A

Hyukjae

abstain, v.

“Is something wrong?”

The night is cold and we’re seated outside because we came late from work, the sounds of laughter, and clinking of goblets muffled by the glass that separated us from the world.

“Go ahead,” you say. “Drink for both of us.”

So I order two Manhattans but it becomes hard to laugh freely, when I’m the only one with a drink in hand. Do I offer you a sip? Were you afraid to let loose? Because of me?

“What’s wrong?”

A dramatic pauses stretches out over the air and you say, completely serious, “I’m pregnant.” And then you crack up so loud; even the wind is shocked still.

I laugh with you because you’re kidding, of course you’re kidding, but for the shortest second, I don’t feel like laughing at all. I raise my glass, tip it in your direction, and ask, “So whose is it?”

Donghae

abstraction, n.

Love is one kind of abstraction.

It’s those nights when I sleep alone, when I curl into my pillow that isn’t you. When I hear footsteps next door that aren’t yours. When I turn over to your side of the bed and bury my nose in the sheets, hoping to catch the littlest whiff of your shampoo. You say I’m too much of a romantic; that I get lonely too easily, but I think you’re at fault too, for making promises with that small smile on your lips, promises I hold onto in my sleep.

It’s not as if I can conjure you there completely. So I must embrace the idea of you instead.

Hyukjae

acronym, n.

SWAK!

I stare and blink at your e-mail. I don’t know what you mean. It sounds violent, like a palm connecting with my cheek SWAK! Like anger bursting at the seams, why did Jack have to die SWAK! “Coward! Coward! Coward!” Lies. SWAK! So I type back:

SWAK?

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the ridiculous image I get of you in reply, leaning over the keyboard and puckering your lips at the screen.  Now, every time you SWAK me, I feel that little jolt of your kiss you so kindly send through the Internet.

Donghae

akin, adj.

You once said you loved to dance. So it was something we did on the first date, feeling together the rush of rhythm under our skins, the music booming against our ears, and the tired gasps for air after everything has stilled and all we can hear is each other’s breathing. 

In the long run, did it matter we shared this? Did it matter we both loved to play pranks and had such low alcohol tolerance? In the long run, was it such an epiphany that we both cried easily, that we both liked dogs more than cats? Really, weren’t these facts just placeholders until the big picture comes into view, the big picture of you and I together?

We were painting by numbers, starting with the greens. Because that happened to be our favorite color. And this, we figured, had to mean something.

alfresco, adv.

It was one of those days when we hated the city, so we walk right into your car and begin our journey to nowhere. It’s completely unplanned, bizarrely spontaneous. You drive with one hand on the steering wheel and the other swatting away mine but you’re used to how I poke and pull at your clothes when I’m bored. I call around, and eventually find us a cabin. We stop at a supermarket and buy a week’s worth of food, junk food, drinks, sweets for two nights and our arms hurt from having to carry it all.

It wasn’t too cold out so we camp at the terrace, and the breeze kept blowing out our ‘romantic candlelit dinner’, but it’s okay, because we’ve never seen this many stars together.

Our voices floated through the air, tipsy, languid with wine.

“I love dining alfresco,” you say and I laugh.

“What?” you ask.

“We’re not , silly.”

Now it was your turn to laugh.

“That’s not what it means, silly,” You tell me, “Besides, don’t you feel now?”

You gesture for me to listen—the sound of the trees, the feel of the air. The sky stretched over us, like I’ve never really seen it until now. And you, watching me take it all in and the last flickering candle dancing against your cheeks.

to the world. The world, to us.

aloof, adj.

It has always been my habit since we were young and dressed in shabby school uniforms, to ask you that question:

“What are you thinking?”

Because I never know, and I keep on asking, but even after all these years, I never really know. Maybe that’s what I need, maybe that’s what it means to be together because there’s always something new to learn.

Hyukjae

antiperspirant, n.                                                                                           

“Is that baking powder?”

“Baking soda,” you correct.

“There’s nothing attractive about the smell of baking powder.”

“Soda!”

“So if I wake up tomorrow feeling the need to make a cake, lend me your armpit so I can throw in some butter, flour, sugar—”

“Why are we talking about this? Remind me again?”

“You’ve grown immune to the smell of yeast under your arms, meanwhile I, feel like I’m dating Whole Foods.”

“Fine,” you say.

I am surprised. “ ‘Fine’?”

“Yes. Fine. Write it in stone and mark this day as the day I bow my head to the tactless king called compromise, all in the good name of peace and harmony. There will be a ceremonial burning of my deodorant at sunrise tomorrow. I hope it’s flammable.”

