Steal My Heart Away.
Epiphany Arrives With My Eyes Wide Open.Epiphany Arrives With My Eyes Open.
“You’re acting like you’re on your own,But I saw you standing with a girl,Stop tryin’ to steal my heart away,Stop tryin’ to steal my heart away.”
—Nicole Scherzinger, Heartbeat.
They’re surrounded. By a group of black-clothed warriors. All brandishing their blades at him and his companions. The classic ten against three fight (with only one of them having his own weapon, and that person isn’t him). Splendid.
He analyses his environment, glances down at his own clothing. Of all the clothes he could be saddled with, he’s stuck with a hanbok. Not exactly the best type of clothes he’d want to wear in the event of any potential life-threatening situation.
Thank heavens, this is just a dream. Part of his mind is awfully aware of that. Yet his hanbok, like the gat sitting above the crown of his head, bears some tangible weight. Every touch. Tingles his skin. His contemplation’s abruptly cut short.
His companion, sports the same dark attire with their attackers, launches himself to attack. Tells him to flee, take his date along. But he’s not one to stand down from a good fight. Beside he’s not exactly in real life. He can afford a few imaginary bruises and cuts here and there.
One blade slices through the air. Heading for his head. Not good. He ducks, and lands a kick against the attacker’s gut.
“Yoon-hoo,” says a voice. A slap to his face. That hurts. Yoon-hoo forces himself to open his eyes. Ki-tak’s face hovers over his own, with a pail of water ready to splash the hell out of him. Yoon-hoo flinches from his seat, jumps to his feet. Keeps his distance away from Ki-tak and his bucket of water.
“You were thrashing in your sleep,” replies Ki-tak, his housemate for two years, nonchalantly. He places the bucket down, and tilts his head. A frown sits on both thin brows, “Nightmare again?”
“No,” Yoon-hoo counters, then adds, “I don’t think so.”
“What did you dream this time?”
“I was meeting a girl—”
Ki-tak lets out a half-scandalous, half-amused ‘ooh’. Wiggles his eyebrows seductively (failed attempt), “You were dreaming about your girlfriend now? I should have just thrown the water at you. To cool you off. ”
Yoon-hoo snorts. Throws the nearest pillow he could grab at Ki-tak. A laugh escapes from his lips. “Not that kind of dream, you arsehole.”
“Then what kind of dream it is? To be dreaming of another girl.”
Yoon-hoo shrugs his shoulders. “Can’t see her face clearly. I mean I don’t remember her face. It’s all blurry. But I know she’s gorgeous though,” he pauses, trying to rack his fragmented memories of his whimsical dream, “Ki-joon was there.”
“What was Ki-joon doing there in your dream?”
“He was my bodyguard.”
Ki-tak’s brows drawn together with curiosity, “How about me?”
“You? You weren’t there. Only Ki-joon.”
Ki-tak makes a pretentious show of clutching his heart (at the wrong side). His voice takes that falsetto pitch he likes to use, “You wound me, my good sir.”
Together, they laugh. Until both men are doubling over. And Ki-tak wipes a stray tear. Yoon-hoo spots Ki-tak’s wrist watch, bears the time of three hours to lunch.
“I got to shower first,” announces Yoon-hoo, then walks to the bathroom.
He sifts through the remaining pile of fresh tees on his bed. None of which belongs to him. He sighs. The price he paid for choosing his best friend as housemates. In the name of saving money. He stalks back into room Han Ki-tak shared with his younger brother.
Han Ki-joon, not older than seventeen, sways to the loud music blaring from his headphones. Only momentarily stops, when he catches Yoon-hoo entering his room. Yoon-hoo dives straight for the bed. Ki-tak trails after him, leans against the door frame.
Ki-tak waves a folded section of the magazine up in the air, “Have you read this?”
Yoon-hoo asks, not sparing a glance at Ki-tak, “Read what?”
Ki-joon slides his headphones down to his neck, ears perk up in interest at his brother’s appearance.
“I’ll just read this out loud,” Ki-tak clears his throat, “new research studies show that those with soul marks have been known to experience unique situations. Such as synaesthesia.”
“What’s synaesthesia?”
“A neurological phenomenon where stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experience in a second sensory or cognitive pathway,” Ki-joon supplies helpfully.
“Say what?”
“It means it’s a condition where two senses overlap in strange ways. For example, some people might see numbers or alphabets in certain colours, while the actual colour of numbers or alphabets is black,” Ki-joon offers, turns his body to face Yoon-hoo.
Both brothers bears matching scrutinising expression. First on Yoon-hoo’s face, then shifts their sights simultaneously to his forearm. Ki-tak stares longingly at the mark. There’s curiosity dancing in Ki-joon’s dark eyes.
Yoon-hoo’s gaze travels to his arm, brings his forearm up. To inspect his soul mark.
Soul mark or rather a tattoo you received when you meet your soul-mate. That’s how the story goes. It’s the story passed down from one generation to another.
His mark encompasses his entire right forearm, of geometric circles laying above each other with an arrow resting on the final circle, pointing to his wrist. All etched on his skin like black ink on white canvas. It stands out, even with its black lines lack of intensity.
Ki-tak arches his brow questioningly, “Well?”
“Well, what?” Yoon-hoo parrots back, slipping into his short-sleeved t-shirt. He smoothens his unkempt hair with a comb. His black hair stubbornly refuses to comply. He gives up.
Ki-tak spells it out for Yoon-hoo, “You have a soul mark, so as Yeon-wol. Do you guys have synaesthesia?”
Yoon-hoo shakes his head, laughs. Thirty years into this soul mark phenomenon, and still studies pouring out, often with contradicting results. After the first two years he acquired his own soul mark, Yoon-hoo abandons his firm belief on the studies’ results.
“Nothing like that.”
Ki-tak releases a disappointed sigh, “You sure?” He flops onto his bed, on his stomach. His words muffled by his pillow.
Yoon-hoo nods. His lips flattens to a thin line, “I am dead sure.”
Ki-tak knits his brows into a frown, “How about Yeon-wol?”
Yoon-hoo arches a brow, “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
“Nah. If you don’t have it, that means she doesn’t have it too. Aren’t you two like link through your soul mark or something?”
Yoon-hoo lips twists into a cheeky grin, “Definitely not. We just happened to have marks on our bodies when we first meet each other. That’s all.”
“Liar,” Ki-tak barks, lacking a bite. Ki-joon merely smirks at his brother. Ki-tak rolls to his side, eyes Yoon-hoo, “Where you going?”
“I’m supposed to fetch Yeon-wol from her part-time job. Send her back home.”
Ki-tak narrows his eyes at Yoon-hoo, “Why do you still do that?”
Yoon-hoo shrugs. “It’s the only time I get to spend with her. I need to take a break from forcing myself to draw comics all day long. I need to get out.”
“Send our regards to her,” Ki-joon replies, on the behalf of his brother. Gives a tiny wave from his seat, then returns his headphones to his ears and studies.
Yoon-hoo nods. Heads for the living room, picks his sneakers off from the cabinet. He slips into the sneakers, ignites his motorbike to life and rides off to the mall his girlfriend works.
The problem with fetching Yeon-wol is that her shift ends slightly after lunch break. So, he’s forced to take his lunch alone. Every single day. Unless she has her day off (hardly the case as those days are rare).
He twirls the spaghetti with his fork. Almost absentmindedly. His ears drone out the lively chatter flooding the usually empty food court. His eyes gaze flies across the food court, studying each face with faux interest.
Sees all faces with varying degrees of familiarity. It’s easier to single out the faces of the mall employees. With their colour-coded uniforms, name tags hang around their necks among others. He spares a smile for every accidental eye contact. It’s harmless. Polite.
He extends the same courtesy to shoppers. Most come with their family members. A few are teenagers playing truancy. It’s not Yoon-hoo’s business to get them back to school.
But today, there’s a fresh face. She’s dressed in an office attire. Light blue blouse paired with black skirt and a pair of flats. Her long dark hair tied into a simple ponytail. Definitely not a retail worker. Probably works for some firm occupying on the mall’s top floors.
She carries her tray to the table across his. Settles herself on the chair. She proceeds to unwrap a burger, takes a bite.
Their eyes meet. His lips automatically curl into a polite smile. She replies with a smile of her own. Their contact ends. She turns her gaze on to her tray. He does the same.
Though he finds a bit hilarious. That they’re sitting across from each other. As though he’s at the same table with her. Since they’re the only ones occupying their own tables. Among the ocean of tables.
