Jet Black

[ Spotify // YouTube ]

 

“If this is the mood,

Then you should know,

I have to be honest,

I love it."

 

---

 

It was six thirty on Thursday evening when she got a single text from an unknown number that read:

Hey it’s Irene from Once Upon A Vine. I got that wine you wanted 😊

 

Truth be told she had spent the better part of the week whole thinking of that chance encounter and that in itself was strange. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it. People meet people all the time. Hellos and Thank yous and Goodbyes. Just these daily occurrences. But there existed a certain gravity that pulled Seulgi to that evening in a way that she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. It was a sort of dreamer’s charm. She didn’t know what it was and couldn’t explain it if pushed. Perhaps it was Irene behind the counter or the minor thrill of doing something different for once, of not following the same path, the same route, same bus.

Whatever it was it had worked. That much was obvious. Work had come and gone and her mind had wandered such that she found herself looking forward to whatever came next, however insignificant it was in her life. So much so that on Thursday evening not even three minutes after getting the text she had replied with:

Thank you so much! I can be there tomorrow evening, if that’s okay with you?

 

And waited. She sat at the kitchen table trying to read an old book and listening to the ticktock metronome of the clock on the wall running like her very own heartbeat. The TV in the livingroom sat mute on a slideshow. Earlier in the day it had been raining and the paling of the newer sun sat like a plastercast swaged into the bowl of the clouds. Everything was oddly quiet. Seulgi read half a page of her novel and folded the corner down and shut it and opened it again and began reading. The clock was miserable company and the TV more so. She tried reading and could not and pushed the book across the table and waited. She waited almost ten minutes before her phone hummed on the tabletop. It said:

Tomorrow is fine 😊

 

And that was that.

 

 

On Friday after work she crossed west at the traffic lights and down along the avenue and far away from the bus stop and her apartment. A warm sun hung like a distant lantern in the paling day and there was no wind. Seulgi walked with a smile on her face. She could smell beef being grilled in one of the outhouse restaurants at the end of the street and faintly the tang of motor oil from the cars trafficked up along the far side of the avenue waiting for the lights to go green. When she found Once Upon A Vine it was almost seven and the light was running away from her.

It was warmer still when she entered to the pleasant hum of music from the storeroom radio. Irene was behind the counter talking to an old woman when she heard the dainty tring of the doorchime and looked up at Seulgi and smiled. She said something to the old woman who thanked her and took up her shoppingbag and hobbled on past Seulgi and out of the store. Irene watched her go. She looked at Seulgi and smiled again a wistful smile that had Seulgi thinking things she never thought she would think. ‘Hey,’ Seulgi said. ‘Sorry if I’m late.’

‘It’s fine. I’m open until ten on weekdays.’

‘Even on a Friday?’

‘Even on a Friday,’ Irene said. ‘It tends to get busier around half eight, nine-ish, so I keep it open. Learnt that the hard way.’

‘Gets busier? What, just before you close?’

Irene nodded. There was a plastic tray on a swivelchair just behind her and two bottles of unopened wine on it. She picked up the tray and slid it somewhere under the desk and stood again. ‘You wouldn’t believe the amount of students I get in here,’ she said. ‘Mostly kids eighteen or nineteen. Mostly already a little bit drunk and looking to get absolutely plastered.’

‘Drunk at half eight?’

‘Kids these days, right?’

‘Nothing wrong it. I just couldn’t keep up, is all. Even back then.’

Irene looked at her, mildly amused. She was wearing that same mustardcoloured sweater but no jacket this time and her hair was swept neatly behind her ears and her lipstick very bright in the muted shoplight. ‘Nice jacket,’ she said, nodding at Seulgi.

‘Thanks.’

‘What is it?’

‘What?’

‘Brand, I mean.’

‘Oh,’ Seulgi said. She gave a meek little shrug. ‘Dunno. I got it in a charity shop.’

‘No ?’

Seulgi nodded.

‘Maybe I need to start going to charity shops more. It’s really nice.’

‘Thanks.’

