If life was a sappy, romantic movie I would hear him dramatically call my name before I walked any further, telling me to stop. Then, in true slow motion I would turn my head and see him running towards me and well, you know the rest. In reality, there’s me, ten hours later, lying on my bed with my dress still on and my make-up smeared. I can only groan loudly into my pillow, more in regret after replaying last night in my head than from the after-effects of a couple of shots, and in an attempt to pass on the blame, I call up Jessica. Hearing her voice on the other end, I knew she was already paying for it, dearly.

“You sound horrible.”

“Shut up, go away, don’t call me,” she croaked and hung up. How much does one have to drink to get alcohol poisoning? I couldn’t help but wonder. I texted her, reminding her to take some Advil as I pop one into my mouth and wash it down with a cool glass of water. I was a mess, judging by my reflection in the mirror. My eye-liner made it seem like I was a victim of domestic violence, and my hair, a healthy black, long and wavy, was now pointing in directions that I was convinced would defy the laws of gravity. It’s times like these that I’m glad I live alone, since I would be an eyesore to everybody and myself. What I needed was a nice long, shower to overthink and grovel about everything.

Warm water falling on my back does medicinal wonders to my mental and physical health. An hour later, and I was at peace with the world with some carbonara in my hands and an old re-run of ‘The Godfather’ playing in front of me. Suddenly, Edan or GD or whatever name he chooses to go by wasn’t that important anymore. Nothing but another interesting event in this thing called life. I knew that in the end, as an observer, I’ve said anything that I could and wanted to say. He deserves to know how much people respect him, I thought. The kiss at the end was to the benefit of the both of us. For him, the encouragement and for me, well that’s pretty self-explanatory. A gunshot sound from the television made me lose my train of thought. Huh. I realized how often I’ve watched this movie and not given it the attention it deserves, when I don’t even know what in the world is happening on the screen.

It was about ten that night, after confirming that Jess was still alive that I called up my co-research assistant to go through some final details and changes on the study. If I thought I was quiet, Jeff would have beaten me by leaps and bounds, but under all his shyness, there was a strong person. More importantly, we both felt the same about our work and weren’t afraid to constantly challenge and criticize each other, exactly the type of partner I needed. It was right in the middle of heated discussion that I hear a beep on my phone, telling me I had an incoming call. It was a number I didn’t recognize, and my heart lurched because a part of me knew it was him.

“Jeff, I’m going to have to call you back okay?” I tell him, and quickly switch to my waiting call, and hear a somewhat familiar voice on the other side.

“Why’d you lie? Are you taking pity on me or something?” Anger was not the emotion I planned on being confronted with.

“No,” I say. It was the truth.

“Then?”

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t pity. Pity is for people who you know can’t climb out of their own hole, and you obviously can.” I hear nothing in reply. Did I come off too strong?

“I’m outside your apartment. I think we should talk.”

“We are talking.” I walk over towards the window, near the front door and sure enough there he was, leaning on the side of his car under the streetlight, wearing some casual jeans and a crisp white shirt. I took a mental picture.

“Face to face, Erika.” I sigh, not really wanting to own up to my actions last night, let alone tell him the reason behind it. Alcohol? Adrenaline? Post-teenage hormones?

“Give me a minute,” I tell him, defeated. I grab my house keys, pull on an oversized hoody and put on some decent flats. Here goes nothing. When I come up to him, he opens the door and ushers me into his car, then quickly walks around to the driver’s seat and starts the engine. We were moving quickly onto the main road, to somewhere.

“How did you get my number?” I was curious, and I wanted to break the horrible silence.

“Grey.”

“Are you angry?”

“I don’t think so.” I sink down into my seat in relief.

“Where are we going?”

“Clyde.” It was a nice little restaurant/café/bar about ten minutes from home, that opened till late and didn’t scream ‘drunkards’. The only problem was the booths were basically secluded from one another, and I didn’t know how much one-on-one time with him I could take. This was not what I signed up for.

“I don’t know what to call you,” I realize, “Or how to speak to you. You know, I really don’t do the Korean manner thing at home.”

“I thought so. Ji Yong is fine.”

“No oppa or jondaemal*?” He only shrugs in response. Okay, now I’m confused. “Ji Yong.” I repeat, trying it out. He turns to me, and I see a small smile.

“It’s been a while since someone called me that.”

“Not comfortable?”

“No. It sounds good. I like it.”

*Jondaemal is a polite form of Korean conversation, often spoken to those who are older or of a higher status than you. I'm guessing everyone should know what oppa means =).

Note: Anything in italics is written, spoken in Korean.