“I just really hate it.” I tell you.

“Well, I hate your toe hair. And your armpit hair. Sometimes.”

“I’ll wear socks,” I provide, “Even in the shower.”

“Tread lightly,” you say, “the day you ask me to give up something I really love, things are going to get ugly, Lee Hyukjae.”

antsy, adj.

I swore to never, ever, watch soap operas with you again.

ardent, adj.

It’s after , when desire is still in the air and heavy breaths crawl between your lips, when my skin is against yours and my thoughts revolve around nothing but you, desire, and more of you… it’s as if the whole world is reduced to the four corners of our bedroom and the only thing I can feel in the darkness is you. Sometimes, desire is liquid as it pumps my blood. Sometimes, desire is air that leaves me breathless. And every now and then, desire is both, it solidifies and your body is the magnet that draws me closer.

Donghae

arduous, adj.

Sometimes, during , I roam my hands around your back and wonder if there’s a button that I could press to make you done with it already.

B

barfly, n.

I’ve always known we were different even though we were alike. I know, and I’m reminded of it every time we walk into a bar full of people and it’s just so easy for you.

You have the ability to talk to anyone, an ability I do not share.

beguile, v.

It’s those mornings when you walk around the apartment in my boxers when you think I’m not awake and watching you. It’s that grin on your face when you do know I’m awake and watch you. You spend so much time putting everything into place, every hair, and CD case. But as I pull you back to bed and tangle you in the sheets with me, I realize I prefer it like this—sleep-strewn, ensnared, disarray.

belittle, v.

No, I didn’t bring my wallet. No, I didn’t check the weather this morning. No, I didn’t turn the bathroom light off before closing up and no, I haven’t cleaned up my bag of chips because I was late. But every time you give me that look, it doesn’t inspire me to live up to your standards.

Hyukjae

bemoan, v.

I dedicate this to your co-worker Heechul.

            Heechul, please stop gossiping about your neighbor’s controversial love affair.

And please stop showing up late.

And please stop taking Donghae out to drink.

And please stop humming while you video your cat.

I’m tired of hearing about it.

blemish, n.

It’s the slight acne leftovers. The scar you have on your cheek, almost invisible but not to me. The penny-sized birthmark you have on your other right cheek, yes, the one only I am allowed to see. The mark you have on your shoulder from when you got vaccinated because a dog bit you. This scratch on your back—oh, did I do that?

 The brief transcript of moments, written on the body, so deeply satisfying to read.

bolster, v.

I hear your voice muffled through the door and muffled by your heart as you speak into your phone. I am very careful because I know you’re speaking to your father. I know that eventually, you’ll come to me, curl against me, and we’ll talk you through it—but you need your time. I’ll give you time. Meanwhile, I sit here and carefully choose what songs I play. I try to speak to you with my selections.

Donghae

brash, adj.

“I want you to spend the night,” you say.

Not “let’s have ”, or “let’s go to my place”, not even “I really really want you” and maybe that’s why we got as for as we did that night. Maybe it was your phrasing that guaranteed it. But I loved the idea of the night being mine to spend, and immediately choosing to spend every second of it with you.

Hyukjae

breathtaking, adj.

Those mornings when I open my eyes and we kiss and surrender ourselves, lip on lip, tongue on tongue, for an hour before a single word is said.

Donghae

buffoonery, n.

Somehow, we both got grilled at work that day and we had to let off steam.

You were drunk and I managed to stay sober because that’s always been the agreement. It’s late at night and the lights are streaking past the windows of the near-empty subway car. I’m sober but I make the mistake of mentioning Showgirls and frankly, the poor pole had no idea what it was about to endure.

I have a hard time controlling my laughter when I hold my phone up to video the entire thing.

C

cache, n.

It’s always messy when I try to clean up my desk. There are papers, envelopes, folders strewn everywhere and I try not to grumble too much because I know you’d hear me from the kitchen and pester me with an ‘I told you so’. I sigh and open a drawer, grabbing all the folders in it, keeping one against my chest.

“What’s in there?” you suddenly say over my shoulder.

I try not to blush too hard when I say they’re printouts of your emails, our funny conversations, with post-its you leave for me on the fridge, letters, notes pressed between them, like a rose pressed between the pages of a book.

You say nothing more, and I am grateful.

Hyukjae

cajole, v.

I had trouble understanding how someone with a name like yours could be so terrified of dolphins. I try to convince you by showing how adorable they are, but you avoid them like a plague at the aquarium and I had to do everything in my power to get you near the tank. Then when we visited the National Museum, I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“They’re not alive,” I say, “They won’t hurt you.”

