31st of July

The first day of July, a month ago. Can you believe it's been so long since we last saw one another? I can't because those days that passed just seem so much longer to me. Ironically, it was also Independence Day half way across the world. What a coincidence; that sounded a lot more humorous and way less obnoxious in my head. Oh well, I was never that funny anyway.  

I was never poetic, or interested in quotes of other tongues either, yet I've discovered quite a handful of both over this month-and-a-half. A lot of which I find myself referring to quite a lot. Do you mind if I add in a few here? I'm not very original in case you could not have guessed, not like you, so maybe this can be the start to conveying everything I am. 

Well, here it goes, "Your friends will know you better in the first minute you meet than your acquaintances will know you in a thousand years," a statement by Richard Bach. I've seen it before today of course, and after reading through it several times, it seemed pretty plausible; friends can make sense of you in a fashion that no one else can. If this guy can quote that and have it published, then why wouldn't it be?
Because nothing applies to every situation, that's the thing about the world we-- I -- live in, there are just so many exceptions. 

That exception came in the form of a man so out of place in the little amateur yet blossoming gallery the landlord's niece has exactly a block away in a two-story building that appears more like a villa than a hall of a budding artist and photographer's works. Surprising, hm? Apparently, that's why the old man has been raising the rent.  You were close with the assumption that he wanted to build another building. He wanted to get enough cash for an art gallery. Most surprising of all is how I was just informed of the new extension as I was half-way across the lobby for a walk this morning before heading off to work, when taped on posters advertising the place came to view; 'Celebrate the Second Monthsary of the Modern Art Gallery by Artist Sun-Hee' it read, with a small map at the corner of the bright colors and examples of the photos and artwork on display. 

It was not like I had any special detours on my schedule anyway after my office work, so I managed to find it when I got back in the hours of late noon. Squeezing into a parking in the small lot adjacent to the building/villa before managing another complicated task, actually getting out of the vehicle. All was well, I suppose, as I entered and paid the small entrance fee, gaining permission to view the surprisingly spacious area with the floor scattered with small bits of confetti and stray balloons on either side of the entrance, the celebration was already over it seemed.

 The gallery was definitely something you would be in awe of whilst it looked pretty ordinary to me, at least upon first glance. Photographs of angled scenery from seasides in which the tides looked like they were overtaking the sun to ones where the skies and grass seemed to meet as if they were one, but most of all, there was a painting in between that mixed the photos on either side into a blend of colors that made me sort of dizzy. I suppose I did look intensely immersed in each though as I stood in front of them, picturing what you would say about each with that vast creativity of yours.

That was probably why a light tap was issued against my shoulder as I was lost in one of the paintings; fathoming a reason why a seaside and mountains were depicted alongside one another in the distorted paintings. And upon stepping out of my concentration zone rather irritably, I came to face a well-dressed and rather tall man, probably as tall as you, who leaned closer than I'd like, which made me turn away a fraction to avoid looking him straight in the eye, and said with all seriousness,

"If you look too close, you are going to fall in. The painting is just a couple of on a canvas, I advise take a step back and look at it all at once," and as I turned to face him once again, I could just make out the smile in his complexion. 

"Not if their are details that you'd miss otherwise," I replied, yet stepped back a bit to gain some personal space and subtly test the theory of his. Because what I said was true, like the painting we admired and couldn't figure out, it's just a mess on first glance. 

Silence followed, but my mouth had a brain of its own apparently as it felt obliged to speak once again,

"In addition, isn't queer for you to advise me what to do, you don't seem to be related to art at all, judging by your way of dress," I added, keeping my gaze on the painting, masking the cringe that followed saying such matter of fact statements that I just despised coming from others.

A laugh, one light and almost airy yet still audible laugh, came from the seemingly uptight man who remained where he was, shaking his head on which an almost caramel shade of hair sat, hands tucked in his pockets as he faced the artwork as well as he spoke, as if we were both conversing with it rather than between each other,

"It is, my apologies. Carry on with intensely scrutinizing the works of art, fellow person who is connected to art unlike I, a man in a suit, am." 

That is usually where one cuts off conversation, the point where connections are cut, yet once we split ways and I continued to observe the paintings and reading each on both our perspectives. I caught sight of him so very close to a painting down the hall and I just almost let out a laugh. Trying out the technique, are we? I thought in my head as my feet seemed to take me over to the corner where he stood and judging by the way he turned his head, I must have said it out loud after all. 

Finding the need to explain myself further, feeling a bit flustered by my sudden re-invitation to the conversation, I added on to it as I found myself standing beside the same painting he was gazing at. One I had already passed on my own mini tour,

"It's not really that effective with these paintings, since their supposed to be seen from afar, but with some artists, their is meaning both up close in the details of the and from the whole picture." 

There was silence for a moment before he turned to me with an almost amused look and asked,

"And which paintings would those be exactly?"

"The last painting you would expect," I said and I remember that he raised one of his arching eyebrows, but I didn't say much more; it was our secret. I didn't feel comfortable giving it away to anyone, not even in this talkative mood I've gotten into. 