They stood there for a moment in the silence as if aware that it was off-putting and yet also aware that they had no idea what to do or say next. The idea of that struck Seulgi as rather odd. It was nothing more than a transaction. And yet as she stood there rubbing her arm and as the world outside rolled on she thought perhaps it could be more. Irene leant against the table and coughed and offered another healing smile. ‘I’ll go get your wine,’ she said. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

‘Take your time.’

Seulgi stood at the counter and waited. She could still hear the faint thrum of soul or blues music through the closed storeroom door. The rosemary incense sticks in the brass bowl were still there, burnt to nothing. The beaten paperback copy of Norwegian Wood looked to be almost finished. She took a moment to look around at the rest of the store. There was a homeliness to it that was strangely comforting. The kind of cosy that could only ever be found in places like that, something to make you feel warm and safe. Against the pale murk of the front windows the people on the streets moved like mute ghosts in the dappled light. She leant her arms on the desk and took a whiff of the old incense. It reminded her of home. Of her mom when she was a lot younger. There it was again. That safety and security.

Irene came back out holding two identical bottles of wine in her hands and put them on the desk in front of Seulgi. ‘Here you go,’ she said.

‘I only asked for one.’

‘I know.’ She unscrewed the cap of one of the bottles and took a glass from underneath the desk and poured a good quarter out. It ran a deep and rich red. ‘This is the one I opened the other day,’ she said. ‘The one I said was for customers to try. Figured you might want to try it again, to refresh your memory.’

‘Oh,’ Seulgi said.

‘Well?’

She took the glass from Irene and wobbled it about and squinted at it. There was no change to it in the light.

‘What?’ Irene said.

‘What what.’

‘You’ve got this look on your face like you’re disappointed or something.’

‘Not disappointed,’ Seulgi said. ‘Just a little confused.’

‘Confused at what?’

She wobbled the glass again and took the smallest sliver of wine to hold in and push around with her tongue and taste it properly. Like Irene had told her to do the other day. It tasted like sharp cherries and there was a bitter and yet oddly pleasant undercurrent of liquorice. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I said that. Just one of those things, you know?’

Irene only looked at her.

‘Sorry. That probably sounded a little mad.’

‘It’s okay,’ Irene said. ‘Happens to the best of us.’

‘You were right, though.’

‘Right about what?’

‘This.’ Seulgi held the wineglass up again. ‘Tastes exactly like cherries and liquorice.’

‘Well. I wasn’t lying.’

‘And that thing you said about holding it in your mouth and swishing it about. Kinda like mouthwash.’

‘Works, right?’

Seulgi nodded. She took another sip of the wine and held it there for a moment again. That same pleasant tartness when she played with it, rich when she swallowed. ‘This is actually kinda nice,’ she said. ‘Not that I thought it would horrible or anything. I mean, I tried it last time and all, but, you know.’

‘Not a wine person,’ Irene said with a smile. Seulgi looked at her properly and wished she had not because it was hard to look away. She put the wineglass on the countertop and took a step away and put her hands in her pockets.

‘Well,’ said Irene.

‘Yeah.’

Seulgi stood there thinking: Maybe I should just go.

Then she thought: What am I doing.

Then she nodded toward the storeroom and said, ‘I like the music.’

‘Thanks,’ Irene said. She bent under the desk and brought out a second glass and poured it with a small helping of the wine from the opened bottle. ‘I’m a big lover of jazz and blues. Always have been. It’s just that type of music that makes you feel whole, you know? It’s healing.’ The smile that passed over her was wistful, longing. ‘That’s the perfect word for it,’ she said. ‘Healing.’

‘It’s nice. I like the guitars.’

‘You want some more wine?’

‘What?’

She nodded toward the glass on the counter. ‘You want a bit more?’

‘I probably shouldn’t.’

‘Why? Are you driving?’

‘No.’

‘Got somewhere to be?’

‘No,’ Seulgi said.

‘Got work in the morning?’

Seulgi shook her head.

‘Then what’s the hang up?’

‘No hang up,’ said Seulgi. She took a step closer to the desk and took the glass from Irene with a polite smile. She could smell the furthest lingering scent of rosemary and much closer the sandalwood and floral notes of Irene’s perfume and it was almost nauseating and not in a way that was unpleasant at all. Irene held up her glass and nodded at nothing in particular. ‘Cheers,’ she said.

