Pretty boys are an abhorrence.

These pretty boys walk around the neighborhood in their damn tight jeans that look suffocating enough, flashing their perfect smiles and perfect hair and their almost perfect everything to every other living species that share the same habitats with them. Honestly, their existence make girls generally look a little dull.

I cringed at the view of a pretty boy from my university, enjoying his Jungle Juice alone at the far end of the bar. Another typically perfect male species. He too, instantly reminded me of pretty boy Lee Hongki. I carefully finished my Tequila Sunset, before slowly turning my attention towards the bartender behind the bar. I stared blankly at him—another pretty boy, unfortunately.

“Would you like another drink?”

Smiling weakly at him, I slowly nodded my head.

He said nothing and disappeared from my view almost immediately. I sighed while staring at the empty glass, my first shot for the night. My parents would probably kill me if they know about my alcoholic habit—but I don't even give a damn about it anymore. My parents could have forgotten about my existence, around the same time when I decided to quit ballet two years ago.

Pretty boy bartender appeared several moments later, silently serving me with a glass of my favorite cocktail. While he was busy arranging some napkins into its own little dispenser a while later, I saw a badge pinned on the pocket of the white shirt he was wearing. Interestingly, the badge was in the shape of a dove.

Pretty boy has one unique sense of style.

When he suddenly stopped arranging the napkins and had his eyes completely on me, I instantly gasped. I have an uncomfortable feeling behind my throat—because I know how wrong it is to stare. He dropped the napkins and I became horribly anxious, I had to turn away.

“God,” I anxiously muttered. “I am so sorry.”

He continuously looked at me, probably assuming that I was practically losing my mind. “Sorry?” He asked, his curious voice echoed in between the space between the two of us. I hesitantly nodded my head. “What are you sorry for?” He continued to ask.

“I was looking at your chest,” and then I realized I had foolishly made my self sounded like some kind of ert. I hit my self on the forehead. “No, I was looking at your badge. The dove badge.”

“You mean, this badge on my vest?”

I continued to nod my head, before slowly lifting my head up and caught with his glance. “It is just that, I found it very unique,” I lifted my finger and pointed at the dove badge pinned on the pocket of his white shirt. “It's very beautiful.” I stupidly smiled at my self.

He did not seemed to understand my vague explanation though. When I had the chance to actually see his face clearly, I realized that he was quite attractive—something unusual for me to say about a pretty boy. His hair curled in its own pretty way, one side of his bangs almost covering one of his gloomy eyes. Not I am a real ert to examine his features—just that he looked rather too pretty to work in that club as a bartender.

“Interesting that you notice my badge,” he replied while uncomfortably rubbing the back of his neck. “Most girls never really see it even though I wear it every day.”

I could always blame my conscientious observation.

“But why a dove, when boys usually choose something like a wolf or an eagle,”

The pretty boy bartender squinted his pair of gloomy eyes in curiosity. “You don't mind having this kind of conversation with a bartender?”

I realized that the more I asked, the more he thought of me as peculiar. I did not usually start a conversation with a complete stranger, even more to converse about something that could rather be quite personal. But then again, it truly happened due to my conscientious observation. I unwillingly shook my head, “I just need someone to talk to.”

He picked one of the white napkins off its dispenser and laid it on the surface of the bar in front of me. I stared at it curiously, waiting for what he would do. “Don't you think that doves are uniquely interesting in its own way?” Leaning close against the back of the bar, he started folding the napkin in a neat way. I continued to watch. “Birds could fly from one place to another, free to have its own quiet journey from one destination to another. They continue to fly, until the day they finally die.” When he finished folding the napkin, he looked up at me.

“Do you consider your self like a dove, like a free bird?”

He gave me the napkin he has folded.

It was a crane.

“I don't know how to do a dove,” he finally genuinely smiled at me—a smile that was sincere enough, it revealed the dimple on his right cheek. His smile was rather infectious, because I found my self smiling with him. “And unfortunately, I don't think I am like a dove too.”

He touched the badge pinned onto the pocket of his white shirt. I watched the way he carefully moved his fingers across the badge and around it, treating it as if it was alive. When he finally stopped, I shifted my attention onto my Tequila Sunset, purely because I was afraid of being caught staring again.

I breathed in heavily. “Why?” I paused, suddenly feeling rather awkward to continue having a conversation on doves and whats not with a complete stranger—a pretty boy bartender in particular.

“I am not a free bird,”

“What do you mean?”

“Birds fly anywhere they want. They could choose any destinations throughout their lives rather than to stay in one destination until they die. I am here, I am not going anywhere. I am pretty sure it will stay the same until I die too.”

I shook my head, completely disagreeing what he had just explained. “But why not? You are young, surely you want to fly, no I mean, leave and live somewhere else in the future,” I tried to understand the gloominess in his eyes when he explained.

He did not replied immediately but slowly shook his head.

“Why would I go away?” He asked me instead of answering my question. Almost instantly did I realized that I have absolutely no rights to demand an explanation from the bartender. We barely know each other, I whispered to my self. He could choose not to say a word, regardless my endless questions. He could stay as a mystery—that I should not dare to reveal.

“I am so sorry.”

“You're just being curious,” he answered calmly. “Besides, this badge is not mine anyway.” I watched him unpinned the badge off the pocket of his white shirt and held it against his palm. I observed the expression on his face when he looked at that badge. He was smiling, but it was bitter—almost emotionless. Secretly, I did not like his bitter smile. I selfishly wished he could continue to just sincerely smile—the infectious smile like before.

I looked at the badge on his palm, “If you are not the owner of this badge, who is it then?”

The pretty boy bartender pinned the badge onto the pocket of his white shirt without answering my question. His nimble fingers brushed the hair off his eyes. I waited for the answer when he picked the crane he folded and placed it between the two empty glasses arranged neatly on the shelf behind the bar. I smirked because I absolutely thought that the crane was for me.

“A friend,” he turned around and stared at me. “But she flew away, just like a dove.”

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Title taken from the song Every Picture Tells A Story by Rod Steward.