More silence followed and I wondered vaguely if I should continue on my small self-guided tour, noticing  how close we were standing, his arm only inches away from my shoulder yet not wanting to be the one to rudely move away, before he gestured around us at the confetti that littered the floors as if it were another abstract artwork,

"Guess we were late for the party, eh?" 

"Didn't come here for the party," I answered and took the chance to shift away a bit, turning my head to pretend to look around me. 

"Then?" the man inquired, seemingly curious yet not prodding me for information and somehow not at all annoying. 

I answered with little pause this time as I just allowed myself to enter the flow of speech,

"The artist is the niece of my landlord. Just so happened that I wanted to visit it today."

Nodding his head, the uniform clad man made a small comment about working with him in a project once then stuck his hands in his pockets, before wearing an almost uncharacteristic grin for a couple of moments yet I caught it and raised a brow in question,

"Normally one would ask 'and you?' but it seems you were not informed," he explained. Just as I parted my lips to retort, he interrupted, "Well, I just noticed this place while driving by, and seeing you so engrossed, I guessed it was worth a shot."

"Oh." 

"Yeah." 

"Did I mislead you then?" I inquired, feeling like he wanted to continue to speak. 

"Not at all, actually. Pretty impressive for an amateur, yet how would I know, right?" The male asked, inadvertently nudging me with his words, pointing to what I've so dumbly retorted previously. 

I made no effort to take it back, knowing I would just make it worse somehow, and this time, I started the silence. 

"I wouldn't know, just to clarify so you are partly right," he said anyway as he walked away. And I thought he was calling it quits for real this time yet instead, he sat down on a small, creatively designed bench that looked like it was solely made out of bent paper and wood supporting it at the sides with the gallery's colorful logo embellished in the center. And something about the way he looked up at me suggested that I should take a seat as well, and so I did. 

The next part was a blur, that went something along the lines of when he asked about how it was possible that construction paper hold up our weight to where I replied something along the lines of logic before cutting myself off and joking for the first time in months that it was a miracle it held up him though. He looked at me with a slight twinkle of surprise in his eyes before letting out a laugh and when I asked why, he just laughed even more and I let slip a small smile at the way he looked, head tilting back slightly as if howling yet letting out sounds of laughter, the rest of his suit not matching up with it at all. I must have said something about it. I really need to work on keeping it in my head, and he explained that neither was me joking with such a sullen expression, the reason of his laughter. 

Unimportant and fickle things, yet still conversation. 

Time went by and it seemed as if there was a tight bound bundle of strings of the unspoken words inside of me that has been building inside of me all this time of being silent. The ones I have shoved down after you left, and like one of those magic tricks, he began to slowly pull them out of me with his words, with some difficulty yes, but like no one ever could before-- and after-- you. And at first, as the first couple of times the hour hand of the watch moved to a new digit, I didn't notice. Yet after a while, as we found ourselves on the second floor and talking about paintings and whatever topics that leads to, I began to feel the strings and the words he was magically pulling out of me, and it scared me that a man whose name I didn't even know could do so. To the point that I created knots in them deep inside of me, stopping midway in conversation and turning away from the practical stranger. 

"It's late," I said instead, though I didn't know what time it was, looking out the window instead that showed the return of the nightlife after the day's work is over. 

Noting my drastic stop, or hopefully not, he brushed it away thankfully and glanced at his watch, "Time flies, doesn't it?" 

I nodded my head, "They're probably closing up soon," I said, though there was no regret in my words.

"Let's not get locked up in here then," the man replied and I nodded once again, heading to the stairs and hearing him follow after me all they way till the exit, where I quietly apologized to the lady there and he thanked her instead. He followed after me all the way to the parking lot, and I really hope he wasn't hoping for a goodbye because I just wanted to get alone and gather my thoughts, yet those striding footsteps stopped before I got to my car,

"It's Kris by the way," he finally said as he retrieved his own car keys.  

It took a while to gather a reply till I realized, That's his name, he is telling you his name, not asking you to meet up and talk some more or inviting you to become best buds, and this time, I am glad I didn't say so out loud. 

"Baekhyun," I replied with the two syllables of my totally normal Korean name, contrasting to the one syllable of his more Westernized one. 

"Pleasure bumping into you, Baekhyun," he responded, pulling open the driver's door to his cream colored Cadillac that was parked so conveniently only a couple of empty spots away from my own car, a silver Lexus. I didn't even reply before he just nodded as if I had, buckled his seat and pulled out of the parking spot before reversing into the road and swallowed by the city's streets. 

Still a stranger yet with a name, Kris has single handedly proved Richard Bach wrong. 

I don't know how I feel about that, thoroughly shaken as for now and significantly planning on being less talkative, perhaps.
It'll probably change over time; to anger, frustration, with myself and him, who knows?

But mostly, I just hope that whatever this man possessed in him that made me unravel as quickly as you used to be able to, no one else knew, nor contained.