Normal Fridays for Jimin means wriggling out of her several-shifts-old soiled scrub suit, putting on any current popular Netflix drama Aeri has been bugging her about – she needs background noise or else she’ll lose her mind hearing phantom beeps, like her head is already programmed to simulate the usual hospital chaos whenever she’s subjected in silence – and practically dragging her feet towards the bathroom to force herself in a long-overdue bath. And then, she hibernates. For the whole weekend.

 

Tonight, however, is an especially rare circumstance. Jimin finds herself in a shirt that’s way too small, in an apartment that isn’t hers halfway across the town – a complete stranger in her arms.

 

 

 

 

“Jimin, you’re twenty-six. Live a little.”

 

“I am living.”

 

“Babe, you practically live in the hospital.”

 

“But that’s because I need to pay rent!”

 

“And you’re barely home! Do you hear yourself?”

 

Jimin is silent for a minute, and then her lower lip juts out, defeated.

 

“How come I never win an argument with you?

 

“It’s because I’m always right.”

 

“I hate you so much.”

 

“No, you don’t. You’re just cranky because you’ve been practicing celibacy for so long.” Aeri kisses the top of her head before looking into her best friend’s eyes, “Jimin. You’re a nurse, not a nun. And even nuns drink, you know? Come on, a few glasses won’t hurt.”

 

Jimin sighs and allows herself to get wrestled into opening her closet door.

 

 

The warm air whistles inside, cutting Jimin’s cheeks with the smell of alcohol-ridden sweat and nicotine. This is not an unfamiliar territory. She has been into several clubs during college. The mandatory reckless spiels prior to major exams where she wakes up with a searing headache and a pile of readings completely untouched. It was never a good idea but she can’t say she did not enjoy every single one of them because she did.

 

Now, already accustomed to being cooped up in her adult-hospital-home-life, everything feels a little overwhelming. Not necessarily a bad thing. Regardless, it disturbs Jimin’s self-imposed equilibrium.

 

“I’m dancing,” Aeri whispers not a second too long after they get settled, “do you want to dance?”

 

“You’re already drunk?” Jimin laughs as she shakes her head to turn down the offer.

 

“Got carried away earlier,” Aeri was referring to the pregame they did at Jisu’s place with cheap, convenience store vodka.

 

Jimin stifles a smile.

 

“Just say you’re a lightweight.”

 

“That’s it, I’m getting you a drink.”

 

“You can buy the next one,” Jimin grins, tailing Aeri towards the dancefloor before separating in the middle and squeezing her way towards the bar. Somewhere, in the midst of the crowd, Aeri mouths “get laid” and Jimin just flips her off, laughing. Her best friend is right though, it’s been… a while. Although, she’s not entirely desperate.

 

“I’ll get an, oh.” Oh.

 

Jimin initially notices three things.

 

First, jewelries. The ring on the woman’s thumb and on her point finger, and a clavicle necklace that sits above her collarbone, nothing out of ordinary. Second, the muscle that peeks through the almost transparent white button-up, toned. The shirt was delicately, strategically, ed enough to offer a show of pale skin and a solitary mole a few inches above her chest, but still, it’s nothing special. Third, okay, Jimin, isn’t one to show panic. Literally a huge part of her job requires her to remain calm and stoic at emergency crises, it allows them to work efficiently when it matters the most, but oh, good Lord, Jimin’s eyes dart towards the woman’s face and her heart almost drops out of her chest.

 

It's nothing like Jimin has ever seen. It’s riveting, and oh, so exceptional. That, or she’s just being dramatic or an intangible wreck when it comes to pretty girls, the last two being mutually exclusive. Either way, it doesn’t oppose her point.

 

The pair of curious orbs follow her movement with innate curiosity. There’s something typically playful about it, even though Jimin has no idea what the woman was actually like. Still, she lets herself be consumed.

 

“I didn’t quite catch that,” the woman smiles charmingly, “come again?”

 

Gladly, Jimin thinks.

 

A pause.

 

Then, the woman laughs, a barely audible sound drowning in the sea of Arctic Monkeys blasting through speakers. She throws her head back, eyes crescent with a smile that offers mischief – her wolf-cut ginger hair is a flurry of mess and utter perfection.

 

See, this is the part where Jimin should realize she said the word out loud. However, she’s too occupied staring at the woman’s lips, where a labret is evenly pierced, and then onto the subtle hollow on her cheek, a dimple – briefly wonders how the stark contrast between the two elements combine to form a very specific aesthetic Jimin’s certain no one could ever pull off but her.

 

“Damn, can a girl get a dinner first?”

 

The embarrassment comes in intermittent waves. Jimin feels nauseated.

