4th of August

For the first time in many, many months I got invited to an event that wasn't the landlord's, or his niece’s; or if we count before you left, other than the hospital letters, wonder if those are considered invites. 

It was still nothing special, just a bachelor party, really and to top that off it was from one of my colleagues’, but it was still an invite.

 Due to the lack of such events, in such a long period of time, I almost forgot people had those anymore, and heck, I almost forgot people held celebrations and parties. 

True, it was probably out of kindness and pity from the guy who slipped me the crisp envelope with it's fancy lettering on top of a pile of papers as he sent me another stack to annotate and make amends for; he sat the cubicle adjacent to me and always asked for favors as his printing skills were a mess. But it was still an invite. 

I guess people assume I've moved on by now and I no longer have a 'Caution: Not In Order' sign plastered to my forehead and that I am not a walking hazard anymore. That the gold lettering printed on the neatly folded, glossy paper announcing  'Kwon Jungho's Bachelor Party' could hide the obvious presence of a dozen hookers at the party ('festive foods and exotic dancing and services' doesn't fool anyone except evidently your fiance, Mr. Kwon) underneath the composed invitation would perhaps be a good way to wean me back into society.

Joke is on them. 

My first invite in forever and I had to politely decline.

I just slipped the folded paper back into it's envelope and sent it back with the set of complete papers while he was on a coffee break, maybe he can send it to someone else instead, guessing the strained neat freak with his tie that's always too tight around his neck who sits a couple rows down can use some of that 'exotic dancing and services'. 

Parties were never my thing anyway, I'd rather watch the people that attend as they call out and congratulate one another, and who wants a sideline creep? 

Parties were your thing,  you'd be the life of every one of them,.I bet you still get dozens of invites even up there begging  you to bring back that overwhelming happiness you infect everyone you breathe the same air with. You probably don't even have the time up there to even go to each one, though I doubt they have time up in heaven.

I almost smile as I remember one last line towards the bottom of that invitation 'All males invited', thinking of how the man would react if I brought you; had this taken place earlier, and we just had our own little party, holding hands and brushing off the rest of the commotion as we helped ourselves to the delicacies, shared a few kisses while we were at it for good measure. 
He'd probably blown a fuse, if he noticed us at all, really. 

I carry the thought throughout the day as I close up shop at my desk, tucking the papers and utensils away and slip my arm through the strap of my shoulder bag 'till when I buckle my seatbelt and reverse the car back into the steady flow of other vehicles. It's refreshing in a way and somewhat amusing, and it keeps me away from that sour mood and the growing feeling of how antisocial I've become. 

Along the road, I find myself steering the car in a new direction, not understanding why until a familiar glass building comes into view, one that's previous 'Happy Second Monthsary' banner was taken down and I almost hold my breath as my eyes then flit down to the parking lot, skimming through the cars, forgetting the cars in front of me, or that the traffic is moving. I don't even know what I am checking for before my brain signals that there is no cream Cadillac parked there, feeling incredibly flustered at my childish actions and tearing my gaze away from the parking lot when a loud beep from behind screeches and seems to scream 'No time for being childish and looking for someone that probably forgot fickle, old you. Keep driving!'

And I obey its orders, moving forward and bowing my head a bit on the rest of the drive home, the faint amusement I once had gone.

But it wasn't true anyway, the car horn's exclamation, I was not looking for anyone, let alone some stranger. I was just appalled that I never did forget, that whatever that man, for the sake of sparing the strangeness by not calling his name, did to let my guard down impacted my decisions till now.  Not going to lunch with the others at work, sparingly exchanging words with anyone that approaches and even rejecting my invite. 

Well, damn it, Baekhyun, if you are going to let every man off the street affect you this much, you might as well stay in some doorless asylum.
What a comforting idea-- I am going a little off the edge. 

I make it home safely, somehow and decide to go directly on one of my walks; taking off my blazer and hooking it on the seat as I just decide on walking around with my dress shirt; it's getting hotter by the second here, Chanyeol, you would not believe it. 

Wading around the streets that have just been combed through of people, leaving only a couple of people still ditzying around to get home or somewhere important this Friday evening. It's pleasantly mild and at a certain pace, the air just cools me as I walk, forgetting my purpose and everything for a while as I just let myself seep into the atmosphere. As if I would eventually find where I needed to be on the way, everything would come with time if I kept walking. 

