You don’t even pretend to be interested in the eyes that shoot in your direction as you walk into the highly prestigious club that your friends hauled you off to. You would much rather have spent the night in your small apartment, alone, with the radio just a little too loud and a sketchbook in your hands. However, your friend’s urged a more social atmosphere on you, claiming that it would be healthy to be around someone else besides the empty white walls of your home. When you think of healthy, you do not think of a large room filled with people dancing much too close, breathing in each other’s alcohol breath and later contracting some disease from reckless ual activity. That, to you, seems like the exact opposite of healthy.

 

The room is large though, themed with deep purple hues and leather furniture that you don’t dare go near, for fear of someone sliding in next to you and trying at a conversation that will undoubtedly lead to you scrambling away or threatening to file a restraining order. The air is filled with the smell of over priced perfume and bodies clashing against each other, which in reality isn’t even a scent, just the mentality of the atmosphere that you find yourself absolutely detesting; detesting the sound of singing and chanting to the tacky music, detesting the awkward feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you see someone you know you will never be able to speak to, detesting the way some people will look you over and instantly revolt at your sense of style. It isn’t even yours, really, you were dolled up by your so called friends.

 

Your friends who told you to wear the outfit they bought for you: Tight black leather pants tucked into (also black) laced boots that reach halfway up your calves, a studded belt hidden beneath your black tank top which is slightly visible beneath the “fashionable” torn up white tee they gave you that looks dirty and worn (it’s so large it even dangles off one shoulder); with accessories like countless black and white bracelets on each arm, and a long silver necklace wrapped twice around your neck and that dangled in the center of your chest, obnoxiously clanking against itself and causing you to stuff half of it in under the white tee so it will stop. You’re also wearing eyeliner, which you did yourself, and you’re not opposed to, and your hair is styled messily atop your head. Overall the look wasn’t even remotely close to being “you” in any way shape or form…

 

Speaking of your friends, they bustle their way into the dancing crowd after fruitlessly attempting to get you to join in, but you’re more suited to sit by yourself at the bar and avoid the stares you get from men who have had just a little too much to drink and are feeling experimental. You aren’t afraid to admit that you’re fairly feminine for a man, even if you don’t think yourself attractive in the slightest. Even still, you did not come here to socialize, let alone look for potential ual escapades.

 

After two drinks, you feel a presence slink into the chair next to you and you’re hands tense around the glass in your palm. The ice shifts and clinks against the crystal clear surface and you train your eyes on it determinedly, avoiding the stare of the man next to you. You absolutely know it’s a man, it has to be, and it’s too persistent not to be. You dare to steal a glance at the figure in your peripheral vision, and end up turning your head to get a better look.

 

He looks out of place here, dressed in a pinstriped black suit with a purple undershirt and a white tie, looking absolutely pretentious but attractive, no less. His hair is medium brown and swoops elegantly to the side, it’s parted off center, and styled with much more care than yours was. It’s as though he’s trying to impress someone, and you wonder for a brief moment if it’s you. You’d even go so far as to say that a glimmer of hope began to reside in the back of your mind as you took in the man’s features.

 

After clearing his throat, your eyes meet his and you swallow the saliva that has been building on the sides of your tongue.

 

“Perhaps I can buy your next drink.” He speaks, and his voice fills your ears superfluously. The only way you can describe how it sounds is like the delicious anticipation of watching the last bit of honey slowly trickle from an overturned jar, the sweet yellow liquid filling your thoughts while you watch it pool onto the surface underneath it.

 

“Perhaps…” You say in reply, ignoring the fact that it wasn’t a question. In truth, you wouldn’t mind being bought a drink, since they are expensive… and he seems to be made of money, so you decide no harm can come from it. You’re still coherent anyway, and he’s incredibly handsome. “How about…you tell me your name first?”

 

“Youngjae.” The genuine smile that makes its way across his expression is gone just as soon as it came, returning to a natural looking smirk. “Delighted to meet you, um…?”

 

He’s holding out for your name, and you tell him with a returning genuine smile of your own. He seems remotely fascinated by it for a moment. You can tell by the twinkle in his eye before he says it himself. You’re enveloped in the way he repeats it to you, and you picture the letters rolling over his tongue as he does.

 

“I haven’t ever seen you here.” He remarks, observing the way you lift the glass to your lips, never taking your eyes off his.

 

“I’ve never been here.” You say when your drink is empty, and he gestures to the bartender. “Why, do you come to this place often?” You’re lightly amused by the cliché that accidentally slips from you in response to him; it makes the corners of your lips tug upward just so.

 

The bartender brings you another drink, and one for Youngjae as well. He gingerly picks up the drink and swirls the liquid within the glass by swaying his wrist just so. The simple movement distracts you for a moment, but soon his voice is cutting into your thoughts in a delicate manner.