 

“Oh, no,” Her face heats up, “I’m so sorry – ah, that’s… I didn’t mean to, objectify you,” she groans at the word vomit, certain that she's doing more harm than good, “or anything. I’m just… I’m sorry. Really.” With a dash of impulsiveness, a scarcely elaborated statement follows and Jimin instantly regrets it the moment it leaves , “can I just buy you a drink?”

 

The woman raises an eyebrow, “Smooth.”

 

“No, no – I’m not trying to uh, make a move or something,” Jimin mentally facepalms, now she’s completely blown off all her chance, “Just an apology drink? Something like that.”

 

“Hold a sec.”

 

The woman smiles, shifting to another customer with a clearly-placated enigma and enthusiasm. When she got the order, she whispers to another barista before moving swiftly back to where Jimin is.

 

“Minjeong.”

 

“Jimin.”

 

“Jimin,” Minjeong repeats the word like she’s savoring the way it rolls off her tongue. Her eyes take Jimin in, roaming over her unabashedly. There is a rush, Jimin would admit. It’s not every day she meets someone as attractive as her and have all the attention to herself. There’s a milli-second pause on Jimin’s torso before Minjeong meets her eyes again, gleaming with trouble and something else.  

 

Jimin is wearing a cropped top that rides too high with a neckline that hangs too low, showing the dips of her chest, and skin-tight pants that hug her waist. The ensemble perfectly accentuates her proportions. However, it feels wrong in all the right places.

 

Jimin knows it’s her clothes, but somehow, she feels unfamiliar in it.

 

 

(“That’s because you’re used to wearing scrubs every day.” Aeri points out when Jimin raises the concern. “You work it just fine because you’re beautiful but it’s not exactly the most flattering piece of garment out there.”

 

“This is tight,” Jimin fidgets on the waistband of her jeans.

 

“It's skinny,” Aeri deadpans, “that’s like literally the point. No, offense babe, you’re incredibly gorgeous but your fashion choices linger between scrub suits, homeless for casual, and a prude divorcee on special occasions.”

 

Jimin cringes, mostly because it’s accurate.

 

“It’s comfortable.”

 

“I know, but let your skin breathe occasionally, okay? No baggy stuff when your curves are like that – it’s blasphemy! A crime against the alphabet community! Let the gays win, goddamn it!”

 

“You’re so dramatic.”

 

“I can’t help it, Jimin. I’m gay and a theater kid. It’s pathological.”)

 

 

 

 

“So,” Minjeong starts, “what do you want to drink?”

 

Jimin relaxes, “what would you recommend?”

 

Minjeong hums, leaning in over the barstool and Jimin fights the urge to stay focused, with a low voice, she whispers, “Nothing on the menu. Are you sure you want it?”

 

“Yes.” Yes, please, please.

 

 

 

 

Jimin gets herself pinned against the wall of a dark alleyway just right outside of the club a few drinks later. There’s a significant buzz that’s been electrifying her insides the moment Minjeong’s gaze landed on her – an unadulterated satisfaction begging to be fulfilled. She pulls her in, grasps the lapel of her shirt closer to feel her body press flush against the tightness of her blouse, and then she lets herself indulge in the coolness of midnight air whenever it polishes the sweat on her skin, balancing the warmth that emanates from Minjeong’s hand on her hips.

 

 

(Her alcohol tolerance doesn’t hold a bragging right but at least it’s more tolerant than Aeri could ever be. Usually, her sobriety would slip between her fourth and fifth drink but tonight it’s noticeably lower – two glasses and a half, an intriguing smile, the slight lilt of flirtation in the other woman’s eyes and Jimin’s pretty much a goner.

 

“Do you want to get out of here?” Minjeong asks with hesitance. Jimin sees the way her eyes flit between here and there, unfocused and dazed. It makes her braver, less of a staggered, gay-panicked mess knowing the battlefield is even on both sides.

 

“You won’t get in trouble?”

 

Minjeong laughs, the sound flows through Jimin’s ears despite the background noise, “I’m already in trouble.” She looks back, pointing at the other woman earlier in the same white shirt frowning in their direction, “what’s a little more?”

 

“You do this often,” Jimin says, not as a question, but a casual and honest observation. An assumption to name how smoothly Minjeong navigates the flow of their interaction and the innuendos that comes with it. It’s almost practiced, like a routine. Jimin doesn’t mind.

 

A grin, “maybe.”)

 

 

Jimin gasps when she feels Minjeong’s tongue swipe over her bottom lip in a careful move. Shivers at the cold metal that glazed over the corner of , a tongue stud. The experience is so tactile it sends Jimin into a spiral. She opens , letting her in. Minjeong tastes like gin and lemon and something sweet and homey. It doesn’t make any sense but the way Jimin’s chest rises up and down like she’s running on a tachycardiac episode doesn’t make any sense either.

 

“Pause, pause.”

 

“Hm?”