He can’t help but to sneak a few inconspicuous glimpses. At her. She’s pretty, in the same vein one gets the overwhelming desire to admire an exquisite sculpture in an art’s exhibition. Even though the sculpture in question isn’t the main attraction.
His eyes studies her. Not her face. But so far, there’s no black ink marking her exposed skin. He bites his lower lip hard, stifling a smile threatened to form on his face.
He looks away, for every glance she tosses at his direction. And his heart breeds this unexplainable hope to meet her again. Alas, that is wishful thinking on his part. Why would he want to get to know her? She’s nobody.
He has Yeon-wol. His soulmate. He’s contend.
He finishes his spaghetti. At the same time she munches on the last fry.
He moves to gather his tray. She lifts her tray from the table.
They dump their trays at two different stations. And they split into two different directions. Never once sparing the other last glances.
Yoon-hoo leans against the glass pane. Throws his gazes left and right. Observing shoppers and mall employees going about their own affairs.
A thin line of men and women in dark business suits emerges out from elevator. Most seems to be in their early twenties to mid-thirties. A minority of three switches their shifts into several directions. Almost to the point of arguing. Looking lost.
“What are you looking at?” pipes a soft feminine voice. She tries to crane her neck, to see pass his shoulder.
He wheels around, shaking his head, “Nothing. You ready?”
“Take me away, please.”
She tiptoes on her balls of her feet. Her sneakers barely adding height to her petite stature. So he leans down. Pecking her lips only lightly, before drawing back. His eyes glimpses of her soul mark on her forearm – same place as his own. His made of geometric circles, triangles and arrow. Hers is a fairly simple mark of a deer grazing near by a tree.
He offers her his arm, and she hooks hers over his. Her lips curling to the widest grin she could afford. He returns with a playful smirk of his own, “So, how’s your day?”
“You want the long version or the summary of it?”
He hands Yeon-wol her helmet, “You know which one I prefer. Just important points. Highlights.”
She fastens the helmet straps over her chin, “We had this customer came in. Looking for some cookbooks. Woman in her thirties. She invited us over for a gathering in Novotel Hotel.”
“What gathering?”
“A gathering of people with soul marks,” she squeaks, excitement shining in her tone.
He mounts onto his bike, scratches his chin. “Really? A gathering for people like us.”
She climbs up to his bike, wraps her arms around his waist. That slight disappointed sigh escapes from her lips, “Don’t you want to go? It will be cool to check out people like us.”
He considers briefly. People with soul marks are rare enough. Especially in Seoul. He’s yet to meet one personally. Maybe he’ll finally get to substantiate some of the theories he read in the magazine on their soul-marked condition.
He ignites the engine, both hands on the bar.
“Okay,” he concedes, “I always wanted to know about the others anyway.”
He’s back in the food court. Orders his usual spaghetti. Lee Yoon-hoo takes his regular spot. One that the food court reserves for him. For the sake of him drawing the employees into his comics. As background characters. Not to mention at half of the prices he’d pay for his meals.
With the sales season descending them during the chuseok holidays, he finds himself navigating the jam-packed food court. One boy nearly sends his whole tray upended.
He settles onto his usual table. Pokes his fork into his spaghetti. Reminds himself to not curse his luck for reduced priced meals.
The end of his eye catches the outlines of blue blouse passing by his table twice. The tables around him are all filled. Except for one, two (his included) with empty seats left. It’s not rocket science to see who the lucky winner is.
Between tables with a twenty-something man huddled over his spaghetti and a matronly-looking woman who divides her attention between a romance novel and her food, the answer is clear as crystal.
Slipping his earphones on, he blasts Ailee’s If You on full volume, and sticks a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. At some point, as he burns through a slew of songs. He’s gone eating with his eyes open, to swaying to the beat of his ‘avoid-loneliness’ playlist.
There’s a rap against the table. Once. Twice. Thrice. It’s until the fifth. By then it’s a fist against his table, rattling his cup in the process. He looks up from his plate. Scrutinises that black skirt ahead of him. All the way up to that familiar blue blouse and ponytail.
Pink lips splitting into an embarrassed smile. moves, yet he hears nothing but his own playlist.
He yanks his earphone off. His mouth forms an unfinished ‘Ooh’. Amidst of slurping his noodles.
“Can I sit here?” she repeats, struggles to keep her smile from faltering. She’s gripping her tray hard, that her knuckles are pale white.
“Sure, do. Sit, please,” Yoon-hoo splutters his answer. Bits of spaghetti sauce flies off from his mouth, onto the table. The heat of embarrassment spreads from his neck to his ears. He rubs his neck, the other free hand gesturing for the empty chair.
“Thanks,” is all she murmurs, bows her gratitude. She keeps her eyes on her tray. Unwraps the burger, separates the top bun and dips her fries into the mayonnaise.
He stretches his hand to grab the tissue. Her eyes travel along his hand, curious. His soul mark on his wrist peeking out from a sweater a size smaller for him. He must have accidentally took Ki-joon’s sweater by accident (again). Quickly wipes the flecks of spaghetti sauce off from his sweater.
“So, you’re not a fan of mayonnaise, huh?” Yoon-hoo tries to crack the awkward silence slipping into the rowdy food court. He tips his chin at her burger.
“W-what? No.” She squeaks out a laugh, “I love mayonnaise on my fillet. But I like to dip my fries into mayonnaise too. I tried store bought one. It just doesn’t taste the same.”
They resume to eating. He slurps the last of his spaghetti noodles. That’s when she leans forward, “Have we met before?”
Another stammer. “W-what?”
“I swear I’ve seen you before. You look so familiar.”
“I don’t think so,” he replies, daps his mouth with a napkin. “Which school you went to?”
From there, their conversation consists a series of questions that often get tossed during job interviews. And yet, he finds himself building an intrigue towards her. Nothing romantic. The easy rapport comes in naturally. Despite the fact they have yet to exchange their names.
“I have to get back,” she cuts their conversation short. She folds the burger wrapper and tucks in between the fries holder. She permits a small smile, “nice to meet you.”
She leaves his table, then dumps her tray at the tray station. And she walks towards the lift.
They attend the gathering during the weekends. It’s weird to flash their forearms together. As though it’s an exclusive ticket to a fancy ball. The receptionist gives them a room number, and a key-card. “Please enjoy your night,” he curtly says, with a thin smile. And envious eyes.
They reach the presidential suite ten minutes later. He flashes the key-card at the door knob. The door unlocks to reveal a room with twenty people. Half of them are in their early thirties to mid-thirties. And the remaining seems to be in their age group.
“Yeon-wol, you’re here. Glad you can make it,” a lady with cropped short hair, draped in a form-fitting dark blue dress. He notices inked tendrils running down her neck, disappearing into her dress.
She goes to peck Yeon-wol’s cheeks, “Sang-min didn’t think you would come.”
“It’s not every day you get to meet fellow soulmarkeds,” Yeon-wol grins. “Oh, this is Kang Mo-yeon,” she adds, turns to face him, “this is Yoon-hoo—”
“Your other half,” Mo-yeon finishes, in smooth velvety voice. He immediately offers a hand to shake, she gives him a firm shake. Smooth and delicate hands. She brings them both around the suite. Introduces them to the other soulmarkeds. Their names fly over Yoon-hoo’s head, though some of their faces stick with him.
Now, he feels woefully underdressed. With them both coming in casual style. Jeans, t-shirts and cardigans. That sort of thing. As opposed to the high-end evening formal worn by the attendees. Even the youngsters in the suite decked themselves in semi-formal.
He spends the introduction tour, sticking by Yeon-wol’s side. She makes the effort to reach Mo-yeon. He leaves her after spending fifteen minutes listening to them chatting about Oprah’s book club recommendations.
Instead he finds himself squashed, shoulder-to-shoulder, in between several soulmarkeds. Grown men, with fearsome beard and rugged looks. All eyes glued to the large flat screen TV in front of them. Watching a Spanish telenovela no less.
Not exactly how he pictured spending his time with people like him. Yeon-wol, on the other hand, seems to be at home. About half an hour to the show, he gets to his feet.
His throat in desperate to quench his thirst, guides his feet to the kitchen. He takes a sip of his orange juice, when two men joins him at the fruit punch. They greet each other with a polite smile.
“First time attending Soul Society?” pipes one of them, wears a dark blue jacket and beige trousers. He wiggles his s-shaped eyebrows, in almost faux-mysterious way. Then he adds, “Seo Chan-wee.”