As if with time, I'd just run out of pavement to walk onto and I'd be walking on nothing at all and maybe be lead back home, home where you would be waiting, with another big story to tell of the smallest daily events spoken with such grandeur. As if I could walk back in time.
I would do it in a heartbeat, walk as many miles as it takes, I would, I would.

I'd do practically anything. 

The thought fills me up with the same passion I feel whenever you are mentioned, but also that emptiness that the soul out of me, it confuses me. That's to say the least. 

But I don't have time to elaborate on it as I near the end of the road, looking up and reading the street number off the metal plate of the sign, piecing the information together; I'm at least seven blocks away from my home, not counting the turns I've made of course. 

Thank God it's Friday. 

Even though it is still mildly humid out, I feel a shiver run through me and resort to entering the modestly lit up cafe at the end of the street, not caring for once of the menus, or the people inside, or even if I have enough to afford any of the food items. And frankly, that I'd look like an idiot going alone to a coffee shop in work clothes on a Friday evening. 
Oh, well. 

As I step in, I am welcomed by faint music, ordinary coffee shop music, I presume, with its underlying static-filled thumps of the beat. Music that's somewhat upbeat, not characteristic coffee shop music actually, one that embraces all those that are present in it rather, apologizing for their absence from a club, and the like on such a charismatic night. Even though I don't understand the foreign language, it's not difficult to figure out, catching the English days of the week embedded in between along with the easy-going vibe.

♬ Monday morning feels so bad ♪

For the first time in a while, I make my way in like I was planning on visiting here since the week began, striding to the counter as if the music gives me courage, looking through the drinks and choices they have and reading off the wall's contents.

"Raspberry Cream Mocha," I say, pressing my palm onto my side to reach for my wallet before almost freezing and mentally making a double take. My blazer. The wallet was in my wallet. In my blazer. 

♬ Ev'rybody seems to nag me ♪

I send the woman at the cashier an almost apologetic look as I step away, my determined facade faltering completely as I swallow and wish almost instantly I was back home. Foolish idiot, I curse, all because of meeting that man I've driven yourself nuts trying to prove that I'm still myself and at the same time, I am different and won't let people in easily. I wish I never went to that gallery. 

I don't complete that thought, however as I hear the sound of a coin spinning on the counter, instinctively reaching out to catch it and hand it back to whoever just decided to order while I was having my mental breakdown. I don't even mean to say anything yet as my eyes travel up to meet the face of the person whose coin I've saved, a single syllable leaves my lips. 

"Oh." Wads of bills are pressed to the counter and my gaze drops to the neatly stacked cash and the long fingers that push them across the counter towards the disgruntled yet slightly fazed cashier.  My eyes keep steady on them and so does hers, as if we both have suddenly become brain dead, and unable to comprehend the actions following my embarrassing act.

♬ Friday on my mind ♪

The lyrics sing as the notes are finally taken and the cashier rings up my order.

A voice speaks up, just as the chorus breaks out again mildly in the background,

“Cafes, art galleries ,and the choice of beverage of Raspberry Cream Mocha,” Kris counts out, and I can tell he isn’t even looking at me. “What a combination of things to add under the list of ‘Baekhyun’,” he continued, as if we were talking about things as ordinary as the weather, he looks at me now, I can feel his gaze on me as I resume my unresponsive state.

“One Raspberry Cream Mocha,” a second barista calls out in a chirpy voice, I wonder where the other has gone, perhaps Kris carried some disease that permanently stilled whomever he came near.

Perhaps reading my thoughts, the man beside me wrapped his long fingers around the cup, making a slight gesture with his thumb for me to follow as he retreated to his table.

My unconscious mind apparently had the same idea as I too turned around and finally moved my eyes from the empty counter, catching a glimpse of the ever-so deterred cashier by the coffee machine. Somewhere in the back of my head, I wonder if I too look somewhat like that at the moment, like a deer caught in headlights, following the headlights even as they move away, stopping as they also come to a stop.

Second invite so far, I think, and I don't seem to reject it.

Kris— I really should stop using his name, it feels so foreign—the man chose the booth by the window, centered yet against the glass, not the most ideal spot for a corner inhibitor, but comfortable enough.

♬ Monday I have Friday on my mind ♪ 

The second to last stanzas of the chorus has been sung, I feel as if reality has once again reappeared. As if a hidden barrier has absolved, the gush of events finally are able to move into my head, and I can finally form words again.

