Although Himchan likes to say that he’s the type of man who is attracted to bold women who take the initiative in a relationship, in truth, he’s always had a soft spot for women who allow him the privilege to be chivalrous. So when Chaeri asked him out the night before, he hadn’t been caught by surprise with her question – he had been caught by surprise with his answer.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

It wasn’t until today did he remember that he didn’t know where she lived. Thankfully, she knew how scatterbrained he had been that day, because she arrived at his apartment at exactly five minutes prior to their set date. He knows; he had been checking the seconds on his watch.

And of course, she is dressed in all black.

“You live as if you daily visit the cemetery,” He comments as he casually glosses over the back of her neck, which has been revealed by the sweeping bun atop her head. No scar, unlike his.

“Do you realize how amusing that statement is?” She says. When they board the elevator, she clicks the button for the first floor. She settles backwards with an ease that seems to explain her perception of his home. She feels welcome beside him. Or perhaps she feels welcome in an elevator, where she knows she can rely on a dozen reflections of her body.

“Since we’re going on a date, you should tell me more about yourself. Aside from the fact that you’re … a Niver, or whatever it was.”

“You said it correctly. Congratulations.” The doors open. She leads the way, commanding their route with the thick clack of her platforms. “What do you want to know?”

“Why do you like black so much?”

With frankness as stark as the coal hair against her alabaster skin, she replies, “Because this is what I look like on the inside.”

“Wonderful,” Himchan murmurs. He reaches inside the pockets of his jeans and remembers that he doesn’t have a car. He should purchase a vehicle soon. He isn’t one to stroll when the weather isn’t to his liking. “I had a restaurant in mind, but it’s a bit of a walk compared to what I had planned.”

“I can walk.”

“It’s farther than you think.”

“Are you purposefully trying to end this date?”

“Is that what this is? A date?” Such a paltry term. He should’ve specified it as an outing instead of blurting, “I’ll pick you up at seven”.

“Yes.”

A simple response, unlike the rest of the words that fly off her tongue like an untamed song. He wishes the night would follow in a similar form. “Let’s cross the street, then.”

“Hello?”

The last time Sehun called a person at the hour when weary bodies offset heavy eyes that refused to close was the first time he had called his ex-girlfriend because he had missed her so much. She was angry with him for waking her up, even though she knew that he knew that she hadn’t really been sleeping. It was a rare blink in time when Sehun felt he was actually stronger than the woman that seemed to be more apt in protecting him than he was in protecting her.

The sound of voices has appealed to Sehun since the day he was born and his mother celebrated upon hearing his outcry of having entered the world. In her voice was a tone as warm and familiar as the environment that created him for nine months. He knew he belonged in the space between her chest and her right arm. Where else could he possibly go, but back to where he came?

It was the third time he was feeling such an emotion, and perhaps the second time that he felt this specific mood. There was a rise in his throat, as if breathing wanted to prove itself difficult. There was a fluctuation in his heart, as if the dormant organ wanted to burst. And there was dryness on his tongue, as if he had a desire for the impossible.

Infatuation was easy. But love … love was dangerous.

So he kept his mind closed when she mumbled another hello into his ear.

“Hello, Nana. It’s me.”

He listens to her gasp as the phone seems to fall back onto a soft surface. She must have dropped it onto her bed. “Is this Sehun?”

“Yes.”

“How – What’s up? How are you? Is something wrong?”

She’s begun to associate disaster with his name. It’s expected. “The Tender gave me your number.”

“I didn’t know he had it. That’s interesting, I mean, that’s fine, I don’t mind – “

“I told him you were asleep, but he insisted I call you.”

“ – it really isn’t a huge deal – “

“I’m apologizing on his behalf.”

She coughs.

“Are you sick?”

“No, there was just a little tickle in my throat. I’m fine. What did you say? Sorry.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh. Okay … “

Her breathing is slow and weary. Her voice is cozier than he expected when magnified by the speaker on his phone. He must be crazy to even describe the details of her speech, but somehow it enthralls him, and although Sehun endorses closed doors, it’s the breeze that flies through the open windows that give him trouble.

“I’m not very skilled at talking with women.”

She laughs. Amazing. He’s humorous.

“You’re doing great. What do you need, anyway?”

He’s like a child, to always need something. Pills. Death. Food. Solitude. It would be nice to be the one who is needed. To be desired the way he desires those four things.

“Nothing.”

“Well, that’s all right. I’m going to go back to bed, then. Nice talking to you, Sehun.”

“Wait.”

She waits. Sehun pulls the phone from his ear and stares at the number that pulses on the dim screen. An unnamed contact, like the rest of the people in his address book. Perhaps this one, he’ll assign a name. This one is worth dialing again.

“I would like to eat dinner with you.”

Did she laugh again? He returns the phone to his ear, as if to bring the twinkle of amusement closer to his heart. “It’s funny that you’re asking me this so early in the morning. Or late, rather.”