Chan-wee jabs a finger at his companion, “Yoon Eun-ho.” Eun-ho tears his firm gaze from the living room, fixes Yoon-hoo with a polite smile. They’re ridiculously good-looking, and tall that Yoon-hoo wonders if they are really models.
“Yeah. I didn’t think such group existed. I mean I thought it was just rumours.”
“Oh, we exist all right. Just we like to keep it down low. Don’t want people to constantly barge us with questions about being soulmarkeds,” replies Eun-ho, a man with dyed brown hair that seen a lot of hairspray. Eun-ho’s eyes, are a shade of brown that changes its intensity depending on the lighting.
“Ridiculous questions, may I add,” Chan-wee supplies.
Yoon-hoo nods sympathetically. Being ambushed in the middle of his grocery shopping for questions like ‘how do you get that’, ‘what does that mean’, ‘did you do it’ among others, wears him down gradually.
Chan-wee casts a fleeting glance at the living room, “So, who’s your other half?”
“Over there,” Yoon-hoo eagerly points out, “Yeon-wol, my girlfriend.”
Their gazes trail after his pointed finger.
Yeon-wol and Mo-yeon’s conversation now consists of two more ladies, noticeably slightly older than Yeon-wol, but younger than Mo-yeon by a long shot. Yeon-wol’s puppy eyes meets his, and she just beams with infectious happiness. Lights the whole room, by just gracing her smiles at all directions.
“Ah, she’s with them,” returns Eun-ho, releases a deep sigh.
“Them?”
“Da-mi and Noo-ri. The shorter between the two is Noo-ri,” Chan-wee explains.
He grins like an idiot. Attempts to wave at her, before dropping his hand to his side. His effort goes unnoticed. She’s too involved with the ladies.
“How long have you two being soulmarked?” Chan-wee’s tongue rolls the last word with a hint of sarcasm.
Yoon-hoo holds enthusiastically three fingers up, with pride puffing his chest, “Three. Where are your soulmates?”
“We don’t use that term here, ‘soulmate’. So misleading,” Chan-wee laughs. Eun-ho shakes his head in disbelief, lips cracking a chuckle. “We prefer either ‘other half’ or ‘significant other’,” adds Chan-wee, cryptic.
“Not everyone here brought along their other halves or ‘so’,” Eun-ho replies, his lips parting a somnolent smile. Exchanges a knowing look with Chan-wee so fleeting that Yoon-hoo nearly missed it. It’s like they’re communicating on a level that Yoon-hoo’s not privy to.
“Oh,” is all Yoon-hoo says. Unsure what to say next. He downs the last gulp of his juice.
“Think of us, like a tight-knit family,” supplies Eun-ho helpfully, “this is like a family gathering of sort.”
“But that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun,” Chan-wee says wolfishly.
Yoon-hoo likes them both. Maybe Soul Society isn’t that bad. If Yeon-wol feels at home, he should at least give it a second chance.
He knows he’s not a mechanic. Not in real life anyway. But here. In his dream world. He’s a mechanic, with grease and soot on his face. He doesn’t go by Lee Yoon-hoo. It’s a different name. Any attempt of recalling his name, is the same as grasping water with two hands.
He doesn’t bother learning his name here. Takes his dreams as it is. He works in an ancient automobile workshop. So ancient even by that era’s standards. Really, it’s just bolts and nuts keeping the shop afloat.
The workshop’s perpetually empty. No other mechanics but him. Today, he’s working on an Opel. A German brand that Yoon-hoo never heard before.
Funny thing is, he’s not alone. Never is. As he works on the engines, his ears get the tapping of footsteps, made by white rubber shoes.
A feminine voice teases him, “Another hard day at work, huh?”
He doesn’t turn around. It’s always her. Coming into the workshop, in her pristine white nurse uniform. She’s a permanent fixture in the workshop, oddly.
“I’m the only mechanic here. Dad’s too stingy to hire another,” he whines. Then he releases a sigh theatrically. A chuckle echoes around him. His lips curling into a small smile on its own.
He could picture her rolling her eyes, as she admonishes him, “You’re his favourite son.”
He doesn’t turn around. Her face’s always shrouded in this mist. That his eyes can’t focus to get a clearer view. No matter how hard he wills it in his dream. He relishes in the strange comfort knowing she’s beautiful in the vein of a lone flower blooming in thawing icy ground.
He snorts. “Correction, his only son.”
She laughs melodically. It feels like music dancing along his spine. Fauns prancing to an upbeat symphony in his stomach. His heart skips ten beats.
He doesn’t turn around. Because he’s used to not seeing her face. Still, he does it anyway. Wheels to face her.
He blinks one too many times. Knows he’s a tad ridiculous. Paired that rapid blinking with his jaw reaching the floor. Not to mention a er punch hits him squarely in his guts, knocking the wind out from his lungs.
“You?”
“Yes, me.” Her eyes widens, “Soo-yeon.”
“What are you doing here?” he blurts.
“I come here to take you out for lunch,” she returns almost matter-of-factly. She takes a few steps forward. Her face lost the cloudy fog, as though someone finally wiped off the fog from his glasses. But he’s not wearing any glasses.
She wears her long black hair tied into a nurse’s bun. Trades blue blouse and black skirt for a nurse’s white uniform. Ah, his memories has bleed into his dream scape. It happens once or twice. Like Ki-joon being his bodyguard and all.
His head shakes sideways, he wipes his hands on the towel hanging from his waist, “No, stay where you are. I’m coming.”
Her lips parting to a smile. “Hurry up, will you?” she calls out, turning her back to the mechanic. “Not all of us have flexible time to spare. My lunch break is precious.”
He laughs. And runs after her.
He doesn’t see her the next day. And the next. Yoon-hoo resigns himself to the inevitable fact that it might be a one-time meeting between two strangers. He’s back to having his playlist as his lunch date.
He casts a sweeping gaze across the food court. Catches a familiar face. It’s not her. But Noo-ri from Soul Society. She raises an arm to wave. He sees her mark, clearly. Two circular bands at her upper forearm, with a dash of oceanic blue waves (it’s the first mark he’d seen with colour).
Beside her, a man with a face he can’t place anywhere in his memory. He wonders if that’s her ‘other half’. Both of his clean upper forearms doesn’t support his assumption. He files it for another day. Makes a point to ask Chan-wee and Eun-ho.
Yoon-hoo returns her gesture. Throws in a touched smile at her. They might meet briefly, during the introduction tour. But if Eun-ho’s words about them being a family is true, Yoon-hoo’s going to treat them like relatives he’s fond of.
They left him alone with his spaghetti. And his outdated playlist. Just then, he stares at the lady he’s been waiting to see. He raises his hand high up. And waves.
She glances over her shoulders twice, before pointing a finger at herself. Her dark brown eyes widens.
His head bobs up and down vigorously. His lips twitching into the most welcoming smile he could muster.
Her shoulders droop forward. Yet her feet brings her to his table. Her ponytail sashays left and right, as she walks. She sits down, across from him. She forgoes light-coloured blouses for darker ones, he notices. But decides it’s not worth a comment. Coming off as a creep is not what he plans to do.
He could use a friend. To eat lunch with. Better than him spending an hour listening to his playlist.
Yoon-hoo eyes her tray, notices the fish burger she bought the last time they saw each other. He replays the standard introduction in his mind, preps his throat for the words. He splutters like a fool instead, “L-lee Yoon-hoo.”
“Hmm?” She lifts one perfectly arched brow at him.
“N-nothing,” he murmurs. Yoon-hoo scratches the nape of his neck. The itching has been bothering him for some time. He chalks it up to the scratchy sweater he grabbed this noon in haste.
As she unwraps her burger, he swirls the spaghetti with his fork. Their voices left unused, but the awkward silence absent.
“Do you eat in this place all the time?” she asks, sips her soft drink. One hand gesturing around the food court. “I mean you’re sitting in the same spot.”
“Do you only have one brand of blouse?” he retorts, too quickly. She looks down on her blouse. And sighs. “You noticed it, huh?”
He shrugs. “My sister has the same blouse, I think. And nearly all the cuts from the brand are too similar,” he supplies. Realising he hasn’t answer her question, he slaps an embarrassed smile, “It’s the only place I could afford. Plus, I promised to draw them as characters.”
Her lips parts just slightly, “You’re a comic writer?”
“Comic artist,” he corrects.
“That’s cool. What are your works?” She rolls her sleeves to her elbows, her forearms are free of any inked works.