“You didn’t have to,” I say lamely, and he turns his head to face me once again, a small hint of amusement in his eyes, and I could feel my insides churn in embarrassment.

“I didn’t. I wanted to,” the man said as if he dealt with these things on a daily basis, setting my drink on the opposite side of the table before he took a seat, “Besides, I doubt they’ll let me return it now.”

I have no idea whether that is a joke, or not, so I keep quiet.

I took a seat, still somehow working like a puppet whose strings where being pulled by some unknown force. He tilts his paper cup against his lips, his slightly protruding Adam’s Apple moves up and down with each sip he takes.

“You have a list about me?” I ask belatedly, the words pouring out from my mouth as I watch him drink his beverage.

The man let out an airy laugh as he set down his cup, deeming a somewhat playful grin, “Did I say that? I’m really bad at keeping secrets.”

“Thank you,” I say, referring to the cup, wrapping my fingers around it to cover up my previous inquiry, feeling a bit ashamed at bringing it up and his reply, deciding to skip over the whole topic.

He nods and picks up his cup once again, sending me a smile before he turns his gaze towards the window and continues to sip whatever drink he has previously purchased.

As I watch him, I notice that he isn't in a suit, but a loose-hanging tee that he manages to make look formal, yet also, I notice the way he holds his cup, his fingers widely spread across the coffee cup sleeve and his thumb just slightly jutted out. 

I remember how I used to watch you. Your fingers used to wrap all the way around the cups of coffee when we visited cafes together, his might be long, but yours curled all the way around grazed your palm even. Reminds me of holding hands with you, my hand covered in your large one, and the way you used to lace them in a way that even though they were mismatched, they fit perfectly. I don't know if you did that intentionally, but it made me feel better, knowing that even with our differences, we could match. And those hands, they've caressed my cheeks and wiped off countless tears, they've squeezed mine whenever I needed assurance, they've guided me to you.
It's silly really how I can miss even the most meager of your parts as well; I long for your hands, Yeol, if the rest of you wasn't possible. 

♬ Monday morning feels so bad ♪

I only notice how long I've been staring at him when the song I've come to recognize starts from its first stanza all over again, blinking and turning away, uncoiling my fingers from around the cup that I've slightly dented. He's been awfully quiet for so long that I grow curious to know if he was still awake, and for some ludicrous reason, I feel almost worried that I've bored him to that extent. When I do gather the courage to look back at him however, I can see that his eyes are fixated on the glass of the window, and in a way, it makes me feel worse. The street can be of better amusement than me, that's a tough one.

I raise the cup to my mouth and take small gulps of the warm drink. The vivid flavors of ripe raspberry and sweet cream go so well together with the darkness of the coffee that I begin question why anyone every drink normal coffee again, the flavor travels all around my body and I let out a small sigh. The man across from me, however, does not respond whatsoever, which is saying something as practically every breath I've taken so far has been noticed. Especially when I didn't want it to be. 
That sidewalk sure must be interesting.

For a bizarre reason or the other reason, however, I feel the urge to correct that. Even though I've long admitted it to myself that I am not nearly fascinating, I don't want anyone else to realize that, spare him. So I open up my lousy mouth again. 

"I've never been to this part of town," I say a bit too abruptly yet all too quietly, eyes on his reflected image on the glass. 

He doesn't even respond and I wonder if he even heard me, probably not, why am I even trying, this is ridiculous, I am terrible at socializing--

"I live here, at the end of that curve," the man spoke, gesturing behind me with his finger before meeting my eyes finally, "Not to boast, but I am pretty much this cafe's star customer." 

He says it with so much seriousness that I nod slowly and manage the word, "Impressive."

The man breaks into laughter just like he did back at the gallery, shaking his head to himself and shifting to cross his legs,

"Very," he replies when he finishes, keeping a half-smile on his lips. 

"But enough about me, what about you, Baekhyun?" He inquires, his fingers brushing away the empty cup to the side of the table, as if I have become the new item of interest. "What brings you here to my second home?" 

♬ Coming Tuesday I feel better ♪

My eyes catch on his, the way they seem to lit up with this engrossment, as if my answer was of such importance and if I may not be going crazy, I think he even leans over a little bit. I feel sort of stupid now, for thinking he favored the sidewalk over talking to me, sort of stupid for thinking of it even. 