‘What are we toasting to?’

‘Dunno. You got anything you want to toast to in particular?’

‘Don’t think so,’ Seulgi said.

‘Then I guess not. You don’t have to have a reason to drink.’

‘True.’

She raised her glass to her lips and drank about half of it off with a wince. It was as rich and as tart and as good as before and it made her head feel a little woozy. Irene watched her silently from the other side of the desk. The music felt like a heavy knoll. There were things Seulgi thought she wanted to say but wasn’t sure and that insecurity was heavier still. She played with the glass in her hands and finished the wine and put it on the counter with another polite smile that said less than she wished. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘Like, totally right about the wine. The taste of it. I don’t think I could describe it better than cherries and liquorice.’

‘What can I say?’ Irene said with a smirk. ‘I’m somewhat of a wine extraordinaire.’

‘I guess that’s one way to put.’

‘I have an encyclopaedic knowledge of wines and their intimate tastes.’

‘Is that so.’

‘I’m like the Rain Man of wine.’

‘Okay, are you winding me up or something?’

Irene giggled again. It was a charming low murmur in the back of that Seulgi liked the sound of an awful lot. She turned the open bottle toward Seulgi so that she could read the label on the back in English.

‘A sharp and refreshing American red, with a strong taste of cherries and undernotes of liquorice that rise to the surface after prolonged drinking.’

Irene laughed.

‘Rain Man of wine, yeah?’

‘Guess I’m just good at reading labels,’ Irene said. ‘But I do have a pretty good knowledge of wines and how they taste, though. I mean, it’s literally my job.’

‘What is your job?’

‘What?’

Seulgi cleared . ‘I mean, what is your actual job title?’ she said. ‘Like, someone who treats people is a doctor, or a nurse. Someone who checks your teeth is a dentist. Someone who takes out the garbage is a garbage man. What are you?’

‘I’m a sommelier.’

‘Huh.’

‘What?’

‘I know that word, but I don’t know it, you know?’

‘No.’

‘It’s one of those words I’m sure I’ve heard, but I could’ve never told you what it meant until now,’ Seulgi said. ‘Cool word.’

‘I like to think so.’

‘French?’

‘Somewhat.’

‘You’re quite blunt, you know that?’

‘You’re quite drunk,’ Irene said with a teasing smile.

Seulgi looked down at her hands. ‘Maybe a tad,’ she said. ‘God, that was quick. Right to my head.’

‘You’re an amateur.’

‘I just don’t drink wine. I told you that.’

‘Uh huh.’

She looked at Irene again. With her hair pushed neatly back her face was so striking it was almost unbelievable. She was absurdly pretty. That much had been obvious from the moment Seulgi had walked through the door days before. But now there was something else she couldn’t quite explain. Something more. She looked at the empty glasses and then out the window at the dimming away of the light and the silent cars and the motions of everything. When she looked back at Irene she did so knowing what she wanted to ask and being unable to do so. ‘Well,’ she said.

‘Well.’

Seulgi grabbed the unopened bottle of wine from the counter and nodded with a slight smile. ‘Guess I should be going.’

‘Thanks for coming on such short notice.’

‘It’s alright. Not like I was doing much.’

‘That makes two of us,’ Irene said, perhaps a little sadness in her voice. Seulgi smiled at her and nodded and took the wine bottle and went to leave. When she was by the door she put her hand out and stopped and took a moment to peer out into the evening. Everything held a cool hue to it. She could no longer smell the rosemary but the smell of Irene was as strong as it had been at the counter. She turned around. Irene was leant half against the counter studying her quietly. ‘Seulgi,’ she said.

‘Yeah?’

‘You fancy a drink sometime?’

‘Sure,’ Seulgi said a little too quickly.

‘Great. What about a meal or something?’

‘A meal sounds good, yeah. I’m down for a meal whenever.’

‘How about Sunday?’

Seulgi nodded, hand still on the door. ‘I can do Sunday,’ she said. ‘What time? And where?’

‘How about Sunday evening? Like, eight or so?’

‘Yeah. Sounds good.’

‘There’s this authentic Italian place I know near me that does amazing pizza.’

