damage. 
Condensation pearls on the chocolate 
but nothing leaks out. I bite
into the softening shell, wash my mouth out 
the only way I know how: sucking sweet 
bitterness through my teeth.