He lists a few that he co-drawn (proudly admitted to), shoving spaghetti into his mouth. It’s not a long list per say, but he sneaks in a comic (or four) in which he only drew the background. What’s the harm of giving a white lie, he’s self-promoting. It’s a good practice.
“Aren’t all those romance comics?” she states, lifts her eyes at him briefly.
His excitement peaks, and he grins. “Of course, you ever read any of them?”
She shakes her head, “Nope. Not a fan of romance comics.”
“Oh,” he deflates, “then how did you know any of the comics?”
She shrugs her shoulders. Smears the fry through tomato sauce. “A friend was a fan. I like the historical ones,” she amends, a smile tugging at the end of her lips.
“How could you not like romance?” he fires back, scandalised. But the pout he puts on, she dismisses it with a smirk.
“Not all women loves to read romance,” she counters, “Beside some of the comics you drawn, they’re just damn too cheesy for my taste.”
He nods his defeat. “You got a point. You wouldn’t believe the amount of unrealistic romantic encounters I had to draw over the period of two years.” He shudders at the memories of violence being romanticised in the comic. So he switches the topic, “Which period you do like the most?”
Somewhere deep inside his mind, he already knows her answer. Like a memory lost to time, on the cusps of rediscovery, but he can’t quite pinpoint it.
“Joseon.”
“Same, which king?” Yoon-hoo pushes his empty plate aside. Swirls the ice inside his cup, takes a large gulp of his soda and then props both arms on the table.
“King Heonjong.”
He narrows his eyes at her, “Why him?”
“Why not him?” she parrots back, her eyes crinkles into half-moon smiles. “But I would read the historical ones, even if they have romance in it.”
He’s about to reply, but she beats him to it, “Mild romance,” she reaffirms, directs her straw at his direction, “none of that cheesy stuff.”
“Challenge accepted,” he pretends to spit on his palm, holds his hand out. She’s in a fit of giggles, but mimics his action. Just like that, they struck a new agreement. She finishes the last of her fries, repeats her ‘cleaning up’ ritual.
He leans on his arms, studies her face. The resemblance between her and the nurse in his dreams, uncanny. Too much that the fine hairs on his arms stands. Her voice. How it rings eerily to the tone and pitch only she uses.
“Can you control your dreams?” he voices, his fingers tap the side of his jaw.
There’s confusion swirling within her dark brown eyes. She arches one brow at him.
He clarifies, “I mean, when I dream, it’s like I got a role to play. Sometimes it’s a mechanic. Other times, I’m a police officer.”
Yoon-hoo turns his sight on her. She crosses her arms, purses her lips in thought. There’s a slight shake of her head, “Dreams? I don’t really remember any of my dreams once I wake up.”
His mouth forms an ‘O’ shape. Perhaps, it’s just a coincidence that she’s in his dream. As the nurse who takes him (not him, not Lee Yoon-hoo) out for lunch.
“Why?”
“Oh, nothing.”
She raps at her watch, slipping into a smile, “My lunch break’s going to be over in ten.” She stands to her feet, gathers her rubbish on to the tray. “It’s nice talking to you again.”
“Same time? Same place? Tomorrow?” he questions, allows himself to hope. He’s aware that he’s a taken man, and she might not be. No soul marks on her. Still, Yoon-hoo likes her as a friend.
Staring down at him, she curtly replies, “We’ll see.” His lips flattens into a thin smile on its own accord.
A smirk forms on her face, she carries her plate away. One hand waving goodbye, “See you around.”
It dawns to him, they have two meetings. And he’s still clueless of her name. Or her actually job is. Well, he better buck up and get her name. Next time. If there is a ‘next time’.
They’re ready for this gathering. Dressed in semi-casual. Nothing like the sore thumbs they were in their first appearance.
“How do I look?” Yeon-wol questions him for the third time. Picks a stray linen on his blazer. Then smoothens the crease on her skirt a size too long.
“You look fantastic,” he states, attempts to straighten his unruly hair one last time, “And me?”
She carves a smile on her round face, “Handsome as always.”
They share a quick nod. He slides the key-card above the door knob. The light shifts from red to green. Pushes the door open. No sooner they enter, Mo-yeon ambushes them both with her charming smile.
“So, I tried that little trick you told me,” she wraps an arm around Yeon-wol, “It’s worked.”
“Well, it’s my grandma’s recipe.”
“Why don’t you help us in the kitchen? Son-hyuk’s in charge of dinner.” Noticing the blank expression he’s wearing, Mo-yeon elaborates, “We often cook during meetings, because it’s the only time you get to taste Son-hyuk’s meals. And Kang-to’s delicious pastry.”
Mo-yeon and Yeon-wol disappear into the kitchen. He counts two men and about three women, Yeon-wol’s the fourth girl. They move smoothly. Never crossing each other’s paths, despite the ingredients being passed along through many hands.
Each with their personalised apron, Yoon-hoo observes Mo-yeon has flowers stitched to her pocket, while Hong-joo, Kang-to’s wife, has the apron with chrysanthemum patterns of several bright colours, almost giving an illusion of Japanese kimono. But the pinkest apron among the sea of aprons belong to the ruggedly tall and muscular man (with a glorious beard to boot), Son-hyuk.
Yoon-hoo clearly has no place in the kitchen. What with the idiom too many cook spoils the broth. Or something.
He seeks Chan-wee and Eun-ho, finds them in the living room. Well, lounging at the sofa.
“Ah, look who’s here,” Chan-wee calls out, tossing a lazy glance at Yoon-hoo. His lips spread into a playful smirk. Looking immaculately impeccable in high-end style.
Eun-ho twists his body around, “Didn’t think you’d come.” Shuffles a deck of cards expertly in his hands.
Yoon-hoo barely forms an answer or some sound, “How good are you in poker?” Da-mi interjects, shoots a focused gaze at him. The others look at him with matching curious stares.
“E-enough to win few games,” he stammers. Sweat trickles down his chest. Under Da-mi’s intense hazel eyes, he shrinks. His Adam’s apple bobbing.
Da-mi’s lips split into a devilish grin. Noo-ri rolls her eyes. Eun-ho tries to stifle his smile (though there’s flashes of green in his light brown eyes ever so brief). Chan-wee lets a smirk makes its home on his lips.
“I call dibs on the newbie,” Da-mi interjects, spares a quick look at him, “You’re on my team.” She pats the empty seat beside her impatiently. He obeys. His muscles stiff from the awkwardness.
Seo-hwa slaps Eun-ho’s arm, and she grins. “Now that Da-mi ditched me for newbie and I’m sitting next to you,” she seals the deal. Eun-ho only smiles.
Chan-wee interlocks his long slim fingers, arches a brow at Noo-ri, “I guess we’re a team then.”
Noo-ri gifts him a curt nod. She snaps her fingers. Her golden ring glinting underneath the neon lights, “Great, now let’s get the game starting.”
They play poker viciously. Hissing at the opposing team for poor cards. Jeering at their own cards, to point of ruining their own poker faces. Still laughter rings loud in the living room. Loud that receptionist calls them twice. To warn to keep the tone down.
Somewhere in between the fifth and sixth round, and a couple of cheap beers, Yoon-hoo’s tongue is a little slippery. Dinner isn’t served yet. But they take five. The ladies excuse themselves to the rest room.
Yoon-hoo sidles next to Chan-wee. Keeps his eyes at the washroom’s door. Incline his body close to Chan-wee, “I saw Noo-ri at the mall last week.”
“What about it?”
“Is Noo-ri’s ‘so’ ali—” Chan-wee presses a finger to his lips, “Hold on that thought,” he shushes. Across from them, Eun-ho’s knowing grin broadens. Mischief twinkling underneath his ever-changing brown eyes.
“Noo-ri,” Chan-wee singsongs. Noo-ri strides to their place, slips onto the sofa, “What do you want?”
His lips twirling into a matching Cheshire grin. He points a thumb at Yoon-hoo, “New boy here got questions about your ‘so’.” There’s it again. Chan-wee’s inflection on those two alphabets rings in unnatural falsetto.
Noo-ri narrows her eyes at him.
“No, I don’t,” Yoon-hoo retorts too quickly than he intends. Scoffs. To prove his sincerity.
“Oh, right,” she claps, “You met Shin-hoo at the mall. He’s not my ‘so’.” There’s something in her tone, a mixture of wistful and reaffirmation. A smile tugging the end of her lips, doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She doesn’t elaborate.
