When Minho reaches Nightfall, a bar near the neighborhood where he used to frequent back in the day, it is half pass ten already. Quite literal, he thinks, the pub’s name. On top of a building, but not quite fancy – it is indeed a strange scene. Upon his entrance, a man in bartender uniform grins as he greets Minho:

“Good evening. Welcome to Nightfall, please take a seat anywhere you like.”

Quite strange for a pub to welcome people like that. Minho takes a random seat right at the bar and look around. It’s the day before Christmas; he wonders why the place is not packed. Perhaps everyone has a place to go. The same man who has just greeted him at the door shows up once again behind the bar:

“Can I get you anything to drink? Do you need a minute?”

Minho studies the menu written by color chalks on the blackboard on the wall behind the man for a couple minutes.

“Do you have any suggestions? Haven't been in a while.”

“Been a long time since you’re back to Seoul, it seems.” The bartender keeps his constant smile as he goes through the list. Mino is too busy studying his smile; he doesn’t even pay attention to the comment. “Are you feeling alcoholic, or you’re good with cocktails and wine?”

“I’m feeling adventurous. Is soju an option?” Minho shrugs; his answer seems to make the bartender giggle. It doesn’t feel too bad – it’s been a while since Minho can freely flirts with a stranger without having to be cautious. Korean military is absolutely not where you exercise your liberties and ual freedom. It is not a bad thing either; the bartender has the exact body type that Minho find attractive – muscular, athletic but lean. Minho only stole a quick glance at him earlier; his long legs complimented by skinny black pants and the button-up white shirt with black streak around the collar makes it clear that this man’s physique is going to give Minho a hard time focusing on anything else. He tries to read the name tag but unable to, the pub is too dark.

“But you don’t want soju though, valued customer.” The man says. “How about some special cocktails? If you buy one, the other is on the house.”

“Amaze me then, with your best shot.” Minho’s eyes squint as he shows the perfect smile, “Mr….?” Such a lame move to ask for a name, but Minho doesn’t really worry. It’s subtle enough; if the guy is straight, he will just think Minho is being a bro. Otherwise, it’s pretty clear that he is sending a ton of signals to the man. Plus, he is confident in his gaydar – try being attracted to the same in Korea for a few years and you can clock one from across the district. Plus, he’s Song Minho, and quite confidently speaking, people don’t reject him. [Being dumped afterwards, however, is another expertise that he totally mastered by now.] To answer the eagerness that evidently shows in his face, the bartender just smiles:

“Lee Seunghoon.”

Minho slowly repeats the name he heard.

“Lee… Seunghoon?”

“Lee Seunghoon.” The other firmly says again, before he starts putting different types of alcohol into a metal cup. “I’m going to make you one of the special cocktails for tonight.”

Minho tries to observe the guy again, but he has no recollection. The guy, now Lee Seunghoon, looks a bit taller than him. His hair on top of the undercut was divided 4/6, slicked back with a few pieces of bang down. Classy and messy, such as my type, Mino thinks to himself as he secretly enjoys the view – recognizing this person or not is not that big of a deal. You can always relearn the name but you can’t always rekindle the feel, so what if he used to hook up with this guy like Lily suggested – tonight he seems like a totally new, and exciting, person.

“Don’t I know you before?” Minho asks again, in an attempt to both collect Lee Seunghoon’s stories and flirt with him, in case the guy doesn’t remember him either. “You seem very familiar somehow.”

“Valued customer, you shouldn’t lie like that. I don’t think I look like anyone you have met.” The man chuckles as he shakes the mixture in shaker. The way his lips both curved and pressed into a thin light showing the slight dimples on his cheeks and the way he tilts his head while looking away from the shaker on his hand intrigues Minho more than he wants to admit.

“Oh, why would you think so?” Minho asks while smiling; his upper body leaning on top of the bar table unconsciously reaches a little bit closer to where the man is standing. “You can’t be so sure of someone if you have never met them. As you just suggested.”

“I’m sure you agree with me, valued customer.”

“It’s Song Minho. C’mon, you know me.” Minho decides to go bold. He will be screwed if in fact this person standing in front of him starts asking him about their mutual life. Because, , how the hell did he even forget this exquisite person if they ever, ever hooked up. Minho blames all the hyungs in the department, who somehow got access to unlimited weed and all kinds of LSD, for this very moment. That must be the only reason why he cannot remember anything about this guy. Dang, of all the things I could forget.