‘Is it actually Italian?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Seulgi said. ‘I just thought, you know. I thought pizza was just a stereotype.’

‘They do eat pizza in Italy.’

‘I know. I didn’t mean that. I just meant that a restaurant calling itself authentic Italian and then only serving pizza just seems a bit, I don’t know. Disingenuous, maybe?’

‘I’m sure they serve more than just pizza,’ Irene said, modestly amused. ‘It’s just the only thing I’ve ever got from there. And usually to take out.’

‘Oh. That makes more sense.’

‘So, Italian?’

‘Sure. Goes with the wine, I guess.’

‘Yeah,’ Irene said. The smile that came to her face was brighter, warmer. ‘I guess it does.’

 

 

Saturday felt like the longest of days.

She awoke just after ten and went back to sleep and rose after midday for a second time thinking only about Sunday. She thought about Irene and how Irene had seemingly read her mind and then she thought about the fact she didn’t even know where Irene lived or where this Italian restaurant was or anything. It was just after six in the evening when she got the text apologising from Irene for not telling her and giving her directions to the restaurant. As if she had read her mind again. And as she sat there at the kitchen table reading it by her lonesome in the clockticking dark she smiled and smiled and smiled.

When she arrived at the restaurant on Sunday evening it had just gone eight. It was a fancy upstanding Italian place in uptown Seongsu looking out over the river in the far distance. It smelt in the vestibule of oven grease and lavender and fresh air from the air conditioning unit screwed into the ceiling. The tables were a varnished wood that looked almost pink under the cool overheads and there were counters along the middle wall divider full of ketchup bottles and salt shakers and napkins. The rows of hanging fairylights in the windows looked like little orange fingers. The server closest to her offered a smart smile and asked her if she was alone and Seulgi said she was looking for a friend. She peered about the room. Irene was sat by the far-right side under the window on her own. Seulgi smiled at the server. ‘I’ve found her,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

She shimmied her way past the rows of tables and over to where Irene was sitting gazing out the window. She wore a white sweater and the same leather jacket she’d been wearing a week ago and her hair was pinned back and lovely. She only realised Seulgi was there when Seulgi sat across the table and coughed and smiled at her.

‘Oh,’ Irene said, ‘sorry. I didn’t see you come in.’

‘It’s alright.’

‘I get distracted sometimes. Sorry.’

‘It’s fine. What are we having?’

‘What?’

‘To eat, I mean.’

‘Oh,’ Irene said. She looked a little distant until she broke out into a smile and passed one of the neatly folded menus to Seulgi. ‘I’m having pizza,’ she said.

‘Really?’

‘What’s wrong with pizza?’

‘Nothing. It’s just, you know.’

‘What?’

Seulgi opened the menu and gave it a once over and nodded at nothing in particular. ‘There’s a lot more than pizza here,’ she said.

‘I know, but I’m a picky eater. I won’t anything I don’t like the look of. Or the feel, or the texture, or the smell. I know that’s ignorant of me and everything, but hey. We’ve all got our vices.’

‘Don’t think that’s much of a vice, to be honest.’

‘Well, whatever it is. What are you having?’

‘Don’t know yet.’

‘How about something to drink?’ Irene said. She pointed to the refreshments menu and handed one to Seulgi again.

‘What’s their wine like?’

‘About what you’d expect. Nothing great, nothing that really stands out, but nothing really terrible either. What are you having?’

Seulgi looked at the menu for a minute in silence. Then she looked up and at Irene and said, ‘I’ll just have pizza.’

‘See? Told you, you can’t beat the basics.’

‘I feel a little bad, though.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there’s all this amazing food here and I’m sat here having the most basic possible thing. I feel kinda disrespectful.’

‘If it’s there to eat, eat it.’

‘What?’

‘I dunno,’ Irene said. ‘That didn’t make sense. What I meant was, if there’s pizza on the menu, they clearly don’t mind you eating pizza. Besides, when have you ever known a supposedly authentic restaurant to ever taste as good as the original?’

‘I’ve never been to Italy, so I wouldn’t know.’

‘Neither have I.’

‘Really?’

Irene held up a hand to call the waiter over and nodded.

‘I thought you would’ve been.’

‘Because of the wine?’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi said.