 

She opens her eyes, notes the silver moonlight that the smoothness of Minjeong’s cheeks, how is bruised and the hoop piercing a little tilted on the right side of her bottom lip. It was a whole invite to dive back again. Jimin would love to, really, but she’s wearing a barely-there fabric and the chilly air of January eve gusts through her lithe frame forcefully, knocking air off of her lungs.

 

“I’m cold.”

 

“Oh, sorry,” Minjeong sounds shy all of a sudden, “would you like a jacket?”

 

The refusal already sits on the edge of Jimin’s tongue but before she could answer, Minjeong is already gone, heading back inside in a quick sprint.

 

Jimin sighs, her vision is a bit blurry, and her face feels numb. When her kneecaps start to wobble, she crouches down on the pavement like a kid. It’s cold. She’s out instead of being curled up in her bed. It’s almost placebo, because the minute she thinks about the warmth of her apartment, she yawns. Her heavy-lidded eyes inches closer and closer into an alcohol-make-out-induced coma. The workplace exhaustion slowly creeps into her muscles, and the drowsiness finally catches up in the absence of adrenaline.

 

She would love to make-out again with the hot pierced barista called Minjeong, and maybe even more.

 

Jimin yawns for the second time.

 

But she’s also so sleepy.

 

“Are you sleeping?”

 

Jimin could feel her body swaying to the sides, “Maybe.”

 

It isn’t long before she feels a warm coat embracing her figure. Still crouching, she mumbles a quick thanks, hot pierced barista called Minjeong. She hears a laugh, and then a brush of an arm on her arm. A wistful gaze on her cheek. Her senses are at loss, but in a way feels more hyper aware than ever.

 

“You think I’m hot?”

 

“I made out with you.”

 

“Oh, wow. Wow,” Minjeong shakes her head with an amused smile.

 

Jimin grins, blushing on her knees, staring sideways at Minjeong. Her point finger runs through the expanse of the other woman’s arm, up, up, and up towards her cheek where she pokes her dimple softly. Minjeong lets her.

 

For a minute, they stayed there in peace. In between brick alleyways, sitting on the pavement with nothing but faint bass playing in the background – it’s Minjeong who breaks the silence.

 

“What’s the one thing you wish you could do right now?”

 

Jimin’s answer doesn’t falter, it’s soft but determined. She’s really tired, her body has been adept at sleeping after work, “Sleep. And eat ramen, I guess.”

 

“Okay,” Minjeong smiles, “let’s do that.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah, why not?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Your place or mine?”

 

“Whichever is nearer.”

 

Jimin thinks it's not a good idea to get swayed by a naturally charming stranger into eating ramen and sleeping at her place. That’s how murder stories usually start, right? And it also sounds like an insinuation to something else. But, whatever, she was already hell-bent on actually sleeping with her earlier with inhibitions thrown off so what’s the difference now? Still, she shoots Aeri a quick text, and all she’s gotten were a series of typo and a winking emoji at the end.

 

“You live… here?”

 

“Well, yeah.” Minjeong nods when they enter the backdoor of the building. She presses the top floor before looking at Jimin, “my friend owns the building. I’m just renting the upper floor.”

 

“They must be loaded,” Jimin hums.

 

She knows how much an apartment costs nowadays, with her shoebox home taking most of her hard-earned salary, and it’s somewhere far from the heart of Seoul. With the distance you’d expect the rent to be lower, but no. However, a building? In the busiest street of the capital? With a club? Granted it isn’t as big as the other ones lined up, but it’s decent. Jimin could not help but feel a pang of jealousy. Her paycheck could never.

 

“Kinda,” Minjeong scratches her head, “but she doesn’t like talking about it.”

 

They fall into a comfortable silence before the elevator opens, revealing a penthouse looking unit. Jimin follows gingerly, until they reach a staircase towards the rooftop. Alarm bells ringing on top of her head, what if Minjeong pushes her off the edge?

 

Minjeong might have sensed her reluctance so she smiles, “Relax.”

 

“I’m scared of heights.”

 

Minjeong extends her hand and Jimin takes it, intertwining their fingers together before she clings to her arm like a frightened koala.

 

“Open your eyes.”

 

“No.”

 

“It’s not as bad, come on,” Minjeong pursues, Jimin could imagine the pout that comes along.

 

Jimin has never been anywhere outside Korea. All she’s ever known is her quiet, small-town Yang-san, and naturally, Seoul. A bit of Jeju when they went on an unplanned and impromptu trip with her friends back in college but that’s about that. So, you couldn’t really blame her when she opens her eyes and immediately begins tearing up.

 

She stands still beside Minjeong, her breathing in a hitch as she watches the flutter of lights scattered evenly in between skyscrapers like the stars starts falling on Earth.

 

“It’s beautiful.”