“Here is your drink.” The bartender smiles as he pours the reddish-pink liquid, which smells like heaven, into a highball glass. Minho gets distracted for a moment; his attention was wholly grabbed by the drink being presented to him. “What is this made of if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Charbay, Barcadi, Angostura bitters, and a tad lemon juice.” Seunghoon’s right hand carefully put down the glass in front of Mino; his fingers slowly move up the long glass before finally letting go. Minho thinks of indescribable things when that image comes to view. He clears his throat and solemnly observes the drink:

“Mm. Explains the freshness fragrance. Why is it pink?”

“I used the pomegranate Charbay vodka, it’s to fit with the name of the cocktail.” Seunghoon starts cleaning the part of the table where he just made the drink. It looks clean, yet Seunghoon keeps diligently wiping it with a towel.

“Which is?” Minho mumbles. He is totally mesmerized by the sparkling color and the fragrance exudes from the drink.

“I’m lonely tonight.” Seunghoon whispers.

Suddenly, Minho feels his heart sinks. He stays silent and observes the drink on his hand carefully before holding it up to take a sip. It’s sweet, sour, with a bitter aftertaste. The flavor melting inside his mouth makes him think of the glamorousness of the streetlights and all the hasty sounds that he came across today on his way. He thinks of the dark alleys where he intentionally chose to walk in order to avoid the crowd with people who have a place to return. He thinks of his mother’s tearful eyes and his father’s silence and the house he hasn’t been back in eight years; he thinks of Clesias and the way she stood at the door looking at him leaving; he thinks of the red needle spot under the belly of a male-bodied Lily, whose first hormonal therapy is a syringe full of estrogen and how that made her cry. He thinks of all the sad boys that came home with him but no one stayed, because it was all games and fun until they realized that all Minho had to offer was his empty shelf, buried underneath all the stupid jokes and heartless apologies. He thinks of how he had disappointed everyone in his life – and if, if, if the ones who chose to make him from scratch would not take him now that he has a full body and a soul, how dare anyone expect him to love wholeheartedly and passionately, when on the tips of his tongue the taste of abandonment lingers like a lover’s last breath.

It’s hard to ever acknowledge that your first failed attempt to love always lay with you parents.

His life has always been too crowded to stop and take a deep breath; all the faces and voices fast forward on his mind as Minho downs half the glass. “Ah, it’s cold.” He says when he put the drink down. For a moment, he thinks it is okay to give up the cheap flirt. In moments like this, memories become very unforgiving, and Minho cannot bear the sounds of his own voice. True communication only emerges out of questions and never answers. Maybe a little bit of self-indulgent stories is fine, but never, ever lies. Across the bar counter, Seunghoon stops circling the towel on the table that had already become spotless.

+ + +

“Seoul wasn’t what I remembered it to be.” Minho said, after keeping his silence which last way longer than the time needed to finish his first drink. “Or maybe I’m just romanticizing this ty city while I was away.”

Lee Seunghoon looks at him, then says, “It’s not the place, it’s what’s in your heart.”

“What do you know?”

“I can tell.” Seunghoon shrugs. “I’m well-versed in lost boys, runaways, and the unfits.” Minho raises one of his eyebrows at the comment. “Plus,” he adds, “just like every other cities, Seoul isn’t kind to a lot of us. Neither is this country.”

“You know, that’s what I always thought.” Mino lowers his voice. “The right-wingers are dominating our politics, monopoly capitalist corporations run rampant, and we’re under so much of U.S. militarism presence in this country. Makes me think that all the cries about Japanese occupation is just an attempt to rewrite history of our own imperialist agenda. Of course comfort women should demand justice from Japanese government,” Mino scoffs, “but hell, we treat our women like objects in our own society. We treated groups of different ual orientations like diseases. Not to mention the xenophobia and racism.”

“You should stay a little uninformed. It is less exhausted that way.” Seunghoon has moved on to clean the glasses hung above the counter. They exchange silent looks, and Minho knows he can continue sharing his thoughts.

 “I wish I can. I hate everything that goes on in our society, and the way people just sweep it under the rug.”

Seunghoon stops his hands. “That’s why you went to the military early? To escape? Doesn’t sound logical.”

“You’re right. I was in a second teenage rebellious phase. But how did you know I went there?”