I skim over the details of getting lost and reply somewhat honestly, unable to lie to that intense look, "The need for something new." 

He seems satisifed with that answer, nodding his head and moving an elbow up to the table, resting his chin on his palm.

♬ Even my old man looks good ♪

"Everything is the same everywhere you go now, isn't it? That you have to physically look for something new, something creative, something different." 

Something about his words reminds me of the trips to the modern art gallery with you, you said something along the lines of that when we sat there, back pressed against the walls as we tried to figure out the mystery of that painting.

"But you, Baekhyun, you aren't looking for them necessarily, so that answer is somewhat surprising. There is a first time for every thing, perhaps," he continues, and I swear his eyes don't ever leave mine. 

♬ Wednesday just don't go ♪

I am mildly put off with the comment for some reason, as harmless as it seems, it does imply that I am scouring for the past, looking for the old. And it scares me again, how he can see straight through me like I am a window as well. 

"It's like that for certain people, really, those who've been through things that bind them to events of the past. They don't look for something new," he continues, and I really do speculate whether or not the man blinks.

His words, they stir me on. They push me to the point that I do not stutter when I talk this time around, I am not even careful when I speak, "And why would you assume that?"

A furrow develops in my brows, as he just raises a finger as if he is not finished, "When things go by too fast, you do not need the new, you need the old to be able to catch up. But that's the thing, you never can catch up, so you stick to the old, and the new disappears," he describes, making an airy gesture with his hand to signal its disappearance before sitting up and resting his arms on the edge of the table, "So tell me, what is that factor that causes you to go with the new? Or better yet, what is it that makes you stick to the old?" 

The slight ignition within me at his questions then bursts into a small spark. I take a sip just to give myself some time to articulate a response, getting my act together before I reply a one-worded answer, "Withdrawal."
And the moment it leaves my lips, even I believe it.

I've never said that word aloud, but I've realized that I've been practicing it in my sleep, in the daytime, while working, or driving. I've been drilling myself to be able to formulate that word in case. In case anyone would ask. They will not understand anything else. 

It is quiet for a while and I sip my mocha drink, obscurely content with the answer before I set it down as my hands begin to shake, clasping them beneath the table. His studying eyes don't leave me still. 

♬ Thursday goes too slow ♪

I wish to be anywhere but here at the moment, really, I do not like they way his prying eyes seem to be reading through me. 
Reading through us. 

"Reasonable," he says and I feel a dull pang of anger that subsides as he stands up and picks up his coffee cup, "Want anything else?" 

"No." 

"Alright." 

♬ I've got Friday on my mind  ♪

When he returns, with a new steaming cup of strong scented coffee, I consider leaving before questions will be asked and fingers will be pointed.
Yet unlike any individual I've met so far after you, he acts like our previous conversation has never taken place. 
As if it is uninteresting and he expected something else, and it irks me and comforts me all at once.

He coaxes a new one instead, one in which he regains his normal character - or at least what I depict as his normal character - laughing once again and throwing my those grins, getting a glimpse of his perfect set of teeth ever so often.

We talk just like in the art gallery at those late hours, but I gather my words before I speak, selecting them carefully before they are spoken. I've already learned my lesson; I will allow myself the leisure of speaking to him but with boundaries. 

The tall man either doesn't notice, or does not react, he continues on with his thought. The both of us skim through dozens of topics, mostly him of course, from the muffin he's picked out for himself and how raisins really were the epitome of disgusting things -in my opinion of course - to how he has a firm belief that the world was slowly becoming so filled with questions that the future generations will have to each have fifty discoveries to make them all up as I ask a question about one of his ambitions- creating an endless mug of coffee. 

I almost laugh at that, pressing a palm to my mouth and suppressing a smile, his eyes crinkle almost and he nudges me lightly across the table, telling me it's not polite to hide whilst conversing. His teeth are on full display as I roll my eyes and move my slide my hand back onto my lap.

♬ Gonna have some fun in the city ♪

There was once someone that said that if its a good conversation, you often end up asking yourself, 'How did we end up talking about this?' I guess whomever it was wasn't famous enough to have it quoted, but I am leaning towards agreeing with Mr./Ms. Anonymous. 

In good conversations,you let yourself go though, so does that count?

