Maybe it was the candlelight that had you returning to that little bar. It could very well be the music, the cozy mystery backlit in unconventional tempo that lost you in a land of mist and smoke. Or it could have been the promise of seeing him. 

Whatever it was, it had brought you back to the black lacquer door with the little bell on it that twinkled upon your entry. Stepping through the doorway transported you to a century prior, the romanticized image of classic noir. You expected Italian mafiosos in the corner making quiet ultimatums, wouldn’t think twice of transatlantic accents pushed out around thick cigars. You order a scotch on the rocks, feeling that it was the only appropriate drink that you liked. 

Without fail, he sat in the same seat as last time, five seats down. This time, he wore a leather jacket that shed the sky’s tears as he gave it to the host. He keeps his hat, though, setting it down on the counter like the first time. Your eyes meet as he sinks into the stool with the grace of a soft breeze, and he gives you a smile.

“I was right.” Triumph glitters in the darkness of his eyes. 

“That you were.” You reply. Instead of the white dress shirt and necktie, he wore a white t-shirt today, it stretched across his shoulders in a way that had you wondering if he frequented the gym as often as he seemed to come here. 

You spent most of your time reading the labels on the bottles of libation, deliberately not trying to stare at Mr. Byun and his white t-shirt. The band was livelier than the first time, the beat bouncing across the carpeted floors with a colorful swirl. Your eyes wandered from the Don Julio labels to the paintings on the walls, many of them landscapes, and the rest of whatever fancied the artist the moment they started sketching. Like little whimsies framed in gold leaf. You let your gaze wander around the room, taking in the paintings and decorations your eyes could reach, landing on a bust of a deer, its antlers so symmetrical you wondered if it was even real. 

“That’s Edgar.” Your eyes snapped back to the man holding a glass of bourbon. His lips were pulled down in playfully concealed amusement. You tilt your head a bit, and he points at the buck. “Edgar the Buck.”

You couldn’t catch your laughter even if you had tried to keep it tucked within you. Though there wasn’t anything to feel regret over as he joined in, and honestly, you couldn’t imagine you had gone your whole life not listening to something so essentially beautiful. The two of you stared at one another, sharing the stars of amusement in your eyes. 

“Did you name him, or did he come as Edgar?” You ask, resting your chin on your palm. Normally, you would’ve scoffed at such a ridiculous notion as naming dead taxidermied animals, but for some reason, you wanted to indulge in Mr. Byun. He chuckles, and it felt like you were sipping the most exquisite bourbon on earth– sweet, woody, rich. 

“I guess I named him.” 

“Did you ever ask if he already had a name?” You joke, making the man scrunch his nose and stick his tongue out at you,  causing you to laugh once more. 

“I suppose my manners were lacking.” He responds. “Though a wise man once wrote, ‘what’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.’”

“My lord.” you mutter, rolling your eyes and pursing your lips to keep your unamused facade up. You turn to the bartender, who was quietly polishing a glass with a smile on his lips. “Did that buck have a name before he was Edgar?” 

“No, miss, not that I know of, though Edgar seems to suit him very well.” The poor barman responded. Mr. Byun laughed, covering his mouth with one of his beautiful hands. 

“Oh, but he’d be just as Edgar-y if he’d been named, say, Mr. Fancy-pants.” You counter. A silent wheeze of laughter overcame Mr. Byun, who covered his entire face with both hands, shoulders bouncing gleefully to the beat of the music. “That’s what Shakespeare said.” 

“Mr. Fancy-pants?” Mr. Byun laughs out, the tips of his ears pink. You shrugged. 

“I’m not much of a namer.” You reply. It was true, you didn’t really like naming things like most people seemed to do. You remembered when your best friend had called you, tears evident in her hiccuping voice on the phone as she told you she just totaled her dear Candice the Corolla and you were more concerned as to why someone would name their car rather than the wellbeing of your friend. Hell, even the kitten you adopted five years ago didn’t have a name until that same friend had announced he would be dubbed Gigolo instead of The Cat. 

“I hope you never give me a nickname.” Mr. Byun mutters jokingly. You smirk, taking in the fact that his hair looked a bit overgrown, as if keeping it trimmed was not much of a concern for him. 

“Why would I ever give you a nickname, Anti-Umbrella Man?” Mr. Byun gives you a look of mock horror, placing his graceful hand on his heart as the bartender fails to hide a laugh. 

“The deer gets a Mr. and I don’t?” Anti-Umbrella Man exclaims in disbelief, and you double over in laughter. You vaguely notice the music coming to its . 

“That’s your first concern?” You counter, and Anti-Umbrella Man laughs, shaking his head. The way his eyes turned to crescents as he smiled made the corners of your lips tug up, and his laugh prompted you to melt onto the leather barstool. 

He takes a sip of his bourbon and you watch, noticing how the muscles and tendons move in his slender neck. The dart of a pink tongue never fails to brush over equally pink lips still pulled in a small smile– a smile you put there. The curl of the saxophone’s solo wraps around that little tingle of joy that sprouts within you, and you self-consciously sip your drink as well. 

“What’s in a name…” You whisper. 

You leave that night thinking of the different ways Shakespeare could sound y. You were never one for his works, finding them a little too twisty-turvy and quite honestly overused. You looked at the sky again as you stepped out of the little bar, a repeat of the first time. You suppose if it were muttered inside a velvet-cased room of antiques with a voice that resembled expensive bourbon, it sounded novel and profound. The raindrops on the umbrella seemed to sing the old bard’s lines in his favorite pentameter, and you found for the first time that you didn’t much mind the rainy season.