The Moon Moves 3.8 Centimeters Away from the Earth Each Year

After that conversation, we ate quietly for a while. 

Since I usually didn’t talk to anyone while eating, this silence was actually more comfortable for me.

She didn’t seem inclined to break the quiet either, so for once, I could sit back and relax.

We were halfway through the tteokbokki when the staff brought out the pizza we had ordered earlier.

It was a thin, crispy-looking wood-fired pizza served on an iron plate about the size of two palms. 

Beside it was a small stainless steel dish, similar to a soy sauce container, filled with honey.

Using the triangular spatula that came with it, I picked up a slice and placed it on her plate before taking a bite of another slice myself.

The taste was unique, something I’d never experienced before. 

It seemed to be because of the cheese. Later, I learned it was made with a rather famous type of cheese. 

For someone like me, with zero knowledge about pizza or cheese, it was a novel experience.

As I marveled with an expression that must have looked foolish, she rested her chin lightly on her hand, watching me with amusement.

Feeling as if she were reading my mind, I turned my gaze away, flustered, and took a few gulps of water to mask my embarrassment.

By the time we finished eating, it was just past noon. 

As promised, I paid the bill, which left my modest allowance nearly empty.

The weather had grown even hotter. 

I felt like I was being roasted alive, not even a few steps out of the restaurant.

Unbothered by the heat, she casually said, “You need to digest your food a bit after eating,” and dragged me toward a nearby batting cage.

I protested, “You know exercising right after a meal can hinder digestion, right?” but it was no use.

Inside the batting cage, despite the sweltering heat, there were a few people swinging bats, sweat dripping down their faces. 

There were only about three of them, occupying eight available spots, but for someone who had expected the place to be empty, it seemed crowded.

The cage was old—its rusty bars and fraying nets made it clear it hadn’t been maintained for years. 

Yet, she walked in without hesitation, as if the setting were familiar.

“It’s been so long since I was last here. Two years, maybe?”

“Looks like you’ve been here often.”

“Yeah. Back in middle school, after volleyball practice, a few friends and I used to come here for fun.”

She added confidently, “Of course, I was the best among them.”

“So your middle school’s nearby?”

“We actually moved here just so I could join that middle school’s volleyball team. But then, the high school I got into was an hour away by subway. Walking to school now feels like a blessing.”

“Yeah, moving all the time wouldn’t be practical.”

Taking her bag, I watched from behind the bars as she grabbed a bat and began warming up.

She gripped the bat’s end with both hands, stretched her arms, twisted her waist lightly, and did a few low jumps before settling into her stance and swinging a few times.

Even to someone like me, who had only watched baseball on TV with my dad a few times, it was clear she wasn’t new to this.

“Did you play baseball as a kid too?”

“Not just baseball. I tried all sorts of sports.”

Having had little opportunity to try any sports myself, I could only compare my usual “exercise” of walking home from school to her more active lifestyle. 

Memories of running around with peers, kicking up dust on the playground, were absent from my childhood.

The closest I’d come was when my dad, pitying me for staying cooped up at home studying, occasionally took me to the park for a game of catch. 

Even that stopped when my mom found out.

Maybe I was a bit envious. Like a caged parrot watching a sparrow perch freely on a ledge.

“Sounds like you were a curious kid with a lot of interests.”

“Not really. I was more like a kid who couldn’t stick to anything and got bored easily.”

She slipped a 1,000-won bill into the machine. Almost immediately, a red light and the hum of a conveyor belt announced that it was ready.

Taking a few practice swings, she readied herself as the first ball came flying. 

She hit it squarely, and the sharp metallic sound of the bat echoed loudly as the ball spun rapidly to the right before plummeting into the net.

She tilted her head slightly, displeased. 

Although her timing was precise, it seemed the hit wasn’t clean.

Unlike me, who had instinctively taken a step back at the speed of the pitch, she waited calmly for the next one.

Ball after ball came, and though her swings improved with each attempt, most of her hits were slightly off. 

The balls soared weakly before either falling flat or rolling along the ground. 

Each time, she let out a soft sigh of dissatisfaction.

By the eighth missed ball, I found myself thinking that maybe the volleyball team wasn’t as skilled at baseball as she’d implied. 

Then again, excelling at one sport doesn’t guarantee proficiency in another.

But as I watched another ball curve weakly to the side, I remembered something I’d almost forgotten: her right eye couldn’t see.

The realization struck me like a stone sinking to the ground.

I recalled reading once that having two eyes allows for depth perception by gauging the slight differences in the images they capture. Without one eye, it becomes harder to pinpoint the exact position of an object. A blurry recollection from a book explained this. I also remembered her fumbling with a water glass at the restaurant earlier. It all made sense now.

Even in everyday life, such a condition would be inconvenient. In sports requiring precision, it must be even harder.

Perhaps spurred on by her competitive spirit, she fed more bills into the machine, her expression growing increasingly serious. 

This was a side of her I hadn’t seen before—a quiet determination.

Realizing she would be occupied for a while, I wandered over to a vending machine in the corner and bought a can of cold coffee and a cola. 

Leaning on the railing, I sipped my coffee, observing the lively street outside despite the oppressive heat.

I thought, What’s with these people? But then again, wasn’t I also part of this scenery?

By the time I returned, she was still swinging. 

Her strikes, once erratic, now consistently sent the ball flying to the highest parts of the net, accompanied by the satisfying clang of aluminum.

She was clearly someone with a knack for physical activity. 

Watching her, I sat down on a worn bench and took another sip of my lukewarm coffee.

It wasn’t until she had spent thirteen 1,000-won bills that she finally emerged, drenched in sweat, looking satisfied. 

Her black T-shirt, soaked through, clung to her and had darkened visibly.

Sweat beads glistened on her neck as she fanned herself with her hand, her hair pulled back. 

Good thing she wore black, I thought, or things might’ve gotten awkward for both of us.