‘Well, I’ve never been. I want to go, though. To Tuscany mainly. To see a proper Italian vineyard in person. It’s one of my three wine-related travel desires.’

‘Where are the others?’

‘France and America. They’re the three best places in the world for authentic wine and authentic vineyards.’

When the waiter came over Irene told him they’d like two margherita pizzas and gave the name of a bottle of wine Seulgi didn’t recognise. They watched him write it down on an oldfashioned notepad and fold it away into his shirt pocket and tell them it wouldn’t be too long.

‘So,’ Irene said when he had disappeared.

‘So.’

‘What have you been up to?’

‘You mean since Friday?’

‘I mean in general. I don’t know anything about you, so I’d like to.’

‘Well,’ Seulgi said. She shifted in her seat awkwardly. It occurred to her that she knew nothing about Irene other than her name and yet their small talk had felt so comfortable it was almost alarming. ‘What would you like to know?’ she asked.

‘Anything at all. Where do you work, doing what, what are your dreams, hobbies, passions, whatever else. Anything. I don’t mind. I’d just like to get to know you. If that’s not creepy or anything.’

‘No, of course not. Where should I start?’

‘Wherever,’ Irene said with a tender smile. While they waited for their food Seulgi told her almost everything. She told her about the job at the burger joint and about her mostly useless university degree and moving away from her parents at twenty-two to try and make something of herself and failing at that. She told Irene she loved to draw more than almost anything, loved to sit out on a warm sunlit eve and just pastel out the distant shapes of the world in collage. She said there were many things in her life that could be considered dreams and none of them attainable and none even within reach and with that out of the way she sat back and gave a faint and aching smile that apologised for having said anything at all.

The waiter brought their wine over with two glasses and set them down and Irene thanked him and poured them each half a glass. She looked at Seulgi in a way that seemed to be sympathetic of something. In the broad amber chandelier light the wineglasses shone like ice. ‘Here,’ Irene said. She held up her glass to toast.

‘What are we toasting to?’

‘I don’t know. How about the future, whatever it may bring?’

‘Sure,’ Seulgi said. They toasted and drank and Irene put her glass down. ‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Go on what?’

‘Tell me what it tastes like. Pretend you’re like me. You’re a sommelier. Tell me what your first impressions of this wine are.’

‘How do I do that?’

‘Just smell it and taste it.’

‘No, I mean, what sort of language do I use? Do I describe it a certain way, like it said on that bottle, or what?’

Irene giggled that same throaty giggle. ‘It’s not an exam,’ she said. ‘Just say whatever comes to your mind first.’

Seulgi held the glass to her face and sniffed it twice.

‘Well?’

‘This is going to sound really weird, but it smells kind of, I don’t know…leathery?’

‘Leathery,’ Irene said. ‘Yeah. I can kinda see where you’re coming from.’

‘Know what I mean?’

‘Yeah, kinda. What about the taste?’

She took a sip and held it in for a moment and swallowed. ‘It’s very fruity,’ she said. ‘It’s got this real sweetness to it. Or maybe my palate’s just off, I don’t know.’

‘No, it is. Fruity is how I’d describe it.’ Irene broke into a smile. ‘You’ve got a knack for this. I think you might be a natural.’

‘Maybe I’ve just got a really good nose.’

‘And taste buds.’

‘Sure. How would you describe it?’

‘About the same, honestly.’

‘Really?’

Irene nodded. She finished off the rest of her glass of wine and poured another half full. ‘What about you?’ Seulgi asked. ‘Tell me about you.’

‘What would you like to know?’

‘The same. Anything at all.’

Irene looked at her glass with a soft smile. ‘Not much to tell, honestly. I’m a pretty boring person.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

‘Kinda.’

‘Just tell me anything. I’ve told you.’

Irene paused for a moment. The sound seemed to be everywhere around them but the only smell was Irene, the sandalwood of her perfume. ‘Okay, well, I’ve been working at the wine shop for, what, three years now? Four? I can’t even remember anymore. For a while. But like you, I wasn’t really happy with my degree. I did Classics thinking I’d go into TV presenting for an archaeology program or something and well, yeah. That didn’t quite work out. I tried to get into modelling for a bit and that didn’t work out either.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not what?’