But you would back away, and I’d want to push you against the glass.

I don’t know why I felt so compelled to make you see reason. Was forcing you to be rational about this going to change anything? Was it going to make you rational about everything else?

Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to save you from your fears.

Donghae

candid, adj.

“Sometimes, when I’m having , I’d rather be singing in the shower.”

It’s not the best thing to say on a second date and my grip on the fork tightens and I hate myself for a full 3 seconds. But you only look up from your plate.

“Sometimes, when I’m singing in the shower, I’d rather be having .”

Hyukjae

catalyst, n,

I didn’t expect you to say those three words right then and there. Knowing you, or at least how I thought I knew you, it would be romantic, theatrical, with fireworks and candlelit dinner and a violin playing in the background.

But it was far from that. It was innocent, clean of the drama. It was a lazy Thursday night when we were cooped up on my couch, and the movie was over, credits playing as white words scrolled on black. Your hair was damp from the shower, tangled because you were lazy to grab a brush. You had my socks on and your legs were on my lap and I had to shove them over so I could stand and turn the TV off.

I was halfway off the couch, halfway to the remote when you said, “I love you.”

I never asked, but what was it that made you say those words at that moment? What was so special that made you realize such a large and difficult truth? Or if you’ve already known it, what compelled you to tell me then? It was welcome, of course it was so welcome that my own I love you stumbled from my lips as I stumbled back to the couch and we sat together, shoulders brushing as we sat in silence, not really sure what should happen next.

Donghae

catharsis, n.

I take it out on the wall. And on the furniture. And on the door.

I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU ING BASTARD I LOVE YOU.

cavort, v.

“It’s too late out to go to the park,” I protest.

“The moon’s still up.”

“We really…” I hesitate and grip your hand, “we really shouldn’t.”

“I’ll be there with you.”

I’ve always been afraid of going to the park at night, but in a matter of minutes, we’re there at the giant space of trees and grass and empty playgrounds and quiet fountains. The moon is bright and your hand is in mine and I’m not so afraid anymore. There’s something exhilarating about having all that space to ourselves, tumbling in the grass and making out—oh, a lot of making out. But we manage to keep on as much clothes as possible and I laugh into your mouth as we roll around like kids in the dirt—me on top then you on top then me again, chests exposed to the night breeze and hands going lower and lower. We hear people’s voices and scramble to our feet and zip each other’s pants, run all the way back home.

celibacy, n.

“What’s celibacy?”

“It doesn’t apply.”

Then you kiss me. Hard.

Hyukjae

circuitous, adj.

We don’t go through our histories and autobiographies in chronological order. It’s not like we could just sit down and narrate everything that happened in each of our lives and be done with it and say “I know everything about my lover.” Most of the time, we don’t even realize we’re actually leaving each other clues through time. You’ll say “That was before my mom left us,” Or I’ll say “This was sometime after Hyoyeon told me we should stay friends,” “Who’s Hyoyeon?” And I’d swear we’ve already talked about this before, maybe on the second? third? date, but maybe I forgot I haven’t told you or you’ve forgotten I told you. I thought you knew I was allergic to flowers, and you might have told me about that one time your brother poured glue in your hair, some of it getting into your eyes (really, just the corner) and you cried, thinking you’ve gone blind. I’m not sure.

            Tell me again.

cocksure, adj.

We walk into a bar, and I feel all eyes are on you.

You say you don’t know how to talk to people but in my opinion, there’s not much need for talking when you look the way you do.

We walk into a bar, and you feel all eyes are on you too.

For you, it’s a boost of confidence.

For me, all it spells is doubt.

Donghae

commonplace, n.

It’s a double-edged sword, really.

I see your jacket draped on the chair and I’d miss you, I’d long for you even if you just walked into the other room. I look around and check if you’re looking before I hold it in my hands, against my chest and my nose as I inhale your shampoo, cologne, and the sound of your voice ringing through my ears.

But then I walk into our bedroom and I see you’ve bought another stack of clothes when you’ve already taken up my side of the closet and suddenly, you’re a splinter on my foot and I’m not amused.

covet, v.

When we’re at a family gathering, sometimes I get caught off guard. The kids are playing and running around everywhere and you try to catch them as they run between your legs. They’re happy, I can tell easily through their screeching and laughter bubbling from their tiny chests and you would smile, and I catch you desiring.

Desiring what? Your past? Your future? I don’t know.

I never know what you want, or what you’re thinking. And it’s so difficult when all I want is to give you what you desire, but I don’t know if I ever can, or if I’ve already taken that chance away from you.

Maybe I’m too late.

♦