No Turns Left

 

 

 

The slap of the pavement against his soles is distant and familiar.  His breath clouds in the frigid dawn air.  He jogs past a strange mix of people this early in the morning.  Late shift workers and midnight entertainers shuffle toward home while bakers, delivery-men, and market vendors hurry out to prepare Seoul for another day.  They typically avoid him, see him coming at speed and shift out of his path.

His breath rattles in his chest and he ducks his head.  His heart clenches and his mind pounds in the same tired mantra.

 In a city of a million lives, he’s all alone.

All alone. All alone. All alone. All alone. All alone.

The words fall easily into the rhythm of his stride.

He had tried a couple of times to get the other members out to run with him, but it was a losing battle.

 

 

He makes the first turn at the red-awning corner store, forcing himself to slow his pace even as the street slopes downward.  His calf muscles strain against gravity and his own body weight; his back gains a seductive arch as he leans away from the pull.  The twinge in his right leg reminds him of duty and obligations and disappointment.

They were no more critical of me than I was of myself.

Injury just before important event seems to be my curse.

He puffs another misty cloud in relief at the bottom of the hill, taking a moment to stretch muscles again now that he’s really warmed up.  The long shift and pull feels good, and he swings his arms hard to loosen up his chest and shoulders.  This is the place.

The struggle to decide.

 

 

He was pushed and prodded, told what to wear and where to go.  Chivvied along like a reluctant child from schedule to appointment.   He shakes his head at the sad truth.  He made more decisions in a day as a kid than he had in the past five years as Choi Minho, the Flaming Charisma of SHINee.

He bounces lightly on his toes, trying to get that springy step going before the high-intensity pace to come.  The same black and white tabby cat waits and watches silently from the noodle-shop’s rear entrance, her green-gold eyes lazy and measuring.

It’s a tossup which direction he goes from here and there’s never enough time to really choose which way he wants to travel.  Isn’t that that the way of crossroads?  Straight ahead: Down to the river over the bridge, circle the war memorial and back.  Turn right: Through the city and to the closet park-he’d have to do six laps there to make up his distance goal.  Left: the tricky choice.  The left turn was never one he contemplated for long, though it popped up every time he hit this intersection.

It was always tempting.

 

To take that curvy twist to the left, down two blocks to the train station.  He could hop aboard and go anywhere but here.  Go any damn place where he could sleep and eat and run and live.  Actually live- without cameras and fans and expectations and reputations.  To have a day undefined by someone else’s schedule.

 

 

He bends into a long lunge, twinges in the muscle fibers tensing and then releasing as he holds the position to a slow count of ten.  Quads, hamstrings, and tendons, he eases his body into new stretches as his mind ticks along in the same “she loves me”/ “she loves me not” cycle,  point and counterpoint for each ten-count.

1… I could just go. Go and never look back.

2… But the guys…they depend on me

3… All I do is rap, and Key does that too. It’s not like they’d be lost without me.

4… I’m tired of being the visual, the athlete, the model.  Of being everyone but me.

5… Come on, be honest, Choi.   I like the attention; it’s nice to be admired.

6… At what cost?  They only care about what bits can be used to get more cash

7... Of course they want to make money off of me.  It’s not like I’m not also making money

8… It would be so nice to just have to worry about me and no one else

9… But the guys…they depend on me.

10… Onew.  Jonghyun.  Key.  Taemin.   Bandmates.  Friends. 

 

 

He settled in, filling his lungs in one long aching draw.  Throwing a quick glance down both ways of the street he crosses the buckled asphalt and launches off at a punishing speed toward the war memorial.  How appropriate.  A remembrance of how close he comes to losing his own battles. The uphill section midway would kill his knees, but at least he gets to nod at the pretty girl working the food stand as he circles back toward the dorm. 

He feels his heart speeding up, racing along with the air flying past his cheeks as he leaves decisions behind for another day.

 

It was a dangerous turn, the terrifying and alluring left turn of possibilities.

 

It was a turn he’d never taken.  He wonders if it’s bravery or cowardice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A/N: It is what it is.  856 words of Minho.  I really see Minho as a much deeper thinker than people give him credit for- he seems to be happy-go-lucky in interviews, etc, but he's so fascinated by cityscapes and cultures in his travels...I just think that rappers are all just poets going mainstream :))))  Love it? Hate it? Leave a comment below so I know!

Oh- and shout out to oconje for always commenting on my stories- I appreciate the heck out of you, for reals, even if you don't comment on this one.  :)