‘Why did it not work out? The modelling. I think you could be a model.’

Irene looked at her for a moment in silence. As if trying to pry some deeper truth out of that statement. Then she said, ‘It just didn’t work out. I didn’t apply myself enough, I didn’t really want to do it as much as I first envisioned. So I was kinda directionless until I started this whole wine business on a whim. And yeah, that’s about it. Like I said, boring. I don’t really have that many friends since I left uni. I don’t have much of a social life at the moment other than a couple people who have far more of a life than me trying to convince me to do stuff I can’t be bothered doing. Most Friday nights it’s just me curled up in bed with a takeaway watching stuff on Netflix.’

‘Could be a lot worse.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘What about romantically?’

Irene looked at her again.

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Girlfriend.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘Well,’ Irene said, ‘it would be girlfriend if I had one. But I don’t. Like I said, Netflix and pizza. Sometimes with a bottle of wine, too.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘You weren’t prying.’

‘I just thought maybe I came off a bit, you know, trying to push into your private life.’

‘Not at all,’ Irene said with the softest of smiles. They sat and talked and drank off half the bottle of the wine before their food ever even arrived. When it did they ate and talked and talked some more. Seulgi talked about herself at great drunken length and Irene listened to every word attentively and with a delicate and lovely smile.

‘I don’t know,’ Seulgi said. ‘I really don’t. I just feel…I don’t know. I can’t describe it.’ She looked at Irene and dipped her head. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ Irene said. ‘Go on. I’m listening.’

‘It’s just this overwhelming feeling that I’m doing nothing good with my life. That I’m going nowhere. I’m just stuck here, spinning my wheels, and I will be forever. Or at least for so long that when I finally figure out what I want to do it’ll be too late to actually do it. Or do anything. I mean, I’m twenty-five. That’s not even close to being close to being old. They say you don’t even begin to peak physically until you’re twenty-seven, and mentally, most of the greatest minds in history have been middle aged. But still. The feeling is there. It’s even worse when I see what all my friends are doing and what they’ve already accomplished, and I’m just here doing nothing. It’s gotten to the point that I don’t even know what I really want anymore. I’ve been so scared of acting on anything for so long that I’ve forgotten what it was I was trying to act on in the first place.’

She looked at Irene again. ‘Oh god,’ she said, looking at the empty glasses. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a little more drunk than I first thought I was. I don’t even know how.’

‘Your face is really red.’

‘Oh god, really?’

Irene giggled. ‘Flushed,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay. Happens to the best of us. Happens to me more than it probably should, considering where I work.’

‘I just don’t get many opportunities to talk to people like this. It’s a bit liberating for me.’

‘I said it’s okay.’

‘Still though. Probably not what you wanted to hear, right?’

‘I don’t mind. I’m the same way. I don’t get many chances to do this, I mean. And you’re right about it being liberating.’

‘Yeah.’ Seulgi glanced at a her for a second. Perhaps it was the alcohol but she looked almost ethereal in the warm light. She thought of many things to say and many things to ask and landed eventually on: ‘This pizza is pretty dry.’

‘Yeah, it’s not great. I told you it wouldn’t be.’

‘I think going to Italy would be good.’

‘For the pizza?’

‘Sure. But just in general.’

‘Like I said, it’s one of my dream places, honestly. What about you?’

‘Dream places?’

Irene nodded.

‘I don’t know,’ Seulgi said. ‘Haven’t really thought about travelling much. I guess I’ve been too caught up in what I’m doing here, which is kinda funny when you think about it, considering I’ve done almost nothing here, and nothing I ever wanted to do. But somewhere like the Maldives would be good, I think. Or maybe England. I don’t know.’

‘More wine?’

‘Are you offering?’

‘If you’re asking.’

‘Sure,’ Seulgi said with a laugh. She held her glass out and Irene poured for the both of them and they toasted again. ‘What are we toasting to?’ Seulgi said.

‘Something good, I suppose. The future? As cliched as that is.’

‘To the future.’

‘Thanks for the wine, by the way. I had a glass of it last night and it was really good.’

‘You should see some of the wines I’ve got at home.’

‘You’ve got your own collection?’

