[02] SHE’S THUNDERSTORMS, arctic monkeys
she came and substituted the peace and quiet for acrobatic blood flow

.

.

.

The second meeting took place in a café not far from YG Headquarters. She told him, “Let’s go,” and he came to her faster than the speed of light.

If his squad was to hear about it, he would have definitely been roasted—laughed at and done for because boys would always be boys. “Homeboy! Why are you so whipped?” He swore no more lies, no more lies after they became a little closer.

It was ten at night and quiet, coffee, ambience. The walls were of creamy colors and the whole place was warm, it was well-lighted.

As he followed her to their seat after ordering, he did not even spare a thought or two for Dispatch and Sports Seoul; he was that happy he could see her again.

She relaxed in her seat. Fingers not fiddling with the edge of her tight skirt, she did not realize that he was still pretty much tripping, and tripping, and falling. Pretty little thing.

“You’re not supposed to have a late night practice or something?” she asked, stirring her drink.

“Nah,” he blushed like a schoolboy, “I’ve got nothing of any importance.”

It was quiet, coffee, and ambience. Her irises were not as black as he originally thought, and he learned that night that she liked caffè latte more than Jack and Coke. “It would have tasted better if they used almond milk instead, though.”

He chuckled and tried to look cool ‘cause after all he was the Mino, even if he had never heard of almond milk before. “So. What’s up, Soojung? I mean, why the sudden meet?”

She sipped her drink, shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “I just feel like going out. What? Are you tired? Is ten too late, Minho?”

It would be nice if his cheeks did not do that stupid reddening thing every time she addressed him, but he guessed that was way too much to ask for. “Nah. If I didn’t go out with you right now, I would’ve been still working on lyrics or something, anyway.”

She furrowed her eyebrows and sat a little straighter. “You write songs?”

Oh, he did not know that that would pique her interest. Bashful all of a sudden he rubbed the back of his neck and took a sip of his bitter Americano. “I rap, you know. Spitting out someone else’s words wouldn’t be comfortable.”

One second she shook her head slowly, eyebrows still furrowing, the next second she leaned back again, muttering, “I don’t know. I’m not a rapper.”

“But you’re a singer,” he responded a little too quickly. “Same thing, really. Singing words you write by yourself is awesome ‘cause they express your feelings and your music—your art—and—it’s like, you know, we can tell a painting is Basquiat’s at one glance. You can do the same in your songs, too, ‘cause it’ll have your signature and—” He always got a little carried away when it came to music.

And she could see that, too, and it made her smile a tiny one. “I’m glad you’re doing what you’re passionate about.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, sat a little straighter. With no filter his mouth opened, “And what? You’re not?” Oh, now that piqued his interest.

“I like singing all right.” She sipped her caffè latte. “You know my sister. She sings. Naturally I do, too.”

Something was wrong with her answer yet he did not push, just looking at her. You see—if it was not obvious enough—Song Minho was a lot of things but he was never your ignorant douchebag. His parents raised him well, and he sympathized well. It was written all over her irises, not as black anymore but still: TREAT WITH CARE.

“Let’s go, Minho, I’ll drive you home.”

He could not help but note how jerky she ended their conversation, but the coffee was good, and she was, too, so he nodded in agreement, “Okay.”

.

.

.

The third meeting took place in a small plot of land by the side of Han River, a spot he stumbled across while jogging some time ago. She drove them there and the night was cold and she took a jumper from the backseat, “Here, Minho, you can wear it if you’re freezing.”

.

.

.

Their fourth was an indie jazz joint c