Coming to save his skin from himself, Yeon-wol interrupts them, “Dinner’s served. Come, let’s eat.”
A mechanic, he is not. Not a sportsman either. He fixes his officer’s cap one last time, glancing at the car’s rear view mirror. He catches the outlines of blue dress uniform heading for the precinct.
He counts internally. One, two, and … three. He climbs out from the car, falls in step with the person ahead of him. Until they’re walking side by side.
“Congratulations,” she starts, casting a side glance. He doesn’t think he’d seen her in this particular dream before. As the perpetually overworked mechanic, yes. She’s there as a nurse. But today, she’s still here. Now decked in dark blue dress uniform, complete with her cap.
“On what?” he retorts, nonchalant. “I was just doing my job.”
“Well, it’s not every day you get to cripple one of the biggest children smuggling syndicates,” she replies, like it’s physically painful for her to spit out accolades. She blows air towards her bangs.
“Traffic police officers are still part of the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency,” he argues, “just with less shinier badges.” Studies her nametag; Kwon Soo-ah.
She rolls her eyes. “Everyone knows we occupy the bottom of the police totem.” He fastens his pace, pushes the door open and sidesteps to allow her to enter first. “After you.”
“Oh, gee. Glad chivalry didn’t end with you. There’s still hope for humanity yet.” She sneers, with a hint of playfulness. “And there’s a ceremony to award your division for the good work.”
He eyes her dress uniform, a smirk playing on her lips, “Will you be attending?” He coughs into his fist, “Not that it matters.”
He presses the ‘up’ button. They wait. He fiddles with his cap twice. She swats away his twitching fingers. “It’s perfect.”
In spite all that, he grins.
“As the representative for the traffic police division, I’m forced against my will to attend,” she replies, then adds as an afterthought, “I don’t dress this good for anyone.”
In this dream, one of the rarer ones, they flirt with backhanded compliments. Hisses their disapproval with playful smirks and sly grins. Taking jabs at their flaws. Unlike the nurse and the mechanic, nothing’s official between them. They hover the thin line separating definite statuses. Between being subordinate and superior officer. Between two friends that just clicked. Between what could have been and what it is now.
“Good, I hate for your sub-par looks to go to waste,” he fires back. Tries to hold in his smile, but fails.
“You and smiling don’t work together,” she snaps, lacking of conviction.
It’s when they’re staring face to face. He takes in the gravity of their profession. It’s so easy to forget. That they’re on the front line to danger. Day in, day out. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows good things will never last. The status quo will have to change. Some day. If not now.
Isn’t it better if he changes it, instead of destiny or fate interfering with their precarious relationship?
He opens his mouth, as the lift’s door parts to a lift filled with fellow officers. All in their dress uniforms. She enters first. He joins her. His intention to move beyond their status quo, he swallows it in. Opts for another time when they’re alone.
The award ceremony doesn’t last more than two hours. He scans the attendees for her. Nearly misses her among the seas of dress uniform. She’s seated way at the back. Gives him a short wave.
He walks to her. Holds his sparkly medal for her to see. And he grins. Her eyes gleaming with fierce pride, and she beams, so wide that his heart keeps skipping its regular beats. Like a lovesick idiot, he nearly trips.
“Took you long enough before you facepalm against the floor,” she snickers.
“What can I say?” he drawls, then drops his voice to a deep bass, “You’re my kryptonite.”
“What are you trying to insinuate, Detective Jung?” Soo-ah retorts, sharp. Her eyes narrows at him, eyes him like a hawk.
He runs his fingers through his hair, pushes his hair back. “I’m not insinuating anything, Officer Kwon.”
The hall’s empty, saved the two of them. He thinks, he has done this. Take a step forward. And another. Until they’re standing too close. That his nose catches the whiff of her perfume. So many times. He lost count. It’s not only in this dream. There must have been a thousand more.
But it feels like he just found his courage today. To make few small steps ahead. “I like you, Soo-ah. I don’t want to be friends with you anymore.”
She’s about to reply. He shoves a finger to his lips. “No, let me finish. If you don’t need to give your answer today. Just think about it.”
He’s never been so serious with her. Not even when they’re back to being Detective Jung and Officer Kwon. If his heart could stop hammer against his ribcage. Allow him some dignity to walk off. He’d be thankful for once.
He turns to walk away. Spare them both from embarrassment.
“Sun-ho,” she calls out. “Wait.” His legs stop.
She bites her lower lip. The way she always does, when she’s thinking of her next words. “Let’s do it,” she reaffirms, more to herself. “Let’s try the whole dating and shebang.”
“How about tonight? I’ll take you out to the new fried chicken restaurant.”
“Sounds like it’s a good place to start,” she says sincerely. With a proper smile tugging the end of her lips.
“Just don’t die before our date,” she jokes and mutters, “Traffic police hardly get any action.”
Time passes in the oddest way that he’s all given up on understanding. He thinks, it’s been four hours since his talk with Soo-ah. Now, he’s in a car. They’re on their way to the station. A long day of chasing trails after anonymous tips. Mostly dead ends.
The radio comes to life, static voice mumbling, “Officer down at roadblock. Suspect is on stolen vehicle.” Some of the words lost through the unbearable static. But they’re the closest.
“We’ll pursue, copy that,” replies his partner with Ki-tak’s face. He slams the gear, brings the car to its top speed. His partner supplies him the route. The car whizzes through the traffic, and he avoids crashing into a mini-van, two bicycle messengers and a SUV.
Thirty minutes. It takes them about that much to chase before it ends after the suspect lost control and rides himself into a ditch. With their suspect handcuffed, they haul him back to the precinct. He locks the suspect in their temporary cell holding.
Glances at the clock. It’s almost time for his first date. Soo-ah’s usually by her desk. Too punctual for his taste, but that makes part of her charms. He scans the precinct for her. She’s not there.
“Where’s Officer Kwon?” he asks the nearest officer. Spares a quick look at the door. “Her shift’s over in ten, isn’t it?”
“Sir,” she gulps her saliva down. Tears glistening in her eyes. She must be tired from being overworked. There’s no reason to jump to conclusion. That’s what they taught him in the academy. Soo-ah’s fine.
He snaps, feet tapping impatiently, “Speak up, officer.”
“Soo-ah’s the officer run down by the suspect.”
Eight words. In one sentence. Just eight. Not two. But eight.
And those eight little words tears a gigantic hole in his heart. There’s this inkling nagging at the back of his mind. A voice that screams, it’s not the first. And yet it still is.
And those eight little words freezes his legs. Runs his blood cold. Like being hit by blank bullets. Death’s not possible, it hurts like hell.
His ears barely registering the rowdy precinct’s loud ruckus. That faint white noise buzzing instead. The colours around him, fade into dull hue of grey. His feet are firm to the ground. As the whole world around him collapses into pitch black.
He doesn’t speak. An empty laughter escapes from his throat. Maniacal. Hollow. Until he’s out of breath. Salty tears trickle down to his lips. Soft sobs erupts from his chest. He knows, he’s crying. Correction, he’s crying in his dreams. He’s dreaming of him crying. That’s not normal. It never is. This is just a dream.
But the pain in his chest is real.
And …
“Hey,” Ki-tak’s voice rings in his room, “get that call, will you?”
Yoon-hoo reaches out for his phone. Quickly attempts to slide the green button. He’s a second too late. The call ends. Leaving him with another addition to thirteen miscalls.
His cheeks are wet. Wet with his own tears. Tears he shed for a woman in his dreams. For a woman who had never met before. Wipes the tears away before Ki-tak comes barging in.
Didn’t he dream all?
He has Yeon-wol. Has a soul mark as proof. He found his other half. His ‘so’.
So, why does it feel like a part of his soul being ripped away from him? When Kwon Soo-ah died.
They never exchange numbers. Or names. So, he brings his own copies of the comics he worked on. He doesn’t start eating. Or put his earphones on. His playlist will not be his date today.
And so the waiting begins. He comes to his spot extra early. Eyes darting across the food court. On the lookout for her blouse.
Their eyes meet. There’s no hesitation in her steps. She heads for his table, like she’s on autopilot.
His lips twisting into a smile. As does hers. She slips into the seat in front of him. Their smiles speak for themselves. He drops the comics on the table, pushes the stacks to her side.
“Here, I decided to compile this list myself.” Produces a paper bag to store the comics.
“You don’t need. It’s the age of online comics.”
“It doesn’t matter. These comics are collecting dust. Might as well loan them to you.”