‘Of course. Is that surprising?’

‘No,’ Seulgi said. ‘I just didn’t really expect it considering all the wine you’ve got at the store.’

To that Irene laughed. Every time she laughed she put her hand over as if to cover her teeth and this was not lost on Seulgi. Nor were any of the other minor movements she made, the idiosyncrasies. ‘It’s not like I can just grab whatever I want off the shelves and drink it whenever I like,’ Irene said. ‘I’ve got a business to run, you know? Never dip into your own supply.’

‘So where do you get it?’

‘I order it in from abroad mostly.’

‘Is it good stuff?’

‘I wouldn’t drink it if it wasn’t. You’d love it.’

‘Maybe I would,’ Seulgi said. She looked at Irene for a long time. The pizza on her plate had gone cold a while ago. Her cheeks were tinted in rose and so were Irene’s and the way Irene’s hand played with the stem of her wine glass looked anxious, expectant. She thought of what to say next that would suffice if such a thing were possible. Then with the weakest faith in the world she managed to say: ‘I should probably get going. I’ve got work in the morning.’

‘What time?’

‘I start at nine. What about you? What time does the shop open? I never checked.’

‘Whenever I want it to.’

‘Really?’

Irene giggled. She drew her empty wine glass closer and looked down into it as if it may still contain something there. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I open at eleven and close late. That way I always get a bit of a lie in.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you really have to go?’

‘I probably should.’

‘Not what I asked.’

Seulgi glanced at her across the table. They were playing Latin jazz through the restaurant speakers and it had a lovely timbre to it. ‘Thanks for this,’ Seulgi said. ‘Like I said, it’s not often I get to do stuff like this. Go out for meals, I mean. Fancy meals, at least. Normally it’s just—’

‘Takeaways?’

‘Kinda.’

‘Guess we’re two peas in a pod,’ Irene said. She waved to the waiter and took out her purse and Seulgi stopped her.

‘It’s okay. I’ve got it.’

‘We’ll split the bill,’ Seulgi said.

‘I can pay for it.’

‘I’d rather pay for my half, honestly. Sorry, I just don’t like that sort of thing. I feel like I’m leeching off of someone, even when they offer.’

‘Well,’ Irene said with a grin, ‘it’s your money.’

When they were outside in the bitter cold Irene turned to her on the curb at the end of the avenue and smiled. ‘What?’ Seulgi said. She watched her own breath catch in the darkness and vanish like ghost breath.

‘At least walk me home,’ Irene said.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Just around the corner. A couple streets that way.’

‘Alright then.’

‘Great,’ Irene said. The smile never left her face. It wasn’t until they were outside the apartment building that they spoke again. The cold was such that everything had taken on a frosted sheen in the pale light of the bald moon. They stood looking at each other like characters from a picturebook. Irene ran a hand through her hair and stuffed her hands into her pockets. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I had fun.’

‘Me too.’

They waited. If Irene wanted Seulgi to leave she did not say so. Nor did she move.

‘I should go,’ Seulgi said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Got to get up early.’

‘Uh huh,’ Irene said. She looked at her feet and looked at Seulgi and nodded toward her apartment building with a casual sort of apprehension. ‘You want to come in for a drink or something?’ she said. ‘Just a coffee. Or a glass of wine if you wanted. I don’t mind.’

‘I should go.’

‘Right. Yeah.’

Seulgi looked about. The street lay bare and cold and silent. Then she looked at Irene again. ‘I could go for a coffee,’ she said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Just a quick one.’

 

 

The first thing she thought was: Do I love her?

The next thing she thought was nothing at all. She left her jumper and jacket on the offwhite armchair in the livingroom and her jeans and bra and underwear by the edge of the bed and her phone and watch on the bedside table next to Irene’s alarm clock, already pre-set for ten AM. She made a mental note to text her boss pretending the buses had stopped running and she was going to be late. Then she turned off her notifications and thought no more.

The coffee sat in two porcelain mugs on the kitchen worktop, the thin coils of heat slowly steaming out. They were stone cold by the time Seulgi left at half past nine the next morning with the steady onset of a bad headache and flushed cheeks and wearing the biggest smile she thought she’d ever smiled in her life.