 

“Right?” Minjeong proudly coos.

 

Jimin, still in awe, could only nod in agreement.

 

 

 

 

“I’m betting that’s how you get the girls to sleep with you,” Jimin mumbles incoherently as she blows on her ramen, “you know the view is breath-taking so you take advantage of it. Also, you live on the rooftop?”

 

Minjeong chuckles in the background, shaking her head, “Isn’t it cool that my room is at the top with a spectacular view of Seoul?” Then, with a hint of sarcasm she adds, “Yeah, and the girls love me, that’s right.”

 

“Damn. You got game.”

 

“What can I say? I’m hot.”

 

“Self-absorbed, too.”

 

“Well, you said it yourself.”

 

“I was drunk,” She’s still drunk, and Minjeong is still hot. Jimin shrugs, reaching out towards the kimchi. Minjeong follows suit with two cans of beer opened. They sit on the floor – Let’s not ruin your couch, I’m a sloppy eater, Jimin clarified a while ago to which Minjeong replied teasingly with, oh, yeah? – both slightly inebriated and incredibly famished, gobbling ramen and the left-over pizza Minjeong managed to conjure from her small fridge.

 

“Drunken words are sober thoughts,” Minjeong shrugs, “something like that,” chewing on the pizza, and looking at Jimin through hooded gaze.

 

Jimin shakes her head, dismissing Minjeong with a laugh.

 

“Do you usually invite strangers to your place?”

 

Minjeong pauses, looks up at the ceiling. Jimin thinks she looks like a puppy trying to feign innocence. It’s fun. It’s cute, “just you, I guess.”

 

“I don’t believe you.”

 

Minjeong frowns, and Jimin squints her eyes in return but doesn’t press further. Definitely not her place to question.

 

After they finished their food, they remained unmoving on the floor. Minjeong’s head leaned back at the couch and Jimin could feel her burning a hole at the side of her head.

 

“Stop staring.”

 

“There’s a pretty girl in my living room, how could I not?”

 

Jimin scoffs, feeling the back of her neck burn at Minjeong’s unsolicited candidness.

 

There’s a certain domesticity that comes after that, Jimin thinks. Minjeong stands up to pick up their trash and Jimin does her part, rummaging through the kitchen for a paper towel in an attempt to wipe the stains she left on Minjeong’s cream-colored mat. Minjeong does the dishes, Jimin stands beside the sink with a beer in hand. They talk about Jimin’s long hours of work, it’s draining, and Minjeong’s favorite color, yellow, what’s yours, Jimin says she doesn’t have one but I have always liked blue. It’s the little bits strangers usually offer when they see a premise of something more in the exchange. Maybe friendship. Or romantic ties. Or something in between.

 

It’s both familiar and foreign for Jimin. This uncharted ground, but she feels acquainted, and with a hint of denial, kind of, she feels a particular attraction towards the dynamic.

 

Maybe because, despite being resolute on her decision of living alone and living away from her parents – Aeri offers to be her roommate, but she’s indignant about owning a place of her own – sometimes, Jimin feels lonely. Not all the time though, just on quiet moments of solitude when she comes home to an empty and cold apartment, pensive.

 

“Are you asleep?”

 

Minjeong hums.

 

“Can you,” Jimin snuggles closer, “can you hold me?”

 

It’s definitely the alcohol talking.

 

Minjeong doesn’t respond, but she inches closer, extending her arm and permitting Jimin to use it as a pillow. Her other arm moves softly around her waist, pulling her in.

 

Jimin blushes at the request, even more at the way Minjeong instantly obliges without question. This shouldn’t feel as comforting as it sounds. Minjeong is technically a stranger. It’s one thing to have with someone you just met, but it’s also a completely different thing on its own to cuddle and not do the deed. Can it even be considered as a one-night stand?

 

Jimin plays her Friday nights. It doesn’t usually go like this.

 

Minjeong nuzzles on her cheek, her lips soft and feathery on her skin.

 

(Jimin decides it’s infinitely much better anyway.)

 

 

 

 

There are certain moments in Jimin’s life that she categorizes rather strongly as ‘never agains’. It’s a way to file short-comings and disconcerting nuisance at the back of her head, not essentially forgetting it – how else would she avoid repeating them? – but as a way to look at it in a more objective light, like lessons to be learned.

 

When Jimin wakes up that morning, seeing a mop of auburn hair and a body splayed across her, she’s decided to tuck it as something that she will never, ever, do again. Despite the attraction, Jimin could not deny the gnawing embarrassment that boils at the back of her mind.

 

So Jimin spares Minjeong another glance. Tries to commit the tranquillity of her peaceful slumber to memory before she gathers her things quietly, folding the shirt neatly at the foot of the bed, and portraying an intense passion to leave without a trace and zero intention to look back

 

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