Her eyes narrows suspiciously at the comics. Lifts one brow at him. Then shifts her sight from the comics to him.
“Don’t worry. I made sure that the romance is just right for you.”
“Which is?”
“Not too cheesy. Or clichéd.”
She removes the wrapper of her burger. It’s still fish burger. Just like he sticks a fork into his spaghetti. Three beats of silence. Always three. Before the silence’s broken by one of them.
“Smooth move,” she says, bites into her burger. Then smears a fry against the mayonnaise.
“Hmm?” Yoon-hoo gazes up at her. She snorts, impishly. Puts down her burger, gathers a handful of fries in one hand and points a fry at him. “If this is your method of trying to get me to eat regularly with you, I applaud your effort.”
He plays dumb. “It is working?” A sly smirk slithers to his lips.
“It just might.” She sighs. Slips a hand into her purse, pulls a red notebook and glides it across to him. “I write sometimes. Read it. And tell me what you think about it.”
He grins. Because really, this is unexpected. All the while, he’d foreseen this coming a mile away. He drops the red book into his pocket. “And you’d do the same for my comics?”
“Deal.”
They converse. About everything. About anything. Save for themselves. He knows of things about her, so trivial. Like she’s a dog lover. She sticks to only blouses with ‘Nicole’ brand. Or the fact she finishes the mayonnaise on her burger first, before she munches the burger. Just like he tells her his opinions on subways, waterparks and traffic.
“I haven’t seen you in a ponytail for some time now,” he blurts out. For no apparent reason. Curious. He tilts his head to one side.
She shrugs. “I lost all my hair bands. Too damn lazy to buy newer ones.”
As the clock dwindles to the end of her lunch break, they remain as they were. She’s still nameless. Mysterious. He’s just a lonely man seeking a lunch partner.
Most of these days, they start with one bite into their meals. It’ spaghetti for him. Fish burger for her. Him in a sweater that clearly belongs to the Ki brothers. She in her Nicole blouse that comes in three colours; emerald, burgundy and dark blue.
The first time she returned his comic, it’s ruined. The margins are riddled with her cursive handwriting. Complaints scribbled on to every page. The comments ranged from ‘unrealistic proportion’, ‘too predictable’ and his personal favourite, ‘Such a jerk, not even boyfriend material’ among others.
And Yoon-hoo nearly sprayed his coke. Instead, it dribbled down his chin. He eyed her, as though she just executed somersaults in her business suit in the middle of food court. His tongue failed to produce any words. Only a grunt.
She laughed. Like howling in laughter, and quickly covered . “You wanted my honest opinion. I gave you,” she jabbed a finger at the comic’s cover, “my honest to God opinion.”
She batted her long eyelash, smirk playing on her lips. “I had this inkling that you might forgot. So, I wrote in red ink. To make it pop,” she added with a popping sound.
He paid back the favour, by doodling characters of her stories in the ugliest scrawl he could manage. Even Yeon-wol returned his comics in mint condition. Not ‘Nicole’ apparently. He only decided to call her that in his mind, seeing they never introduce each other’s names. Even her notebook doesn’t reveal any clues to her name.
She doesn’t scoff. Or snort. Or even show a hint of annoyance. But she exclaimed, “Awh. These are so cute. Make some more.”
And he does.
He darts across the mall’s lobby, as fast as his legs could bring him. Traffic’s particularly bad, of all the days. He pants hard. Inhales each breath, oxygen floods his lungs. And he stride towards the counter.
To the lady in emerald blouse and black pencil skirt. She doesn’t turn her gaze away from the cashier. “I think I’ll have the cheese burger.”
“You’re not buying fish burger?”
Her head moves sideways, “I want to try something new. You?”
He takes a moment to decide. Remembers his meagre salary gone to pay utilities this month. “I’ll get the usual.”
“Just order something else. I’ll pay, if you’re worried about the price.”
“If that’s the case,” he glances down at the menu, “lamb steak.”
Her head snaps to his face so hard, he thinks her neck clicks, “And you just have to choose the most expensive meal in the menu,” she barks, lacking of bite.
“You didn’t say anything about the prices,” he replies. A smug smile tugging the ends of his lips. Blinks his eyes away, like a puppy does.
“You’re lucky that this week’s payday.”
She hands cash to the cashier, motions for him to pick up their tray. They walk up to his table, slides into their respective seats.
“So, are all your stories so depressing?”
“What do you mean they’re depressing?”
“I don’t know,” he pauses, stabs his fork into the lamb and cuts a piece of meat, “I mean there’s that one-shot about the young parents with five children.”
“What’s so depressing about that? They worked out their issues in the end.”
“But they got a divorce.”
“Well, not all are sad.”
“Oh, yeah. Give me one example.”
She purses her lips. Cheeseburger inches away from . “That story about the prince and his wife.”
Pointing the fork at her direction, he scowls, “They spent one night together for the kid, and he ran off to be with his lover. His child died early. That wasn’t a fun read.”
She shrugs. “Well, I took some liberties with his character. History said he died early. So I played around with the ‘what if’ game and I got that.”
She snaps her fingers together, “The swimmer and the cheerleader.”
“He’s a swimmer dating a girlfriend whose best friend, the cheerleader, is in love with the swimmer, in which she helped the swimmer’s girlfriend to win back the swimmer,” he rattles the plot at the top of his mind.
She’s about to retort, he cuts her off with a glare. “I was rooting for the cheerleader and the swimmer.”
“Well, that’s how romance rolls in real-life sometimes.”
“Would it kill you to write something with a happy ending?”
“Would it kill you to draw women in various shapes and sizes?”
They play the staring game. He always loses. Because he’s a gentleman like that. And partly there’s dust in his eyes. He huffs. She hisses.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
The anger’s fleeting. Like a flicker of fire by the lighter. Yoon-hoo chews on his lamb slowly, savours each bite. She sips on her soda, permits a small smile on her lips. And the cycle repeats.
“You know, some of those stories are good.”
She raises a brow, lips twisting into a grin, “Only some?”
“Yes,” is what he says, but the smile reaching up his eyes says otherwise. “I was thinking, I could approach someone to turn your stories into comics.”
“You would?” Her shoulders perk up.
“I mean, we’ll have to target a specific niche. But it’s great. Yours is refreshing.”
Her smirk broadens (and he can’t even keep his annoyance long enough). “I thought you called them ‘depressing’?” Her fingers mimicking air quotes.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to insert a happy ending in some. But I admit, happy endings are so clichéd. And tiresome after a while.”
Behind her, a hand (with inked wrist) waving frantically at his direction. Pink sweater heads at their table. His lips splitting into a smile, automatic. He waves back.
For a second or two, it slips out from his mind. Yeon-wol’s usual seat is taken by his lunch partner. His eyes dart from ‘Nicole’ to his girlfriend. He jumps to his feet, “You finish early?”
“Yeah, the boss had to leave the store. Family emergency,” Yeon-wol pauses, flickers a gaze at the woman occupying her seat. “Oh, you’re having lunch with someone.” They trade congenial smiles.
“I’m Yeon-wol, his girlfriend,” she offers her inked hand to shake.
“Han Eun-soo,” replies his nameless friend, takes Yeon-wol’s offered hand, and gives it a light shake. There’s not much of a height difference between them two, but Eun-soo’s taller. By an inch or two.
“I’m just Yoon-hoo’s lunch friend,” she clarifies, smiling. He rushes to move the paper bag from his seat to the table. They settle back to their seats. Yeon-wol slides to sit next to Yoon-hoo. Shifts her eyes from him to Eun-soo.
“Do you mind if I join you two for lunch?”
Eun-soo’s quick to answer, “Oh, you don’t need to ask. Just join us.”
Yeon-wol places her backpack on the seat, next to Yoon-hoo. And strolls to the counter.
He props both arms on the table. Rolls her name off from his tongue for the first time, “Eun-soo?”
She arches a brow, “Yes, Yoon-hoo?”
Then it sinks in. All this time, his name is known to her. His annoyance spikes, he furrows his brows. “You knew my name and you never give yours?” Yoon-hoo says, accusatorily.
“You never asked.”
And she’s right. Only because he thought she didn’t hear him the first time. Not a single moment he could recall, her lips utter his name. “Touché,” he retorts, crossing his arms over his chest.
She chuckles, amused. Uneasy silence slinks in between them. He rubs his chin, as she scratches her neck. Two pairs of eyes staring in all direction but their faces. And after a while, their eyes set on their plates. Food untouched.