 

“I own it.” He states, brow rising as the natural smirk he has only grows into something slightly cockier. You don’t mind, you’re too busy admiring it.

 

The way the bow of his upper lip stretches to meet the inverted arc of his smile entrances you, along with the glimpse of teeth that flash in your direction like pearls hidden within a tightly closed shell. When he closes his lips again, his smile dampening to something a bit more relaxed, you see their contours perfectly. His lower lip is smooth, leaving you to trace from corner to corner the rounded shape that leaves a dull shadow on his chin for you to imagine just how plush and comfortable it would feel upon your own. His upper, meanwhile, is sharp and distinct on the ridges of its outer rim, slowly developing into a soft damp surface as it reaches the hallow line between above and below. It isn’t long before you find yourself fantasizing, and it’s so vivid you can almost feel the pressure of the kiss you so desire from him.

 

Eventually you snap out of your fantasy world, and pay attention to whatever he says. He speaks so intelligently that you’re drawn in by it, and every word that echoes from his lips is savored in your mind. Sometimes you get a word in, but mostly you sit in silence, completely enveloped by his elegance and utter mystique.

 

It’s much too soon when your friends are stumbling in your direction, inebriated beyond belief. Your embarrassment is shown by the tint of red on your cheeks. If only they knew who you were speaking too. You’re almost mad at them then, but your attention is pried away by the feeling of something being slipped into your palm. When you look back to Youngjae, the stunning prince of a man next to you, he gives you a wink and slides away from his seat to disappear into the distance.

 

Watching him walk away you nearly forget about the object in your hand, thin and cylindrical. A curious eyebrow quirks up when you discover that it’s a cigarette. It’s only when you twist it between your fingers that you notice a name and a number in delicate silver print. Your friends ask you what it is, and you say that it’s nothing, gently palming it and pushing it into your pocket. Every fiber of you tells you that it’s wrong, but you can’t stop the anticipation that dwells in your mind at the thought of seeing that… Yoo Youngjae again.

 

--

 

As it turns out, you’re a bit too frightened to call him. You’ve even lost count of how many times that you’ve looked over the number and his name, contemplating whether or not you should dial it into your cell phone. Though, waiting is just as difficult. So, you pace your living room, feet digging into the rough fabric tensely, and once again decide to wait.

 

You’re able to distract yourself by drawing in your sketch book, trying to record Youngjae’s lovely features from memory onto the paper in your lap, but it’s easier said than done. He is a masterpiece, and as much as you admire the way he looks, you simply cannot copy it down.

 

You resolve to listen to music and stare at the ceiling.

 

In time you realize that you’d closed your eyes, and when you open them you find that daylight happily streaks into your living room where you are still laying on your couch. What day is it? Day number three, you think, since that flawless man gave you his phone number. Have you waited long enough? Should you call? Perhaps it isn’t time yet.

 

These questions hurry through your mind countless times until you sit up and shake your head. Enough of this. Enough meaningless questions. How difficult could it be to dial his number and call him? What’s the worst that could happen? Though these are questions true, you firmly decide that the worst possible occurrence would be for him not to pick up, and that in itself didn’t seem so bad at all.

 

You stand from your place on the couch, and briefly glance at the coffee table with items strewn about it carelessly. Your sketchbook, your pens, your phone, the cigarette. It’s just laying there; meaning nothing, but meaning everything. And you pick it up to once again look over the numbers and the gorgeous name that you will soon memorize from long term exposure. A smile slides across your lips.

 

A narrow glance at your cell phone tells you that you’re ready for this, you’ve waited long enough, and you snatch up your cell phone abruptly from it’s place on the table before you can change your mind. Quickly, you dial the number and press the speaker on your cell phone to your ear. It’s too late to turn back now, you’re ready and you know it, but you cannot stop the spinning in your mind and the earnest twisting of anticipation in your stomach as you hear the second ring. Then a click. Then a pause. Then-

 

“Hello.” It’s his voice, sounding just as sugary and warm over the phone as it does in person. You smile.

 

“Yoo…Youngjae? It’s me. Um…” You pause, nearly forgetting your name, but you state it hurriedly. You hope you don’t sound too panicked.

 

“Ah, yes. I was expecting your call… Thought you might never get around to it.” He says, and your heard flutters. “The precious young man who’s only a first time visitor at my club…”

 

His voice is lingering in your ears even as you speak. “Yes, that’s me.” An uncharacteristic, bubbly laugh echoes into your own ears.

 

“Well, sweetheart… I think I’ve waited quite long enough to see your face again. Wouldn’t you say?”

 

You aren’t sure if the comment is meant for you even in a personal phone call.

 

“I’d say so… Mister Youngjae.”