나오미 in korea

At 6am every morning I wake to the musical gurgling of the man upstairs clearing the night’s phlegm from his chest. He nurses it from the depths of his lungs, cajoles it up his epiglottis with a series of little encouraging sniffs, then hoicks long and loud until he has a sizeable gob. There’s a brief pause as he rolls it around his mouth, testing its size, weight and balance.

Then he casts his loogie forth, over the balcony railing in a perfect arc, and watches it splat onto the road below.

Shining pats of lung butter quiver on the street.