“I should have told you that I had girlfriend,” he admits. There’s guilt swirling within his stomach. What if he had lead her on? He should have come clean in the first place. He chews his lower lip slowly.
“You don’t need to, I didn’t ask,” she assures. Eun-soo tosses a quick look over her shoulder, “And she’s cute.”
“Do you guys believe in those special abilities that the studies claimed people like us developed?” Yoon-hoo inquires. Throws a useless card too early that Da-mi scowls at his stupidity.
There’s a collective of “ooh” echoes inside the room. Da-mi slaps his arm, with fire in her hazel brown eyes, shoots a silent ‘Now look what have you done’ glare at Yoo-hoo.
“One of you,” croons Chan-wee, waggles a finger, “give them up.”
Da-mi stares from his legs to his head. He lost both socks. She threw her fishnet three rounds ago. “Lose your trousers,” she orders. Gestures at her own body, “Next turn will be mine.” Instead Da-mi empties the bottle of soju.
Yoon-hoo stands to his feet, strips his pants off. Chucks his trousers at the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. His is the first pants among the seas of jackets and shirts.
Chan-wee’s shirtless. Bares his chiselled washboard abs for his audience. Eun-ho keeps his white singlet on. But sockless. Seo-hwa’s belt lays on top of Noo-ri’s heels. Da-mi’s scarf all tangled with Chan-wee’s blazer.
Seo-hwa boos at the sight of his duck printed boxers. Eun-ho cheers loudly while Noo-ri whips her phone out and starts snapping away, “Don’t worry, the winner of tonight’s game will have their photos erased.”
Yoon-hoo’s not one to pray. But tonight he’s throwing everything he has at praying to get his pictures deleted.
“It varies from couple to couple,” equips Chan-wee. He directs the back of his thumb pointing at the billiard table. The ‘adults’ are immersed in their own version of stripped pool. From Yoon-hoo’s angle, it’s a fair game between ladies and gents losing their clothing at equal amount. Although Kang-to dangerously close to adding his boxers into the pile. Meanwhile Hong-nam’s strapless bra is on the line to be the next victim.
Seo-hwa makes it her task to elaborate, “Like Mo-yeon’s born colour-blind. Stick her close to Sang-min, and she can see colours. But Sang-min’s not colour blind at all. He can hear some sort of special vibration only Mo-yeon produces. I’m not sure how it works, but it works.” She shrugs and flings a card at the table.
Eun-ho’s lips twists into a grimace. Chan-wee’s grin widens. “Show us some skin,” he purrs at Eun-ho. To which he earns three consecutive eye rolls from the ladies. Da-mi’s brow raises slightly, before she schools her expression into indifference. Chan-wee downs his soju in matter of seconds.
Eun-ho pulls his singlet over his head, scrunches it in his hands and dumps the singlet on the table. While his is not washboard abs, Eun-ho’s lean and muscular. All three ladies share appreciative nods among themselves.
Noo-ri draws a dud card. And groans. Seo-hwa tilts her chin at Noo-ri’s skirt. Carves a cheeky smirk on her face. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re among family,” Da-mi interjects, fanning the flame of embarrassment.
“Besides, there’s nothing you have that we haven’t seen,” Seo-hwa encourages, smirks.
“Help me to my skirt, will you?” Noo-ri says, turning her back to Yoon-hoo. He blinks. Rapidly. Before Da-mi nudges him in the ribs, “Do the lady a favour.”
“B-but she’s a married woman.” Yoon-hoo’s weak protest dies at the howls of laughter among them. Noo-ri assures, “I only asked you to help me with my zip. Not to commit adultery in front of everybody.” She grins, cheeky.
Yoon-hoo releases a long suffering sigh. But gets to his feet, his fingers pulls the zip down. Noo-ri slips out from her skirt, revealing black underwear that he averts his sights from.
And great—not only he has to worry about losing his clothes, but the rest of his female friends being stark unclothed is another problem. Thank god for the stripped pool ended before Yoon-ho’s scarred for life. Son-hyuk insists to end the game since his drama’s starting in ten minutes (he wants to watch it with his clothes on).
“How about you guys?” Yoon-hoo plops himself back to the sofa. Seo-hwa replenishes her glass of red wine, then drinks half of the content. Eun-ho shuffles the deck, spreads the cards equally between three teams.
“I used to be able to see what the other person is doing when I dream,” Noo-ri chimes in, the ends of her lips quirk upwards. Barely.
Yoon-hoo leans forward, “You don’t anymore?”
She releases her breath noisily. Shakes her head sideways, “Not since I married Shi-hoo.”
“Seo-hwa and her ‘so’ are able to understand each other’s language despite never learning the language,” Da-mi offers.
“That’s so cool,” Yoon-hoo breathes out, envy weaving itself in his tone. Runs his fingers to push his bangs away from his face.
“It’s only verbal,” Seo-hwa clucks her tongue together, “I can only understand him and no one else. Vice versa.”
“Then you three?” Yoo-hoo queries, sips his soju. Seo-hwa tosses her card. Her lips curls into a triumphant smile.
Da-mi slams a card second. Eun-ho slides his card across the glass table. Noo-ri claps once. Her eyes hone on Da-mi in an almost predatory-like, “Strip.”
Da-mi groans in defeat. Her evening dress joins the pile. Yoon-hoo brings the tip of his glass to his lips, tasting the warm soju.
“None whatsoever,” Eun-ho admits. Da-mi and Chan-wee nods simultaneously. Seo-hwa pats on his leg, “Don’t worry, not everyone get that special ability thingy. Sometimes you get it, sometimes you don’t.”
“Shuffle again,” calls out Noo-ri.
It’s a little over pass three, when they finally gather their discarded clothes. The card game ended hours ago. With Yoon-hoo ultimately keeps his eyes closed for the rest of the game. Leaving his fate in Da-mi’s hands.
By gracious luck, he only lost his trousers, t-shirt and belt. Unlike Chan-wee with only his speedo. Seo-hwa’s down to her lingerie.
It’s the drinking that drags on. Hong-joo and Kang-to’s the only couple that offers to keep an eye on them. Fixes them supper before they call taxis to bring each youngster. Except the ladies booked a room for ladies night.
He wakes up, drooling. His saliva pooling beside his face. Last night’s memories are fragmented all over the place. The sun streaking on his face, burns his eyes. Yoon-hoo covers a hand over his eyes.
He vaguely remembers slapping a wet kiss at someone’s cheek. Before he ducked into the taxi, supported by two strong arms as he staggered his way to his apartment.
“Oh,” he groans into his pillow, the hangover kicks in. He flips to his back. Rubs his eyes twice, before sitting up. Sneaks a glimpse at the clock on the wall. He nearly jumps at the hand of hour rests on the number ten.
There’s no rush to get himself ready. That much he knows. And remembers. He draws to his full height. He reeks of cologne, perfume, butter and wine. Slicked sweat line every pore of his body. Each movement he makes, ache accompanies him.
Pieces of his memory slowly returns to him. Yeon-wol’s away. He walks up to the wall mirror. Notices his eyes are smeared with mascara. Stains of red lips stamped all over his face. What’s the hell happened last night?
He mops the lipstick stains with the ends of his sleeve—it’s not polyester fibre. It’s wool. This is black. Not the plaid blazer he wore before leaving the apartment. His jeans hangs loose on his hips. Oooh—denim is not what he’s wearing now. Giorgio Armani cut to fit someone’s waist (is it Chan-wee’s or Eun-ho’s?).
He scrambles towards his night stand.
Whatever happened, Yoon-hoo sincerely prayed that Da-mi won them the game. Anyhow, he’s in sorely need of a shower. And perhaps dry cleaning for the expensive clothes on him now.
“Yoon-hoo,” Ki-tak yells into their washroom, “are you done showering? I need to go now!”
“Can’t you hold it in for a couple of minutes?” he retorts, rinsing the shampoo out of his hair.
“No, I need to freaking—” Ki-tak’s voice trails off. The bathroom door slams behind his friend as he heads immediately towards the toilet bowl. Privacy means nothing to them within the apartment.
“Hand me my towel,” Yoon-hoo orders, sticks one hand out from the curtain showers. Ki-tak does as he’d been told. Yoon-hoo climbs out from the bathtub, tying the towel around his waist.
“So, have you two did it?” questions Ki-tak. The need-to-know guy.
Yoon-hoo replies with a question of his own, “Did what?”