“I’m glad you think I’m funny, but I’m being completely serious.”

“Yes, I know. That sounds fun. Are you … asking me out?”

“No.” What a ridiculous notion. “I’m asking you to join me for dinner. As friends.”

Friends. Is that what she is now? He wishes he could turn the clock back to the year when such a term was offensive. Today, he tosses the word as if it didn’t hold any weight. But it does. The act of pronouncing the first letter causes a worried crease to mar his forehead. This feeling must be an augury, but he disregards it. He’s too tired to think of the future. He’s already too consumed by the past.

“Sehun? Can I ask you a question?”

“I guess.”

“Why are you doing this? I mean, it isn’t that I’m not grateful – I’m glad. I was trying to contact you for so long but you – not to be rude – paid me zero attention. And then you came to my apartment. And you’re calling me, and inviting me to places. Again, I’m not ungrateful. I just don’t get it.”

Nana isn’t the only one. Sehun doesn’t get it, either. He’s doing it because his mind is telling him to, and his heart – he hopes – is coming along for the ride. Although from the way things are going, his heart seems to be the horse, and his mind the chariot.

“We’ll talk later. Go to bed. I’ll text you where and when we will meet.”

“All right. Well, um, good night, Sehun. Thanks for the other day. I really do appreciate it.”

“Yeah. Bye.” Sehun hangs up and taps the table with the corner of his phone. The echo suffocates the room with an empty pang. He repeats the sound until it becomes as dismal as the gray ambience of his apartment, and then he opens a message and sends Nana a text.

Meet me at the Greek restaurant downtown at 6pm.

It isn’t until he presses ‘send’ does Sehun whisper in response, “Goodnight.”

Chaeri browses the menu as Himchan watches her bite her lip in thought. She really is beautiful, in a way so immaculate that it’s irritating. When the waiter addresses them, she orders a pasta dish and wine. Himchan orders a similar entrée, although with water instead of wine. When the waiter arrives to fill her slim glass with the clear drink, she taps the table with two knuckles.

“Why do you do that?” Himchan asks as the waiter leaves and Chaeri uses her long fingers to lift the glass to her red lips.

“Do what?”

“Tap the table with your knuckles.”

The wine sloshes inside the glass as her hand trembles. She swallows the drink before hiding her hands beneath the table. “Old habits die hard.”

“It isn’t customary to do that in a restaurant.”

“Well, since you’re so invasive, it’s because my ex and I went out drinking all the time, and it was one of the games we played. I suppose I’ve gotten so used to it that whenever I ask for a drink, I start the game.”

“What sort of game?”

She blushes. It gives her a blooming façade of innocence. “I can’t tell you that.” Briskly flipping the subject, she says, “Something bothers me about you. You’re too carefree.”

Himchan doesn’t believe that a meticulous businessman like himself would be carefree, but he’ll answer the question according to the case of if he were. “I’ve heard that one before.”

“Is being a Daver something to do with it, or have you always been like that?”

“Well, I’ve always had an irrational tendency for risk. To me, it’s a precursor to innovation. Since I’ve been ‘changed’, the proclivity has heightened.”

“So you’re reckless.”

“In a premeditated way.”

A whiff of laughter leaves her. “Do you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Being human.”

It’s just recently that Himchan has been able to put a name to his being, and although he’s been subconsciously aware of it for a while, the confirmation of something that he had previously avoided gives him an unease that dares him to reply, “I am human.”

“How so?” She seems earnestly curious to hear his defense.

“The one difference between me and a human is that I’ll live forever.”

“You make it sound like such a minuscule oddity. Did you forget the part where you have an uncanny craving for blood?”

The waiter returns with their dishes. Himchan stares at the smoke rising from the limp bodies of his pasta. “No.”

The woman he had brought to his apartment had been delicious, he admits. It sickens him to describe her as if she were a meal he ordered in a restaurant – like this pasta dish, for example. It was the first time he had torn the flesh off of a human’s neck due to his vicious thirst. It was a feeling as dirty as the red stain on his collar, yet he wanted to feel it again.

“Surely you know that you’re a travelling dead man. Any normal human would be in a casket.”

“I’m not dead.” He twists his fork into the dish and lifts the food to his mouth. He peers at the red sauce that drips over the pasta and, gaining more of an appetite than he would like, sets his fork down.

“Of course you are. Perhaps not as much as I. But you’re dead, I assure you. Check your pulse. Touch your skin. You have no heartbeat. You have no warmth.”

“I’m eating, aren’t I?”

“Yes. It’s called – what is it that you said?” She sneers. “Habit.”

“Why do you eat as if you’re hungry?”

“Habit.”

“I may not be alive, but I’m existing,” Himchan responds. He leans forward, the shape of his head projected on the deserted plate before him. “I’ve got a shadow. That’s proof I exist.”

“It’s pathetic that you resort to justification.”

“It’s good enough.”

“It has to be,” she murmurs. “Otherwise, what else would we be?”