Remembering how we talked, you taking the floor and me listening and then usually butting in to take part. I remember how I let myself be engulfed by your words, how I dove in whatever involved interacting with you without hesitation. You mesmerized me and I apparently held your attention, 'stole away all your other thoughts' as you had liked to say. 

That was the best kind of conversation. There was no comparison.

Never in a million years will be.

As I watched him tilt his head in laughter, feeling like I already memorized the way he let out his laughs, I conclude that yes, though I can only allow myself to say so much, this is a good enough conversation- that even as  we somehow shifted to the domestication of sea urchins, it was leisurely.

The fashion in which he acts, the way he acts as if we have met more than the meager time we did to the way he sips coffee even, along with the way he looks, his light sandy brown hair that seems to have been brushed back by deliberate fingers and his edgy facial features, everything is foreign. Everything feels so queer to me. So different that it is almost exciting and refreshing. 

♬ Tonight... I spend my bread ♪

Within the hours we talk, I downed my drink and ate half of his muffin after I made sure it was raisin-free, and he decided it was a waste and tsk-ed me before popping them in his mouth from the tissue paper. 

♬ Tonight... I lose my head ♪

I make a face as he eats them as if they are delicacies, wondering vaguely if we are all just losing our heads indeed. If we are all losing it gradually. 

The man then breaks into a small grin and we trade no words for a bit, the waitress comes and goes with her tray, collecting our finished orders, all the while sending the opposite male glances. Not flirtatious, mind you, but just ones of awe. I allow my eyes to flit to the counter and find the stunned lady to be gone. It seems, I conclude, all his surroundings feel his overpowering will and determination, his loud presence screams and deafens. 

♬ Tonight... I got to get tonight ♪

His fingers outstretch across the table and for a moment I am mortified of his intentions, but then they just tap the faint, resounding beat of the last stanza of the chorus. 
My first indication that someone, but me can hear the music, that it isn't something in my head that tries to coax me on to such abnormalities as conversation. 

♬ Today I might be mad ♪

I hesitate to let out a sigh of relief as my whole body momentarily froze, he must sense it, I know he did, his wide almond eyes give away what his composed expression keeps in. But he doesn't inquire, doesn't take his hands back, he just taps along to the beat. 

It's the thing I find favorable about him, I realize, how he does not force anything on me, everything is implied like the gesture of his thumb and everything is set to my comfort like how we sat across from another or how no subject is dwelled on for too long.

In that moment, I felt comfort, his fingers drumming the beat while I finally gain a slightly more relaxed position. As if the metal chord in my back that has caused me to sit upright all along has melted and I can lean back on my seat. 

♬ Tomorrow I'll be glad ♪

My throat feels dry, but not from anxiety of having someone else's hands so close to mine, but from the talking, the attempts at keeping back laughs. 

I feel like I'm floating,  floating away from everything, and his eyes help me do so, guiding me away from myself. 

His mouth opens to speak and then closes again, I can just imagine this drug of the music and warm beverages mixed in with borderless conversation has taken its toll on him as well. 

My lips curve up a bit, mimicking his and a foreign feeling rushes through me, something adjacent to the budding of friendship and comfort. 

The feeling is the last thing I can clearly recall afterwards, we must have left the cafe afterwards, it was getting late again. 

He must have offered to drive me home and I must have politely declined as I had driven my car home, and upon the memory of catching my reflection on the glossy cream metal, I must have followed him to his car nevertheless.  I don't remember if I thanked him again, if I did he probably brushed it away with a hand gesture once more. The man then called my name as I turned away, I am almost sure it felt strange like every time his voice forms my name, and he distinctly told me,

"I will see you again." 

Nodding, I wonder if that was my response, but he seemed pleased anyway and he drove away behind me. Did I look back at his car as it disappeared?

All I am completely sure of was that I returned home shaking once again, hugging my arms and wrapped in my blazer, stumbling almost back to our apartment. 

Curled up in our bed, I sunk down into the mattress, and the traces of that feeling was still there, imbued within me. The music still called out to me loud and clear, singing its part, as if it never left. It rewinds on and on till it lulls me to sleep, tucked there in my crinkled office clothes.
As alien and incomprehensible as they were, I felt they understood me, and in that way, they were similar to the man I had accompanied at that cafe. 

And in that haze, I've never missed you more.

♬ I've got Friday on my mind ♪ 

The song in this chapter is not mine in anyway, it is by the The Easy Beats, called 'Friday on My Mind', if you'd like to check it out.