“You know, the deed.” Gestures crudely, a smirk twisting on Ki-tak’s lips.
“Hell no! I’d be dead. Her dad will kill me,” his voice increases an octave higher, “That’s assuming I don’t end up in jail first!”
“No need to freak out, dude. Good to know.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Huh?” Ki-tak shrugs, and adds, “I just assumed, you know. With that new soul mark on your back.”
It’s like time around him freezes. Did his soul mark migrate to his back? He runs his fingers over the back of his shoulder. Droplets of water trickle on to the floor, pooling around his feet. His eyes dart to his forearm. His soul mark’s still etched on his skin. Black. Circles. Even the arrow still sits beneath his wrist.
“When did you get that?” Ki-tak asks again. “I mean, the studies so far only mentioned that you develop only one soul mark in your lifetime. And if your ‘so’ is no longer living, the solid lines of your mark will loses its intensity. And looked faded ink.”
“I don’t remember.”
He twists his body, his back facing the mirror. His back, painted in dots and lines. Swirling across his skin, a series of arrows, lines and dots overlapping from his shoulders all the way to his back. The ink’s darker than the one on his forearm.
How it is possible that he has another soul mark?
Yoon-hoo scrolls through his contact list. Finds Chan-wee’s newly added number.
He dials the number. After two rings, Chan-wee’s deep voice chirps, “Your Majesty, you’re still alive. We thought you’d kneel over after the fourth bottle, light-weight.”
“W-what did we do last night?” Yoon-hoo dares to ask. “I think I out. Nothing embarrassing, right?”
Chan-wee’s laughter rings loud. “Oh, nothing of that sort.”
Yoon-hoo breathes out with relief.
“Except—” Chan-wee drags the last syllable. So does his heartbeat rises. “—you declared yourself Crown Prince and decreed that we all shall dance until our legs tire.”
“Just that?”
Chan-wee hacks some cough mid-laughing. Stops shortly before taking a deep breath. “Well, you asked Kang-to to get you a gayageum and when he did, you played and told everyone to dance.”
“Da-mi got a video of it,” Noo-ri’s voice echoes in the background.
Yoon-hoo jams his heel of palm into his eye socket. His blood runs cold at the reminder of a video existing of him being a fool. “Oh frick my life,” he murmurs into the phone.
But Chan-wee’s not done humiliating him yet. Or rather drunk Yoon-hoo has still tricks up his sleeve. “So, how did you like wearing our clothes? You claimed that you wanted to be in our shoes. And you stole Eun-ho’s pants and my blazer.”
“I’ll return your clothes once I have them dry-clean.”
“Nah, that’s fine. You just bring them to us. We’ll take care of it.”
“No, I will do it. After all you guys been through last night—”
Chan-wee cuts his words easily, “You being the hoot you were made last night fun. Anyhow, what’s up with the call? You still had your ducky boxers.”
“Oh, right. Has anyone like us to have two soul marks?”
“As far as I know, none.”
“Oh,” is all he manages to utter.
“But,” Chan-wee pauses, “there was an urban legend, about a woman gaining two soul marks. After the first ‘so’ died.”
A lump forms in his throat. Lips drying at the thought of having two soul marks. What will Yeon-wol think? Will she be heart-broken over this? No, it’s too early for assumptions. He needs more information. And if so, who is his new ‘so’? What now?
Out of the many people he met over the last few weeks, who could be the one—he can’t remember at all. He can’t even pinpoint the first time the mark appeared on his back.
It’s time for him to hit the library. Maybe the studies will provide him some answers. No matter how ridiculous it is.
The studies just confirmed his already long held belief. Utterly unreliable. Most of the samples are from the western countries. Even then, one study came to a conclusion, only to have another contradicting study refuting the former study.
A head nuzzles his neck. Short arms wrapping his shoulders. His nose catches the whiff of raspberry perfume. He shuts his laptop close, on reflex.
“I missed you so much,” she mutters into the nape of his neck. Yoon-hoo comes to his feet, wheels around to face her. Before she has a chance to glimpse at the newer soul mark imprinted on his back.
In the comfort of his tiny bedroom. Away from prying eyes. He presses his lips against hers. Deepens the kiss (obligatory). Steadies her in his arms. They don’t go any further than a deep kiss. It’s not the right time yet.
Then they part.
He sinks back down to his chair. Collects all the comics Eun-soo ruined and set them aside. Cleans his desk of from the clutter threatened to bury the red notebook.
“What are you working on? Another comic?” Yeon-wol queries, scans through the splayed papers. She brings one close to her face. Inspects the script.
“Just a side project.”
She takes the script and plops herself onto his bed. He continues with his sketches. He’s in the middle of finishing final touches on the background, when Yeon-wol interrupts his concertation.
“Who wrote this?”
“Eun-soo.”
“Eun-soo?”
“Yeah,” he replies, with a nod. He doesn’t turn to gaze at Yeon-wol.
“She’s a comic writer? I thought she’s working as a paralegal.”
“She is a paralegal. But she likes to write. So, I promised to turn some of her short stories into comics. See anything you like? Maybe, that will be next. Once I’m done with this.”
“What are you working on?”
“About a swimmer and a cheerleader,” Yoon-hoo pauses, to shuffle a blank paper on top of the growing stack of finished sketches.
“Is that any good?” Yeon-wol cranes her neck over his shoulders, “The one I just read, I think that should be a comic too.”
“If the ending is depressing, find another one. I had to sift through so many of her short stories just to find a good non-depressing ending,” he grumbles, holding the sketches paper up, “This is the only one so far, after she altered the ending a bit, that has a happy ending.”
“Well, this has bitter sweet ending, but I kinda liked it.”
“What’s that about?”
“It’s about a doctor and his comatose patient. Give it a read,” chirps Yeon-wol, then places an arm on his. Just as his stomach kicks a fuss. Her lips twists into a smirk, “Let’s go out and eat lunch. My treat.”
Once lunch’s all over, he sends Yeon-wol back to her house. Yoon-hoo plops himself back to his chair. Those comics aren’t going to draw themselves. And he’s on a deadline to find the perfect comic. He promised Eun-soo.
But honestly, the ending for the cheerleader and the swimmer’s still leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. It’s not so much as a happy ending. But an open ending. He’s still on the fence, struggling to keep himself on. He understands Eun-soo’s conclusion. It fits. That’s how real romance works. The girl doesn’t always get the guy.
Maybe it’s the optimism in him that allows him to jump on the bandwagon of a happy ending. One reads fiction to escape the harsh reality of life. The cheerleader deserves a little happiness after that long suffering heartbreak.
His eyes shift from his sketches to the script Yeon-wol sets aside for him.
He can spare a few minutes reading it. His eyes devour each word, spitting images that spikes dormant memories within his soul. Flashes of pictures before his eyes. Every word strikes various emotions – most are too intense and intimate.
A doctor and his comatose patient strangled by the red strings of fate. Not in just one life. But other countless lives across multiple universes. That horrifying realisation that of the fact that they’re doomed to repeat this dance of tragic romance.
“Kang Dong-woo,” he mumbles, “Where have I heard that name before?”
Mechanic. Soot. Grease. Kisses underneath war-torn skies. Letters written with love. The only mechanic working in an ancient workshop. He dreams once of this life. And she wrote it. Han Eun-soo who appears in that dream. As a nurse. Joo Soo-yeon was her name there.
No fricking way—
It can’t be. Is she?
Noo-ri mentioned once about her connection to her ‘so’ via dreams. Has his dreams been the work of his soul mark?
All those peculiar and insignificant changes he’d dismissed as ordinary—it adds up to the bigger picture, like missing pieces of a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for the last few days.
She wore dark colours, when they met for the second time. Her long hair hangs over her shoulders. All to hide soul mark etched on her porcelain skin.
Has she known that he’s hers? Is that why she keeps her distance from him? Better to keep him in the dark for as long as possible? To keep their relationship neutral as it is. Friends. No, not friends. They’re merely acquaintances.
A million thoughts racing in his mind. Each fighting to get a word in. On this ridiculous state he finds himself in. Curiosity demands he finds more information before he acts. The loyal lover in him calls for him to cast out this relationship wrecker.
Within the deep recesses of his mind, doubt slithers like an innocent serpent. Plants its seedlings. Of the possibilities. Of the what-ifs. Of what was. One puzzle solved. Another awaits for him to work on.
(And a tiny bit of his heart whispers to his mind; someone stole a piece of him. She’s not Yeon-wol.)
“Oh, crap.”
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