So where are you from again?” I ask as I have a million times.

“Well, I moved here from Korea, but I was born in ???,” he says equally as uncomfortable.

I look away, he looks away. I look at him, he looks at me. We see each other looking at the other, we both look away.
The song ends. He changes it. I like this song. “I like this song,” I say. “Me, too,” he responds.
I look at him, he looks at me. We see each other looking at the other, we both look away.
We hear kids in the middle school talking. “What profanity!” he exclaims. I smile, “You had better get used to it. It’s like this all the time.”
I feel him look at me, I look out the window. He looks away, I look at him.
Another song ends. “Here, you can pick one,” he says. I pick one.
We look away.
“So when did you learn to play the guitar?” We look at his electric guitar. “I started my lessons when I was about eight.”
We look away. I look at him, he looks at me. We see each other looking at the other, we both look away.
“I’m glad you moved here,” I smile. “Me, too,” he beams.
The bus stops at my house. We look at each other. “See you tomorrow,” I say getting up to leave.
As the bus drives away and I see him through the back of the window.
I look at him, he looks at me. We see each other looking at the other, we both look away.