“You smell of it.”

“It being?”

“The stench of hypermasculinity and nationalism.” Seunghoon’s unexpected answer stuns Minho for a second. He looks at Seunghoon; the bartender’s face remains emotionless and glares back.

“Ah, decolonial feminism.” Minho laughs. “This sure escalates quickly. I hope you are not testing my knowledge on social theories now. I might disappoint you.”

“You know those theories should be commonsense.”

“You are right.” Minho sighs. “The majority of the public has no idea. I spent the last two years in the military. Witness first-handedly how the military is pretty much state-sanctioned violence. They put so much money in this not because they want us to become soldiers – they already have professional soldiers and troops. They just want to brainwash us about Korean exceptionalism and nationalism. Did you know that for the next five years they are increasing the annual rate by 232 trillion won? That’s a seven percent increase. Can’t remember the last time I got a %0.5 raise.”

Minho keeps talking. The more he talks, the angrier he gets. Angry, and exhausted. What a very loveless world; this is the kind of time when being ignorant is not blissful anymore. Ah, but he can’t really be ignorant, can he? How else can he make sense of all the denial and rejection he, and people like him, got from the world? That day, when Lily suddenly kicked him out of her house, she said never wanted to see him again. Minho had only looked at her hormonal pills when she wasn’t here. Later, in one of those messy drunk calls at night, Lily cried and told him that she misses him – but he can never come back. Minho was told he reminded her of when she was a man and she hated herself for it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m a terrible human being, I must have not loved you, and I won’t love you, Minho, if that makes me hate myself again.” Minho dearly wished she would forget this conversation when she wakes up the next day. “It’s not your fault,” he had said, “hate me if that makes your life a little bit easier. I can take it.” He didn’t tell Lily that the one he loved wasn’t the one she wanted to be. And Clesias, she could have been the perfect person – but she sometimes glared at his homeboys with those eyes that looked identical to that of his mother – curious, wary, and afraid. Maybe that’s why Minho wanted to stay – to diligently explain over and over again to her to make up for the conversations he never bothered to have with his mother. But god, he was exhausted of explaining himself. “You couldn’t even say that you only love me.” Minho stayed silent when Clesias yelled at him. For once, he didn’t make any excuse for himself – there simply wasn’t any. “I don’t know what it means to be you and to love like you – but I cannot control myself. I am scared whenever I see you with another guy.” She whispered to him during once, “so me like your other guys, me like I am them.” There was no other guy, I am panual but I am monogamous. I can be with anyone but I chose to be with you. Those words were never enough for her but they were too much for him to repeat, so he said instead, “Sure.” She pushed him out of her and started crying. He walked to the living room, locked the door, put his record on the highest volume possible, and spent the whole night listening to Clesias banging on the door. “I should have known you are a boy!”

Suffering is never, ever personal. He’s never just lonely because of a failed relationship, being misunderstood, or alone; he is forced to be lonely because this world doesn’t provide him enough vocabulary to explain to the people he holds dear to his heart – hey, this is me, this is who I am, there is nothing wrong with it. Loneliness is forced upon him because the world requires him to tell other people to forgive the sins he doesn’t remember committing. His solitude is apparent because he has used all the reasoning yet people around him still back off, eyes filled with horror, scared of the stories that would never happen to them, trying to mold him into something they are but he is not. He is lonely, because as human beings in modern time, we are ultimately lonely: do we not stab the ones so close to us with the cruelty of our tongues, and the effort we put into curing the people who we thought are devious is not that much different from wishing death upon them. And we have become terribly at communicating our differences or finding a common ground, because this world lives off the pain we cause each other. The system we are living in wants us to believe that there is a definite destination, only achieved through a right way to live – and if we just conform to what it tries to teach us, we will be awarded with success, happiness, and love. But like a recycle machine, promised to take care of the indestructible industrial waste, all it does is in one thing, crashing it into pieces, and spitting out the toxic waste in the shape of a different object. As people going through this unforgiving system, the lucky ones become conditioned to madness and the rest became incredibly insane.

Minho finishes the second and the third cocktail then changes to beer while the words silently leave his mouth and fill the room with the weight of the burdens he had buried inside. He has managed to tell Seunghoon almost all the stories about his love life without making it about his family. It is never a good idea to tell a stranger that your parents didn’t want you.